Praying for Enemies

The psalms are filled with great messages of praise and worship, of love and adoration, fear and awe, woe and lament.  They are also filled with pleas to dump burning coals on enemies' heads, to throw enemies into miry pits.  In as many words, the psalmist wants his enemies to burn in hell.

I wouldn't bring it up if it happened, you know, once or twice.  Everyone gets angry at her enemies now and then.  But this is a reoccurring theme - over and over, the psalmist says silence my enemies, destroy all my foes.  Granted, the psalmist in many of these cases is David, who spent a good part of his life literally running from his enemies, trying to avoid being killed by the king.

As I read through the psalms, every time I come to a verse or psalm about pulverizing my foes, I think to myself, oh boy, here we go again, slay my enemies, destroy my pursuers, burn the evildoers, bury the slanderers, yadda yadda yadda. And then the psalmist says, "But, me, God, well, I am upright and holy and righteous and amazing, so protect me and be near me."

I can be critical of this, but let's be honest.  We do this all. the. time.  Maybe not in public, but between friends and in our heads, we grumble and mutter curses on the people that drive us crazy.

Rather than roll my eyes at the psalmist and his regular return to complaining about his enemies, I want to keep reading to see how the psalmist deals with his anger, frustration, and fear, and what God does for him through these laments.

It's refreshing to know that God permits us to gripe about our enemies to him, to plea for them to be removed from our lives, and to protect us from our enemies.  In the gospels, Jesus pushes the issue even further and calls us to do something entirely other-worldly - love our enemies, and pray for those who persecute us.  Prayer is absolutely necessary if we're going to try to love our enemies, and the psalmist models the mode by which we can communicate these things to God.

God might not send your enemies into a miry pit, and he might not change your circumstances, but there's a good chance that by unloading all of your anger, impatience, frustration, and concern at his feet, you'll make room for him to change your heart and give you peace, even in the battle, and maybe some discernment, wisdom, perspective, and eventually, love, to deal well with your enemies.

"Lord, hear my prayer,
listen to my cry for mercy;
in your faithfulness and righteousness
come to my relief.

Do not bring your servant into judgment,
for no one living is righteous before you.

The enemy pursues me,
he crushes me to the ground;
he makes me dwell in the darkness
like those long dead.

So my spirit grows faint within me;
my heart within me is dismayed.

I remember the days of long ago;
I meditate on all your works
and consider what your hands have done.

I spread out my hands to you;
I thirst for you like a parched land.

Answer me quickly, Lord; my spirit fails.
Do not hide your face from me
or I will be like those who go down to the pit.

Let the morning bring me
word of your unfailing love,
for I have put my trust in you.
Show me the way I should go,
for to you I entrust my life.

Rescue me from my enemies,
Lord, for I hide myself in you.

Teach me to do your will,
for you are my God;
may your good Spirit
lead me on level ground.

For your name's sake, Lord,
preserve my life;
in your righteousness,
bring me out of trouble.

In your unfailing love,
silence my enemies;
destroy all my foes,
for I am your servant.

- Psalm 143

What Chamomile and Honey Can't Do

I'm pretty sure I've had a cold/sinus infection since December 1.  It has backed off a little here and there as some kind of bacterial mercy move, but for the last two weeks (or something like that), it's been no nonsense, in your face (and nose, and eyes, and ears, and chest), Die Hard with a Vengeance.  It even persisted beyond the power of the almighty z-pak, which I finished off two days ago.

So tonight, after going back to work for the first time in two and a half weeks, I wasn't really up for much of anything with the kids.  Unfortunately, they can't bathe, feed, or put themselves to bed yet, so I couldn't just burrow into bed with an electric blanket and call it a night.  I at least had the foresight to pull a big pan of macaroni and cheese out of the freezer and ask my awesome Henry-sitter to pop it in the oven this afternoon so that we could eat before 6:30.  And there's the Blessed DVR to entertain two of the three little people. 

The usual bickering and silliness ensued throughout the night.  Nothing new, really.  And the dog, that ridiculous dog that I liked so much a month ago, kept getting into the trash and eating Elvis's Legos and whining to be let out and then barking incessantly at the front door to be let back in and THEN trying to eat diapers and tissues and all other sorts of disgusting.  And then bathtime with all three kids, water everywhere, Beans trying to drink the bathwater and lick Henry's face and drink out of the toilet and chew on the towels.

"I have told you these things so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." John 16:33 -- Yeah, trouble. T-R-O-U-B-L-E. It ain't just a Travis Tritt song. Or a Ray LaMontagne song.   I've had more serious seasons of trouble and worry, for sure.  These little things, like sinus infections and being alone a few days and needing to take care of the business of life on my own, they are nothing really, but sometimes the little things catch me and I get downhearted. The world hands me a little trouble.  But, thank God, he's overcome the world.   And you want to know how he did that for me tonight?

I was ready for bedtime tonight.  Normally, each kid prays and then I pray, and then each kid picks a song.  I thought I'd speed things up a bit and skip the whole kid-praying thing and just wrap it up with a quick "God, thanks for everything.  Please help me feel better.  Give us sweet dreams.  Amen.", but after I finished, Lydia asked if she could pray for a couple of people really quick.

How do you say no to the request of a five year old to pray?  Okay, so I thought about it.  I mean, come on, the space between my ears is hollow and I can't close my mouth without whistling through my nose.  Let's get the show on the road, here!  I got trash to take out and a couch to get to.  I let her pray, of course - a kid who wants to talk to God should not be stopped from talking to God. 

"Dear God, please help **** walk.  She's already starting to walk some.  And thank you for..." (There's a girl in her class who has a disability.)  Lydia prayed for all her family and friends, and then Elvis asked to pray, too, singing a song they learned at preschool: "Thank you God, for our food, and our many blessings, thank you God, Amen."

The prayers of my children shore me up against weariness and bitterness. They help lubricate the gears that need to keep moving until the trash is taken out, the dishes are in the dishwasher, the laundry is folded, and the kitchen is tidied up, until I can sink into the couch cushions with a blanket and a few Bible verses and ruminate away about faith and the power of praise.

So the other verse that has me doing my own praising tonight, even with my runny nose, is this one: "Through the praise of children and infants you have established a stronghold against your enemies, to silence the foe and the avenger." Psalm 8:2  That's right.  Through the praise of my little ones, the enemy and all his trouble and worry is kept at bay.  There's power in those prayers.  I'm reinforced. Encouraged. Blessed.

Aaaand, ready for Nyquil.

The Ninth Psalm as Rendered by Laurance Wieder

I stumbled upon this tonight in a book called The Poets' Book of Psalms, and I really liked it, so I thought I'd share it.  That's all :)

The Ninth Psalm



If I could tell it all,
I would say thank you
for the toppled statues,
for the dusk of gods sung
only in dead languages,
for wild grape vines tangled
in the timbers of a century
that frame our little picture
of eternity. And I remember
there was justice, maybe, since
I hope the dead might be
remembered, though their names,
outnumbered by the sontes
once used to mark the exit spot,
are worn down, in an alphabet
that can't be read aloud.


Not always and not ever, maybe
masters will stick in the mud
of what they most admired,
boasting how their acts
engraved in stone erased
accounts of people sacrificed
to feed the maw, the pointless
grim machinery of nations:
If there is something other
than our selves, they will not win
forever, will some time remember
they are human, and may even
know themselves, and feel afraid.