Hey, this is Old Pastor Jim with the Semi -Seminary
and a gospel transmission coming through the
barbed wire fence of midnight for the ones too
tired to pretend, too broke to tithe, and too
stubborn to quit believing altogether. Tonight,
we ain't preaching at you. We're all sitting
together with a song. It's not a hymn, but you
know what? It might be holier than most. It's
an outlaw's gospel. And the question at the heart
of it all, what if your first prayer don't sound
like our Father, but more like, you don't owe
me nothing, Lord, and I don't owe nothing to
you. Is that still a prayer? Stick around. We're
about to find out. This is Tom Ames Prayer, and
Grace is listening. Even now. I'll see you on
the other side. So, it's late, the coffee's half
warm, and the only light in the room is flickering
to the static of an old radio dial. If you're
still up, still listening, then maybe this story's
for you. Tonight, we're sitting with a ballad
that ain't afraid of the dark, a song that wanders
right up to the gallows and whispers grace through
grit. We're talking about Tom Ames' prayer. But
don't let the title fool you. This is no tidy
bedtime prayer. This is a showdown with the Almighty
from a man who's never said grace in his life.
And the real question that we're wrestling with
tonight, what counts as prayer? And when do we
really start praying? And before we get too pious,
let's remember, there's another man in scripture
who prayed like this, a father, with nothing
left but a desperate plea. In Matthew chapter
17, or Mark 9, depending on which lens you're
holding, a man brings his convulsing boy to Jesus
and says, Lord, I believe. Help me in my unbelief.
No flourish, no formula, just a raw, shaky cry
from the edge of hope. And you know what? Tom's
prayer ain't far from that. It's doubt and belief
sitting side by side in the dirt, both hoping
God still listens. So let's take a look at it.
Verse 1. Everyone at Nacogdoches knew Tom Ames
would come to some bad end. Well, the sheriff
caught him stealing chickens and such by the
time that he was 10. Tom's whole life gets summed
up in a small town obituary before he's even
old enough to vote. He's a kid with a reputation
branded early. And when you are seen as trouble,
you often become what folks expect. Theologically,
this is original sin through the... Lens of rule
sociology. He didn't have a shot and the world
told him so. In fact, it echoes Nathanel's cynicism
in John 1 and 46. Can anything good come from
Nazareth? The answer then was Jesus. The answer
now, maybe grace. Second verse. And one day,
his daddy took a $10 bill and he tucked it in
his hand. He said, I can tell you're headed for
trouble, son, and your mama wouldn't understand.
This isn't an intervention. It's resignation.
His daddy ain't evil. He's just out of hope.
Ten bucks and a goodbye handed off like a benediction
in reverse. That's $10 worth of currency as surrender.
Symbolically, it almost feels like Judas Silver,
except this one's not for betrayal. But it's
the price of giving up on someone you love. So
he took that money in his brother's old bay and
he left without a word of thanks. Fell in with
a crowd in some border town. Took to robbing
banks. Tom doesn't go off in a blaze of drama.
He just leaves quietly. Like most folks who disappear,
he does so slowly and with good reason. What
follows is what follows when someone's told their
life doesn't count. He found the people who said
he did, even if it was just for what he could
steal. This is sociology as theology, which is
just a fancy way of saying sometimes folks ain't
sinning, they're surviving. When the only folks
who'll take you in are outside the law, then
running without law starts to feel more like
family than felons. Now, it doesn't excuse it,
but it sure helps explain it. And that kind of
grace, that understands the why before the what.
And you know what? That's gospel. Verse four,
outside the law, your luck will run out fast
till he's trapped in an Abilene with all but
four shells spent. This is Tom's reckoning. This
is his Gethsemane. No backup, no tricks left.
Just a man, a pistol in the sky. Grace shows
up more clearly in alleys like these when the
hustle fails and all that's left is a whisper
of a prayer. And then he realized praying was
the only thing he hadn't ever tried. Well, he
wasn't quite sure he knew how, but he looked
up to the sky. It ain't polished. It ain't pretty.
But you know what? It is prayer. And I'll tell
you what, there's a story that we find in scripture
in Matthew chapter 17. You can go look this up
when we're done. The father of the epileptic
child, again, that's Matthew 17, if you wanted
to write it down. The father says, I believe,
help me in my unbelief. Tom's version, I ain't
never prayed before, but. Sometimes the most
sacred prayers come from those who never learned
the rules of prayer. So let's look at his prayer.
You don't owe me nothing, Lord. And as far as
I know, I don't owe nothing to you. Hey, this
is honest. This is real. It's not pious, but
it's holy. And he said, I've always thought that
praying is the same as begging, Lord. And I don't
take no charity. Pride and pain sit across the
table like two old drinking buddies who don't
talk much anymore, but neither is willing to
leave first. He's not rejecting God. He's confessing
that grace scares him. Why? Because grace means
surrender. And surrender means someone else loving
you. And you letting them. But right now, Lord,
with my back to the wall, hey, that's the moment.
That's the altar call. And it ain't something
that happens just around white steeple chapels.
You know what? Sometimes it happens in dusty
alleys in Abilene. Then Tom remembers nearly
getting hung in Fort Smith. Judge Parker's sentence
wasn't just legal. It was spiritual. And the
preacher who came to save him left too soon.
This is what happens when we preach at people
instead of with them. He took the preacher hostage
with a homemade blade to his throat, but what
he really wanted was to cut the feeling of being
abandoned by every promise of hope he's ever
had in his life. Finally, he says, I've had some
help from you, Lord. And the devil himself, well,
it's been strictly touch and go. Now that's theology.
Real theology. Because most of us, we live right
there. In the tension between light and shadow
trying to survive the day. Who in the hell am
I talking to? There ain't no one here but me,
Tom says. And yet, he prayed. And maybe that's
the whole gospel. The grace still listens when
you don't even know if anyone's on the other
end of the line. Now let me say this plain, just
in case no one's ever told you. Your prayer doesn't
have to be perfect. It doesn't have to sound
like something that's in the book of Psalms.
It can be unfinished, ungrammatically correct,
unchurchy. In fact, let me tell you something,
friend. The more broken it is, the more heaven
leans in. And you don't have to get cleaned up
before you speak. You can stammer. You can whisper.
You can yell. You know what? You can even cuss.
Because God ain't delicate. He can handle your
grief, your rage, your crack theology because
he loves you enough to take it. And sometimes
the holiest thing we can say is, I don't know
what I'm doing, but at least I'm still here.
And God in his mercy still calls that prayer.
So don't wait till your faith is polished. Speak
while it's still trembling because grace listens
better than we speak. It doesn't need to be fancy.
It just needs to be true. So, may you speak,
even if it sounds more like spit than scripture.
May you pray, even if you ain't sure it's counting.
And may you find that when all your shells are
spent, there is still a whisper of grace waiting
in the silence. Now look, I want this to be clear.
You might not have your theology all sorted out.
You might not even believe prayer works. But
if you've ever muttered something to the sky
with your back to the wall and no shells left
in the chamber, congratulations. You've prayed.
Just like Tom. Just like that father in Matthew
whose faith cracked open in the shape of a question.
God ain't waiting on polished words. He's listening
for honest ones. And I reckon grace has better
ears than doctrine ever did. So speak, even if
your voice trembles. Say it, even if you're not
sure who's listening, because mercy shows up
in alleys, in ballrooms, in outlaw ballads, and
tonight, maybe even in you. This has been the
Semi -Seminarian. May your next prayer be raw.
May your next breath be grace. May the static
still carry the gospel your way. I'll see you
next time.