Enemy Mine: Abraham, Abimelech, Righteousness, and Prayer
For if ye love them which love you, what reward have ye? do not even the publicans the same?1
I
If you didn’t know the backstory, the so-called Hall of Faith in Hebrews 11 would read like Who’s Who of dragon slayers and paragons of virtue. These Jedi knights of the faith conquered kingdoms, performed heroic acts of righteousness, stopped the mouths of lions, survived white-hot flames, were valiant in battle, frightened off entire armies of heathen. They accepted torture, mocking, scourging, chains, and imprisonment. They wandered about as vagabonds, wearing sheepskins or goatskins, destitute, afflicted, and tormented, rather than embracing lives of leisure and comfort. But some of these heroes were wicked.
Truly, the roster of heroes is filled with great people who performed great acts: Noah, who got so drunk as to expose his nakedness; Isaac and Rebeka, each of whom had a favorite son; Jacob, who defrauded his brother of his birthright. We might also mention Judah, progenitor of the royal line of David, who engaged the services of a prostitute, who turned out to be his daughter-in-law, Tamar, to whom he had denied a husband; Simeon and Levy, who abused the sign of God’s covenant in order to incapacitate and then slaughter the men of Shechem; Samson, who, in addition to breaking every stipulation of the nazarite vows was such a simp that he actually told Delilah how he could be defeated; David (the man after God’s heart, mind you) who, in a sinful rage intended to wipe out Nabal's entire line as retribution for an insult, who committed adultery with the wife of his devoted servant and friend, Uriah, fathered a child with her, then conspired to trick Uriah into believing the child was his, and then subsequently suborned the murder of Uriah in order to cover up his sin.
Our heroes and heroines, fathers and mothers, are wicked people.
II
Chief among these heroes is, of course, Father Abraham, the father of all those who believe, who, as an act of faith, left the comforts of Ur of the Chaldeans and took up residence in the Promised Land, a land to which he himself never received title; neither did any of his descendants for a couple of centuries. Abraham, who twice pimped out his wife in order to save his neck (and along with Sarah abused Hagar both by using her as a baby factory and then exiling her to the desert when the results proved disappointing), is commended for his faith, not for his superior moral virtue.
Consider briefly just one example, from Genesis 20.1-7:
And Abraham…dwelt between Kadesh and Shur, and stayed in Gerar. Now Abraham said of Sarah his wife, “She is my sister.” And Abimelech king of Gerar sent and took Sarah. But God came to Abimelech in a dream by night, and said to him, “Indeed you are a dead man because of the woman whom you have taken, for she is a man’s wife.” But Abimelech had not come near her; and he said, “Lord, will You slay a righteous nation also? Did he not say to me, ‘She is my sister’? And she, even she herself said, ‘He is my brother.’ In the integrity of my heart and innocence of my hands I have done this.” And God said to him in a dream, “Yes, I know that you did this in the integrity of your heart. For I also withheld you from sinning against Me; therefore I did not let you touch her. Now therefore, restore the man’s wife; for he is a prophet, and he will pray for you and you shall live. But if you do not restore her, know that you shall surely die, you and all who are yours.”
Think of what it means to be in Abimelech’s situation. A man has introduced you to a woman he says is his sister, which she confirms. With all the honorable intentions in the world you take her (presumably, as a proper wife), only to be threatened with judgment by God for taking another man’s wife. It is a wicked thing to do to someone as Abraham did to Abimelech. It actually gets worse, at least from Abimelech’s perspective: when God comes to you in a dream and warns you of the impending judgment on you and your whole house, he informs you that this man who pimped out his wife to you is a prophet — a prophet, for crying out loud. Then, as if that is not insulting enough (remember, this prophet knowingly sinned against you; and you acted in good faith because you believed this prophet), you are informed that if you return this prophet’s wife to him, he (this prophet) will pray for you, and you will live. He will pray for you. And, because he (this prophet) has prayed for you (a man against whom this prophet sinned rather wickedly), you will live. This cuckold prays, you get to live. It's galling.
III
The gospel is kind of sick that way. When you hear the gospel — the good news — it is easy to forget that it is good news for everyone, some of whom may be more wicked than you are (at least according to you). A Jew would have to accept it that a repentant Nazi might be saved, but that he would not be. A black man would have to accept it that a Confederate slave-owner could be saved, but that he would not be. Jonathan Edwards might be in heaven; Martin Luther King, Jr. might not be.
This fact casts a shadow over some of our obligations; they are revealed to be much more difficult than we will acknowledge. Still thinking of Abraham and Abimelech, meditate on that part of the Sermon on the Mount, in which Jesus says that we must pray for our enemies, do good to those who use us, etc. Let's be brutally honest with ourselves, and about ourselves: the last thing we want to do is good to those who use us, or even pray for them (unless those prayers are that God will send down fire from heaven upon them, if not worse).
That might be easy enough, if it is easy at all. But think of what it would mean if, somewhat like Abimelech, you had to hope that those who hate you, have harmed you, and have spitefully used you, would pray for you — hope that they will pray for you. The idea. It could mean being Russell Moore, Paul Vischer, Kristin Kobes DuMez, and hoping those white (and only white) evangelicals you defecate upon will pray for you. On the other hand, it also means that you, the white evangelical that Moore, Vischer, DuMez and others enjoy defecating upon, may need to hope that they will pray for you. They’ve written books about you, articles about you. They have mocked and denigrated you on radio, on television, on social media platforms, on podcasts and video streaming platforms; they have had a lot of fun putting you down in order to raise themselves up, tens of belly laughs at your expense — and that’s what they do and say in public, mind you. But you must hope that they will pray for you, so that you might live. For that matter, imagine being an anti-Christian nationalist and hoping Stephen Wolfe will pray for you. Imagine being R. Scott Clark and having to hope that Doug Wilson will pray for you. In the movie version of this saga, you are Abimelech, comforting yourself with the hope that Abraham will pray for you, so you will live.
But wait! Let me be even more provocative: Imagine, just for purposes of argument, mind you — imagine being Russell Moore or David French and hoping that Donald Trump (for crying out loud!) will pray for you.2
It can be easy to forget the meaning of it that God saves sinners, truly wicked, truly awful, truly unholy scum. And we may need their prayers. Abraham put Abimelech’s life in grave danger; and yet, Abimelech needed Abraham's prayers, in oder to live.
It's insulting. But it actually gets worse.
IV
If all of that is not bad enough, there is then the actual praying that we are to do for these wicked people. We will want to pray that they will stop doing the things that have made them our enemies, that they will stop hating us, that they will stop cursing us and spitefully using us, that they will stop having a laugh or two at our expense. Too bad. Praying for them, blessing them, doing good to them all require praying for them as we would our best friend. It means praying — truly praying — that God will heal his cancer and bear him up under the treatments, comfort him as he watches his wife's own health decline (for which there are zero treatments), restore his relationship with his estranged children. Just like your best friend.
It also means contemplating the very real possibility that you bear most of the responsibility for the enmity. I know something about this one. When I was in the army, there was a fellow soldier, Hancock, who for some reason took an instant dislike for me. (That was not my usual experience in the army, believe it or not.) In one sense, that's life: sometimes someone just rubs you the wrong way. But I could not shake the feeling that he felt his animosity was justified. I was not a Christian at the time; that would be years later. I was not inclined to humble myself and simply ask how I had offended him, despite being raised to do just that. (Somewhat like Mr Darcy, “I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit.”)
Years later, after becoming a Christian, I was somehow reminded of that mutual, quite passionate hatred — and suddenly realized that the fault was entirely mine: I had inadvertently insulted one of his friends. That is to say, I made a playful, disparaging remark. Now, this friend of his (Todd) was also a friend of mine, since high school. The disparaging remark was one of those which, between friends, is entirely acceptable. But Todd and I had not seen each other for several months and during that time he and Hancock, members of the same platoon, had become friends. And that's what happened: by insulting Todd, at the very moment Hancock and I met, I had insulted his friend. In short, my very first words to Hancock (after saying hello) were to insult a friend, resulting in two years of passionate hatred, and I do mean passionate: if Hancock and I had ever come to blows one of us was going to the hospital. We hated each other that much. But the fact of the matter is that it was my fault.
One of the things that bothers me, therefore, is that there is no hint of it that Abraham admitted any responsibility for putting Abimelech’s life in danger. It's great that Abraham would pray for Abimelech and that Abimelech would live, but it was Abraham's fault that Abimelech needed those prayers in the first place. Abimelech didn't go and seize Sarah over Abraham's objections.
There is also this consideration. Ironically, Abraham's sin against Abimelech (and Sarah) was predicated upon his conviction that there was no fear of God in the land. Let that sink in.
V
The story is told of Nektarios of Aegina who, early in his ministry, taught in a private school. One day, two of his students were involved in a fist fight. Determining that responsibility for the altercation was due to some failure on his part as their teacher he disciplined himself with a three-day fast. As good Protestants, desperate to avoid even a hint of legalism, we might see this as works righteousness, or evidence of some neurosis, or guilt complex. We might ask, “How are those boys to learn not to employ violence as means of solving problems if they are not disciplined?”
Should we be so certain that Nektarios was mistaken in putting the burden upon his own shoulders? I think we should want to say (even while insisting the boys be disciplined) that, as a teacher, he was correct to look at himself first — commendably so, in fact. Teachers receive a stricter examination. When our students fail, we who teach should ask if we failed first, if we failed them.
We should prefer to be Nektarios, rather than some ordained minister of the gospel who companies with enemies of Christ and his Church, and joins in whipping the flock of God to the approving smiles of those enemies — who hate him as much as they hate the flock. The sort of minister I have in mind seems to think that complaining, in print or on television, about how awful (white) evangelicals are, somehow counts as shepherding the flock of God. It is difficult to envision such a minister assuming responsibility for the pathologies in the evangelical community. It is difficult to envision him looking in the mirror and admitting that he has done little to treat and to heal those pathologies, unless he believes that moralizing punditry is more effective than pastoral ministry. I cannot conceive of this sort of man disciplining himself with a three-day fast for his pastoral failure, on the assumption that he would entertain the notion that there was any failure on his part. He is not the sort of minister who sees evangelicals’ failures as his failures. In truth, however, I don't know that I am really all that different, certainly not as different as I would want to be.
It shouldn't be hard to discern that what separates Nektarios from the sort of pastoral talking head I have in mind is love. Nektarios’s decision to discipline himself rather than the two boys was not the result of some neurosis or guilt complex, but an expression of his love for them both. Rather than being punished, at least for that particular infraction, the two boys get a lesson in taking responsibility and in self-discipline. They get to see a superior take seriously the possibility that, at least occasionally, failures on the part of inferiors are actually the fault of the superiors. And they see that same superior step back for some self-examination, accompanied with some self-denial, some humility.
I can imagine Nektarios, being told that either — or even both — of the two boys were more righteous than he, and that he needed their prayers, and replying with gratitude for those prayers. I would choke on the thought. I cannot imagine being told that the wickedest man I know is a man whose prayers I require. I conjure the image in my mind’s eye, see him there on his knees praying for me. I do not feel grateful. I did eventually forgive him, but if I had been informed that not only must I forgive him I would have to ask him to pray for me, I would have been incensed: implicit in that, is the assertion of that man’s superior righteousness.
I think about this every time I read Genesis 20. I imagine Abimelech, watching Abraham depart with all his wealth, after lying to me and putting me in danger of death, mulling it over in his mind: Abraham is more righteous than I. I hope he prays for me so that I will live. I try to imagine Abimelech being grateful for Abraham’s prayers.
Many years ago, I was listening to a radio talk show. The host was interviewing a man who had written a book whose title I can’t recall. During the course of the interview, the guest made the claim that a Nazi might make it into heaven while a Jew would not. The host — a Jew — was livid: “I am not perfect, but I’ve done a lot of good things and that should count for something.” The guest agreed that it did count for something, just not enough to save him. The interview, needless to say, did not last the entire segment. I think about that host, angry that God might think a Nazi, repenting of his sins and laying hold of Christ for the forgiveness of his sins, might be more righteous than the most pious, observant Jew, and I would like to have been able to ask, genuinely, “How do you think Abimelech felt?” I suspect that conversation would have involved comparisons between fraud and gas chambers. Fair enough. But still.
Abimelech needed Abraham to pray for him. Keep repeating that to yourself. See how long it is before you stop choking on it.
The gospel is obscene sometimes, isn’t it?
Matthew 5.44, 46 (KJV).
Only for purposes of discussion. I am not suggesting Donald Trump is a Christian.
I see you making three basic points here:
1. We should always be open to the possibility that whatever is going on here is our own fault.
2. We need to pray for our enemies (all of them!) in the same way we pray for our friends.
3. Sometimes we need the prayers of those who have sinned against us, as a matter of the gospel.
I'm on board with 1, which seems indisputable. But I think there's a distinction to be made between personal and public enemies in 2, which distinction cuts against your point. And I'm really having trouble getting my head around 3 at all.
Regarding the second point, I think you're missing a distinction between one's personal enemies and one's public enemies. A man's personal enemies are those who have some kind of personal connection to him, those who have taken specific actions that adversely affect him (or those under his protection), immediately and directly. But with a man's public enemies, there really isn't anything personal about it. Nothing David French, Russell Moore, or Roundheels McClownlaugh--or anyone of their ilk--says or does is really directed at me, as an individual. They're clearly directed at one or more groups of people that include me, but David French, etc., isn't really **my** enemy in any meaningful way. They've just set himself up as an enemy of God's people in general.
I think that when Jesus says to pray for one's enemies in the Sermon on the Mount, he's talking specifically about personal enemies. I don't see it applying to public enemies. That would be akin to asking an Israelite to pray for the Assyrians. Sure, Jonah was sent to preach to them, but 1) he was a prophet specifically commissioned to do that (more on that later); and 2) there are also plenty of instances in which God's people pray for the destruction of their enemies, are called to do so, or rejoice when such destruction occurs. Both Old and New Testaments. I think you'll find that such instances almost invariably involve public enemies.
If this passage of the Sermon on the Mount changes anything, it's really only with respect to a man's personal enemies. And even there, you still see examples like Paul's interactions with Alexander the coppersmith.
As to the third, yes, Abraham was to pray for Abimelech. But I don't think you the story of Abraham and Abimelech permits lends itself to abstracting a principle that the gospel somehow requires us to think about the possibility that we need the prayers of someone who has sinned against us. I think the principle we're supposed to learn here is that the unrighteous require a mediator, specifically Christ. Abraham was the anointed covenant head, not some random schmuck like you or me. Abraham has to pray for Abimelech for the same reason Job has to pray for his friends: both were divinely appointed mediators for the unrighteous.
I don't see how you go from there to the idea that it is incumbent upon us to act as if we might somehow require the prayers of people who clearly hate us. Not just because David (unprintable) French isn't any kind of covenant mediator, but because nobody else--except Jesus--is either.