Pray for your Enemies

Pray for your Enemies

 

By: Joy Ortiz

 

            Recently I was invited to lead a small group event at my church.  I was a bit surprised when Pamela asked me to lead one of these prayer sessions, because I don’t consider myself to be much of a teacher.  I’m lucky if I know what day it is or where I left my shoes.  I have more questions than answers when it comes to the important things in life.  

        As I was preparing to talk, I asked God what in the world I should say.  What do I know about prayer?  These days, most of my prayers go something like, “God, my neck still hurts,” “God, please let that be chocolate on my child’s face and not poop,” or “God, thank you for these two beautiful girls, and please let bedtime come soon.”

            These aren’t bad prayers, but I wasn’t feeling particularly inspired to teach anyone about how to pray them.  I think everyone prays these kinds of prayers throughout the day: spontaneous words that spring to our lips when we feel a sensation: joy, pain, fear, sorrow, etc.  “God,” I prayed, “Please give me something worthwhile to teach your people. Something you want them to hear.” Immediately this story sprang to mind, so here is the lesson I prepared.

            After supper one evening I received a text message from one of my girlfriends.  “Hey, are you available to talk in person for like, 20 minutes?”  “Sure!” I replied, and I pulled the covers off of my comfy porch chairs, parked myself, and waited for my friend to arrive.  It wasn’t long before her car pulled up.  I greeted her with a hug, and we sat down to one of the best things about friendship: a safe place to talk about life.

            After we caught up on how-was-your-day kind of chit-chat, we got to the heart of her visit.  It turns out that a married man was sending my friend uncomfortably friendly text messages.  She was unsure about how to take it; on the surface the messages were fairly innocent.  However, her gut feeling screamed, “This isn’t right!”  She wasn’t sure what to do about it.  Thankfully, I knew the man well enough to tell her, “You are absolutely right.  These are not innocent messages, and you should steer clear.”  She breathed a huge sigh of relief and cried, “I knew it!  I knew it!  Now I’m gonna go home and tell my husband.”  We talked a little bit more, and then she went home.

            The encounter left me more than a little bit disturbed.  It sickened me to hear that my dear friend was prey to someone’s selfish and inappropriate attentions.  I found myself welling up with anger and disgust.  My mind played over every detail of the many hurtful, degrading, selfish acts that man had committed.  I hated that the list was growing longer.  That man was definitely the enemy, on so many levels.  How many of my friends would suffer because of him?

            The word “enemy,” as though I had typed it into a search engine, pulled a Bible verse to the front of my mind.

            “Love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you.” (Matthew 5:44)  

            I knew God’s voice well enough to realize that He was speaking to me, lovingly correcting my attitude.  “No, Joy.  Not hate. Love.  Always love.  And pray for him.”  I was a bit ashamed that my heart was still so quick to hate instead of love.  I mean, I’ve been a Christian my whole life.  You would think I would look a little bit more like Christ by now. Grudgingly at first, then more sincerely, I began to pray for my enemy.

            It’s funny how something as simple as saying a prayer can change a person.  By praying for that man, I wasn’t changing him.  In that moment I was changing myself.  My tension and anger began to melt away as I brought my enemy before the Lord and asked God to help him.  I began to see him as a person again, a person like me: capable of both good and evil.  Instead of a selfish scum-ball, I saw him as a broken and lost human, and I began to wish for his redemption instead of his eradication.  Hope replaced hate in my heart, and I took the first small step toward loving my enemy.

            Today I invite you to practice praying for your enemies.  I read an article in Relevant Magazine recently that talked about loving our enemies, and I’d like to share part of it with you.  Addressing prayer for enemies, Thomas Christianson wrote,       “I’m not talking about ‘please give that person what they have coming to them’ prayers. But I also don’t mean that you need to spend an hour each night asking God to pour blessings upon them. There’s a way to pray both for justice and for the hearts of those committing injustices.

If you have hate in your heart for somebody, maybe it starts with ‘God, I hate that person, and I don’t want to.’

As C.S. Lewis has said, ‘[Prayer] doesn’t change God—it changes me.’

Praying for your enemies opens you up to the work of the Holy Spirit in your heart.

Martin Luther King Jr. in Strength to Loveposits that forgiveness is the decisive factor in how much you can love your enemy. I fully agree.

When Jesus looks at His executioners from the cross and offers forgiveness, can there be any doubt of His love for them?

When relatives of the victims in the South Carolina church shooting offered forgiveness to the young man who murdered their loved ones, could anyone doubt that they were seeking to take Jesus’ words and example seriously?

Loving your enemy does not mean you have to add them to your Christmas list, or make them your best friend. It doesn’t mean you excuse their actions. It means you forgive them, with the knowledge that God is both merciful and just.

Jesus faced grave injustice with sacrifice. Through prayer and forgiveness in our hearts, let us go forth to conquer injustice in our time by the courage not to demand retribution, but rather to repay injury with blessing and hate with love.”  (http://www.relevantmagazine.com/god/worldview/what-it-actually-means-love-your-enemies)  That was from the Relevant Magazine article “What It Actually Means to Love Your Enemies.”

            When Christ taught us to love our enemies and pray for our persecutors, he wasn’t trying to frustrate us.  He wasn’t trying to deny us our just measure of anger.  He wasn’t trying to tell us to stuff our real feelings down deep inside and cover them with a false, smiling face and nice words.  He was inviting us to the freedom and healing that can only be experienced in truly forgiving someone and releasing their sins to God’s justice.  Jesus was giving us a gift: peace and joy that takes the place of anger and hate.  When we bring our enemies to God in prayer, we cast down the burden of their sins against us at God’s feet.  We say, “This person did this to me, and I hate him for it, but I know you don’t want me to hang onto that hate.  So I am giving it to you.  Please release me from this burden, and please help me to love my enemy.”  When we leave that burden in God’s care, we don’t have to carry that negative weight around anymore.  All responsibility for justice and vengeance transfers to God.

            In Romans 12:9-21 the Apostle Paul teaches us:

“Love from the center of who you are; don’t fake it. Run for dear life from evil; hold on for dear life to good. Be good friends who love deeply; practice playing second fiddle.

Don’t burn out; keep yourselves fueled and aflame. Be alert servants of the Master, cheerfully expectant. Don’t quit in hard times; pray all the harder. Help needy Christians; be inventive in hospitality.

Bless your enemies; no cursing under your breath. Laugh with your happy friends when they’re happy; share tears when they’re down. Get along with each other; don’t be stuck-up. Make friends with nobodies; don’t be the great somebody.

Don’t hit back; discover beauty in everyone. If you’ve got it in you, get along with everybody. Don’t insist on getting even; that’s not for you to do. “I’ll do the judging,” says God. “I’ll take care of it.”

Our Scriptures tell us that if you see your enemy hungry, go buy that person lunch, or if he’s thirsty, get him a drink. Your generosity will surprise him with goodness. Don’t let evil get the best of you; get the best of evil by doing good.”

Romans 12:9-21 (MSG)

            As we prepare our hearts for prayer, I would like us to sing At the Foot of the Cross.  As we lay every burden down at the foot of the cross, may we also pray that Christ will teach us to be more like him, extending mercy, love, and hope for a new life to every human being, beginning with our enemies. 

You Are, God.

You Are, God. 

By: Joy Ortiz

First, highest, alone

Atop my list,

The one that matters,

The voice that counts,

The final word

You are. 

Mine, my rock, my solace,

My guiding light,

My reason, my hope, 

My promise. 

I will lay it all down

For you:

Anything you ask.

I hold it all loosely,

Not always easily,

But with my whole heart. 

Yours, yours, yours. 

I am yours. 

All that I have,

All that I want,

All that I think,

All that I dream:

Yours. 

Speak to me. 

I long for your voice. 

Say the hard things. 

I will listen. 

Light my way. 

I will follow that light,

Your light,

Wherever it leads me. 

I've tasted your love

Deep, sweet, and true,

And I want more,

More,

More of you. 

I will seek you. 

I will find you. 

I will walk by your side

Now and forever. 

Gift of Praise

Gift of Praise

By: Joy Ortiz

My heart is here

Wrapped in songs,

Tied with faith,

Enfolded by

A servant's hands. 

I cut away pride,

Discard ambition

To bring you

The purest gift,

Oh deserving one. 

Quiet, my soul.

Look, my eyes,

Into my Father's,

Filled with love

For me.

Hear, my ears,

His, "Thank you, child!"

The rustle of paper,

The unwrapping of worship.

How he delights

In the work of childish hands,

In the crude craft

Of an unskilled

And eager daughter. 

My best I give

To the worthy one. 

My heart is yours. 

All of my love

I wrap in songs of praise. 

The Blister's Gift

The Blister's Gift

By: Joy Ortiz

Rubbed raw by raking,

My hands bled. 

Work had worn

Tender skin,

Raising issues

Angry and red

After the bubble burst. 

Should I cover and cradle

Wounded hands,

Nursing them,

Suspended in action,

Until broken skin

Was smooth once more?

Perhaps,

Yet layers of leaves lay

Smothering hope

And baby grass blades

As the digits on my clock

Moved on with minutes lost. 

Back to the mud and mulch

I trekked,

Rake in hand,

Redeeming the lawn

Until wounds ran red. 

With sweat on my palms,

Dirt under my nails,

I rested,

Surveying spring shoots

As old leaves crumbled,

Swirled into smoke. 

Day two called me.

"Come out!"

Spring sunshine and

April air asked,

"If not today, when?"

I shouldered my shovel

And dug into

A mulch mountain. 

Though my blisters bled 

I barely noticed.

Spring in my steps

Carried me with a wheelbarrow 

To every flowerbed,

Burying winter's waste

In wood chips. 

Perennial plants

Peeked from beneath

Last year's leaves. 

The world was waking. 

Who would waste

Such a perfect day?

When I finally washed

Work-worn hands,

I saw the skin

Where blisters had bled

Hardened and healing.

Thicker and tougher,

A callous grew. 

Layer by layer,

Stronger and stronger

Those vulnerable thumbs

Grew worthy of work. 

With my blister's gift

I raised my shovel

For another load. 

The Gypsy and the Pool

The Gypsy and the Pool

The gypsy's feet,

Tired and sore from

Walking the endless road while

Carrying her young son,

Paused by a pool. 

Inviting and clear,

It beckoned.

"Wash yourself and rest."

So she sat in the shade,

Relieved,

And dipped her toes

Into the cool water. 

As it soothed her bruised 

And battered feet,

She sighed,

Stretching and flexing

Muscles rejuvenated. 

Before too long, 

She noticed other travelers

Who also stopped to visit the pool. 

Everyone who drank 

Or washed himself in it

Became cured,

For the pool held healing water. 

A young man

Caught the gypsy's eye. 

He was leading travelers

From the road to the pool. 

"Come and see!"

He called to them. 

"Come and be healed!

You are weary,

And the water is good!"

Some did not listen

And continued on their way,

But many heeded his words,

Came to the pool,

And rejoiced as their wounds

Were washed away. 

The gypsy's heart 

Stirred within her

As she watched his work. 

"He is not content 

To receive his own healing

And go on his way,"

She marveled. 

"See how his heart burns

To share this gift with everyone!"

She could not understand it. 

Why stay at this pool

Day after day

When the endless road 

Stretched before you?

Still, she saw joy in the man,

Joy she had never known. 

It drew her to him. 

She decided to stay awhile 

And investigate this stranger. 

Time passed. 

Days became weeks,

Months, then years. 

The man became her friend,

Then her husband. 

He rented a house for them

Next to the pool,

And the gypsy and her son

Lived with him there. 

She bore him two children. 

Every day they would walk to the road

And call to the travelers passing by,

"Come and see!

Healing water!"

At first it was exciting. 

Then it became a routine. 

Then it became boring. 

Then it became a chore. 

"Let's go take a trip,"

The gypsy begged her husband. 

"We have no money to take a trip,"

He replied. 

"Who needs money?"

She retorted. 

"We can walk!"

"With small children?"

He asked. 

"Where will we sleep?

What will we eat?

How will the little ones walk so far?

And who will guide travelers to the pool 

If I am gone?"

"Aha!" the gypsy fiercely cried. 

"The pool!  

It's always the pool!

What about your children?

What about me?

Aren't we worth something, too?

Forget about those strangers. 

Go find a job that pays something. 

Then we can travel

And go wherever we like. 

The man gazed at her sadly. 

"I'm sorry, my love,"

He said,

"But we cannot go right now."

Filled with frustration and rage,

The gypsy returned to their house. 

"Fine," she thought angrily,

"If he cares more about his pool

Than he cares about us,

Then we will go without him."

She began to pack her bags for the trip.

When morning came, 

She gathered the children, 

Handed each of them a bag,

And informed them,

"We are going on a journey."

"What about Papa?"

The children asked. 

"Papa will not leave the pool,"

She replied. 

"Come with me."

She led them up the dirt path to the road. 

There was her husband at the roadside,

Crying, "Healing water!

"Come and see!"

She walked up to him with her chin held high. 

"I am talking the children to see my parents," she said. 

"I don't know how long we will be gone."

He gazed at her helplessly. 

"You are going, then?" he asked. 

"I have to," she replied. 

"Kiss your Papa, children. Let's go."

They clung to his hands,

Kissed him, 

Then followed their mother 

Onto the endless road. 

A hot breeze ruffled their clothes,

Kicking up swirls of dust 

As they set off on their journey. 

Not long after they had begun,

Everyone began to sweat. 

"Mama," said the littlest child,

"I'm thirsty.  How much longer?"

"I don't know," said the mother. 

She began to look around

For some source of water. 

In her wandering gypsy days,

She had always counted on luck

And happenstance 

To bring water eventually,

Enduring thirst

Until the next fount appeared. 

Now, though,

Her little child thirsted,

And there was no water in sight. 

"Excuse me,"

A passing woman said,

"But I see you're looking for water.

There is none here, but back the way I came,

There is a miracle pool

Filled with sweet, clear water!

I filled two bottles full,

But I only need one. 

Here, 

Please take the other

For your baby."

She handed the bottle

To the gypsy with a smile,

Then headed on her way. 

Gazing in wonder

At the generous stranger,

The gypsy mechanically opened

The bottle

And passed it to her daughter. 

"Thank you, Mama," her baby said. 

When the child had drunk deeply,

They continued on their way. 

The road was ill-kept and uneven,

Covered with stones and rubble. 

As the gypsy and her children grew weary from walking,

Their feet became heavy,

And they began to stumble over the uneven ground. 

The second youngest child tripped,

Fell headlong, 

And skinned his hands and knees. 

As he lay crying in the dirt,

The mother crouched beside him,

Wiping his tears with her dusty handkerchief. 

If only she had clean bandages

To bind his wounds!

"Excuse me,"

A concerned voice interrupted.

"I saw your boy trip, and it looks like

He fell pretty hard. 

Is he hurt?"

The mother looked up into the face of 

A middle-aged farmer. 

"I see he is bleeding,"

Continued the man. 

"Here, please take some of my water

To cleanse his wounds. 

I know it sounds crazy,

But I got it from a healing pool. 

The water contains power

To cure injuries. 

Please take some

To help your son."

He took her handkerchief,

Poured water from a bottle onto it,

Then pressed it into her hand. 

"Cleanse his wounds,"

The man encouraged her. 

The mother gently pressed the cloth

To one torn knee, 

Then the other,

Followed by the two scraped hands. 

When she finished,

The cloth was red with blood,

But her son's skin was smooth,

Unbroken, and completely healed. 

"See?  Can you believe it?"

The man exclaimed joyfully. 

"Good as new!

I had a broken leg, but a man on the road 

Told me about the pool. 

I figured it couldn't hurt to try,

So I climbed in,

And my leg was healed!

Now I'm taking some water home

For my whole family."

The farmer waved his hand

At the gypsy and her children,

Then continued on his way. 

After they had rested and eaten lunch,

The gypsy led her children up the road

Toward town. 

They arrived without further mishap

At her parents' house. 

It was large and stately,

Situated on a hilltop 

In the best of neighborhoods. 

From a distance, it shone white and pristine,

But closer inspection revealed 

Chipping paint, cracked concrete,

Weeds where there had once been grass,

And an empty swimming pool. 

Inside the house,

Nearly empty rooms echoed 

With memories of lavish parties,

Social events, and status lost. 

The house was an empty oyster shell,

Cast away once its pearl was gone,

Yet still retaining a little of its worthless luster

To delight the eyes of common folks. 

For the gypsy, it was only a painful reminder

Of all that had been lost. 

As her children settled into

Grandma and Grandpa's house,

She tried to find a measure of comfort,

Yet found herself longing to leave it behind 

Along with the memories. 

Sometimes it is easier to just keep walking. 

Yet she had come home, and family is family, no matter how broken,

So she tried to make the best of it. 

As she watched her parents,

She began to notice 

All of the little wounds

They accumulated daily. 

Some were self-inflicted:

Denying themselves comfort out of pride,

Refusing to accept help lest they appear weak. 

Others they inflicted on each other:

Jabs from sharp words,

Cruel jokes,

Bitter speeches,

And I-told-you-so's. 

Still others came from outsiders:

Snubs from old friends,

Pity from once-enemies,

Being ignored by everyone who really mattered. 

The gypsy marveled at the wounds she had never before noticed. 

They crisscrossed her parents' skin

Like little white worms:

Scars upon scars. 

Some were new and still bleeding. 

Others were decades old. 

How had she never noticed?

She found herself thinking of the pool,

The healing pool

That washed wounds away. 

What would her parents be like

If their scarred skin was made new?

She looked at her three children

With new eyes,

Searching. 

The two youngest had been born

Beside the pool. 

She had birthed them into its waters. 

They had grown up in it,

Splashing and playing with their friends. 

But what about her oldest?

He had been born 

In her gypsy days

On the endless road. 

He had known thirst,

Exhaustion,

Hunger,

Injury,

And sleepless nights. 

When they stumbled across the pool,

It was the most water her son had ever seen in one place. 

He had feared it. 

Even when he saw his siblings playing in it,

He had no interest in joining them,

Preferring to drink and play 

With his friends in a nearby stream. 

Perhaps it was stubbornness or a contrary nature

Which made him hate the pool

Which his stepfather loved,

But the gypsy's oldest son had never

Entered it or tasted its water. 

"Take off your shirt,"

The mother demanded of her son. 

"What?  No!" cried the son. 

"Take it off now," she demanded. 

Sullenly, he peeled off his shirt. 

The mother gasped when she saw

A festering wound on his chest,

Angry and red. 

A horrible smell

Like rotting meat

Washed over her. 

She gagged and fell to her knees. 

"My son," she mumbled,

"How long have you had this?"

"It's no big deal. I'm fine," he said. 

"How long?" she demanded. 

"Forever."

How had she not seen?

How had she not known?

All these years, she had seen no reason

He should enter the pool,

Her perfect boy. 

Yet all along, the wound had been festering. 

Through tears and gritted teeth, 

She choked, "We are going home."

The whole walk back, 

The mother was silent,

Deep in thought. 

Was she not a gypsy,

Destined to wander the endless road?

Yet the pool had followed her,

Meeting her along the road

And calling her back again. 

It had reached out beyond its borders,

Carried by travelers 

Who, healed by its water,

Bottled up some of its life-changing power

To carry away and share with others. 

Changed by its touch,

How could she not return?

The endless road had become a ring

Leading back again

To the pool. 

She passed her husband on the road home. 

To her surprise, 

He was a small distance

Up the road,

In another town. 

"There is a pool,"

He called to the people,

"With healing water!

Come and see!"

She kissed him on her way past 

With their children in tow. 

"It's David," she said. 

"He is hurt. 

He needs to get to the pool."

"But I can't take you there!"

Cried her husband miserably. 

"I've already committed to help these people today!"

"Don't worry," she replied with a half-smile.

"I think I know the way."

At last they reached the path to the pool. 

"Son," she said to her eldest, 

Gripping his shoulders,

Peering into his face,

"I am taking you into the pool."

"But I don't need..." he began. 

"Son," she said firmly. 

"But I'm afraid of..."

"Son," she said tenderly. 

"But, Mama..."

"Son, I am taking you in."

With her arm around his shoulders, 

She guided him into the pool. 

He shivered as the cool water

Touched his feet for the first time. Friends and neighbors gathered around them

As the wound in David's chest

Began to hiss and bubble with steam. 

Amidst their rejoicing,

The ugly, corrupt flesh began to fall away. 

Beneath it, knitted together before their eyes,

New, healthy skin took its place. 

When it was finished,

The boy fell, weeping, into his mother's arms. 

They sank into the water together,

Eyes closed,

Up to their necks

As it washed away every scar

From the endless road. 

The next morning,

The gypsy woman, her husband,

And their three children

Climbed the path to the main road. 

Next to the road,

In a shelter from the sun,

The woman made beaded jewelry,

Offering it for sale

To the passers by. 

To the thirsty, tired,

Injured, and scarred,

They were ready with good news:

"There is a pool

With healing water!

Come and see!"

When the necklaces and bracelets 

Grew too many for the roadside stand

And the endless road began to call her,

The gypsy woman took her profit

And her family

On a trip. 

Along the way,

She sold jewelry, 

And they always carried

Bottles of healing water,

Because you never know 

When you might meet

A mother with a thirsty child,

A boy with skinned hands and knees,

Or a mother who needs to remember

That sometimes the endless road

Is really a ring

That always leads back

To the pool.