sermons
Praying with the Psalms
At the Edge of Ourselves With Vengeance & Love
Ivy Anthony
Jan 11, 2026
We are in a Sunday series, exploring the practice of Praying the Psalms. If you aren’t familiar with the Psalms — they kind of serve as a communal prayer book within the Hebrew scriptures. And *fun fact*: if you were to take a physical Bible – and open it to the middle, you’d land in the Psalms.
What I love about the Psalms is they were written and gathered across centuries — across a swath of human experience. They were prayed by people in exile and in illness, in war and in childbirth, in seasons of hope and loss. They were prayed by people in real time who didn’t know how their stories would go … prayed by people who believed and hoped for “good,” for “life” to win out and for God to be their partner along their journeys. So when we pray the Psalms I like to think that we step into this long, ongoing human conversation — we bring our experiences and our voice — to what it means to be human in our days.
We have visited the Psalms with some regularity as a church (Steve has written Bible guides to the Psalms, I’ve written a mini-6-week community group content around the psalms).
I find these psalms so helpful in so many ways, but especially when we are at a loss for our own words, when we are so disoriented by life, when we look around at moments and say,
“what the-actual-heck is going on here?”
Old Testament scholar, Walter Brueggemann whose work on the Psalms I’ll reference today, suggests that most of the Psalms can only be appropriately prayed
“by people who are living at the edge of their lives, sensitive to the raw hurts, deep passions, and fragile joys of life.”
And he says the work of prayer (not reading the psalms), is to bring the boldness of the Psalms and the edge of our lived experience together… to let them interact and illuminate each other.. . .even transform each other.
When we can pray in this way — when our real lives meet these ancient prayers, I think we can discover that prayer is not an escape from reality, but a way of staying human inside of it.
And it’s this phrase though, “At the edge of our lives,”
“At the edge of ourselves” — that catches in my throat . . .
Does anyone here feel like that? At the edge?
Already, just 11 days into the new year — I feel this way in my body.
But the Psalms, like no other, help us explore the full gamut of human emotion at the edge of ourselves — outrage, protest, grief. . . They refuse to flatten us or rush us past what we actually feel. They invite us even sometimes to the more intense parts of ourselves that we can’t fully face sometimes – but would actually serve us well if we did. The Psalms
“know how to defeat our tendencies to try to be holy without being human first.” Kathleen Norris The Cloister Walk (Riverhead Books: 1996), 92-94, 96
So, today I want to talk about being human, about rage.
And specifically about vengeance, and what the unfiltered Psalms offer us when those feelings are undeniable.
Prayer:
Our ever-present and loving God — we come to you today as we are —
Some of us steady, some of us at the edge of ourselves.
You know what we carry —
You know what we feel —
You know what we need —
Meet us this morning — as people you so deeply love — where our honest words, and unfinished ones — and our formed emotions and our untethered ones — matter to you. . . .and come to you as sacred prayer.
Amen.
Early on in this community (like 21 years ago!) there was a scary season that some of us might remember. The pastors who helped plant this community — Dave & Grace Schmelzer’s newborn baby girl at around four months of age became critically ill — like one of the sickest babies at Children’s hospital — her heart and other organs were failing, the kind of situation where the stakes are measured minute by minute. For months she remained in critical condition.
One of the ways we as a church community responded was by praying the Psalms together. There was a schedule, a sign-up of sorts where you could take a swath of time, whatever you could manage — and around the clock people were praying these ancient prayers for this tiny, fragile life.
We did this as a community, together. Not as a solo effort. Connected in the complexity of life. So scared, but hoping and crying and reminding each other that we love and pray for each other’s babies, as we would our own.
I didn’t have language for it then — but I think some of what I felt at that time wasn’t just fear, it was outrage. That something so tiny, so good, such fresh life — could be threatened and wiped out.
That feeling sharpened what I loved. This baby – yes. This community – yes. But that there’s this sacredness to all of life- – that we are all connected TO and BY — that shouldn’t be violated.
And she beat the odds — she’s a healthy young adult now, recently graduated from college.
And that could be the end of the story.
The power of prayer. Community matters. Life wins!
And ‘yes’ all of that is true in part, and perhaps in whole. And I also know, and I know you know this too — that there are many times we pray and the story doesn’t end like that. Sometimes the ending is devastating. Sometimes the story keeps going, and it keeps being hard.
I was pregnant with our first baby, when all of this was happening. And I was just coming through a long season of debilitating anxiety. I was finding my grounding, in this community, in this evolving faith journey — and I finally felt like I had some things under control.
And then this happened.
And it undid me.
And yet I found the Praying the Psalms was surprisingly, incredibly helpful, because they offered me speech that I hadn’t engaged in before. Language for when life moves beyond our frail efforts of understanding and of control.
And it was the language of the Psalms that helped me inspect some of the questions that were surfacing for me, like:
- What does it look like to give unbearable fear to God, without acting it out or being consumed by it?
- What does it look like when something precious is violated (again and again and again)?
- And what do we do, when we are angry — enraged —
When we want vengeance, but have nowhere for it to land?
When we are at the edge of ourselves?
It turns out the Psalms say, the edge of ourselves is actually one of the most honest places to be.
Because the edge refuses censored prayers. *And I don’t know if prior to this time, I had really prayed uncensored prayers* — BUT the Psalms kind of gave me that permission to really lay it out there — because they insist that what is raw and unresolved be hashed out with God. The Psalms do not tolerate a domesticated spirituality. This Psalm 109 that we are about to read is written from the edge.
The edge of betrayal. The edge of injustice. The edge of being misunderstood/wounded.
This Psalm is believed to be written by David but others also think it could be “of” David, or “to David” — perhaps it’s a collection of voices. Regardless the speakers seem to know what life at the edge is like and what is explicitly named here is the want of VENGEANCE
Let’s read it together:
Psalm 109 | To the leader. Of David. A psalm.
1 God of my praise, don’t keep quiet,
2 because the mouths of wicked liars
have opened up against me,
talking about me with lying tongues.3 Hateful words surround me;
they attack me for no reason.
4 Instead of returning my love, they accuse me—
but I am at prayer.
5 They repay me evil for good,
hatred in return for my love.6 “Appoint a wicked person to be against this person,” they say,
“an accuser to stand right next to him.7 When the sentence is passed, let him be found guilty—
let his prayer be found sinful!
8 Let his days be few;
let someone else assume his position.
9 Let his children become orphans;
let his wife turn into a widow.
10 Let his children wander aimlessly, begging,
driven out of their ruined homes.
11 Let a creditor seize everything he owns;
let strangers plunder his wealth.
12 Let no one extend faithful love to him;
let no one have mercy on his orphans.
13 Let his descendants be eliminated;
let their names be wiped out in just one generation!
14 Let his father’s wrongdoing be remembered before the Lord;
let his mother’s sin never be wiped out.
15 Let them be before the Lord always,
and let God eliminate the very memory of them from the land.
16 All because this person didn’t remember to demonstrate faithful love,
but chased after the poor and needy—
even the brokenhearted—with deadly intent!
17 Since he loved to curse,
let it come back on him!
Since he didn’t care much for blessing,
let it be far away from him!
18 Since he wore curses like a coat,
let them seep inside him like water,
seep into his bones like oil!
19 Let them be like the clothes he wears,
like a belt that is always around him.”20 But let all that be the reward my accusers get from the Lord,
the reward for those who speak evil against me!
*I’m going to pause there* —
Vengeance:
Woo! Now that’s SOME PRAYING RIGHT THERE!! I mean, wow! I’m out of breath after reading just half of this psalm — It says All. The. Things. It’s soooo comprehensive!
Which is exactly why I didn’t start this sermon — with my own stories of wanting vengeance… because once you open that door, it’s hard to close it again.
I very intentionally did not:
1) Tell you the story of the medical professional who checked me in for a procedure recently, who never looked up, never asked my name , and just said, “Phone number.”
2) Or the story of the person in high school who burned a picture of me from the newspaper in the hallway.
3) Or the STORIES of the person who currently “runs” and is President of our country. . . because… Enough said.
I’m all for transparency, but I don’t think you need all the venom in vivid mental images of me acting out those feelings of vengeance for these people… If you’re curious, we can always talk about it over coffee, if you want!
And even so, as creative as my imaginings of vengeance can be — this Psalm still really expanded my horizons. I never thought to curse fathers and mothers and children or the next generation — or bring in creditor sharks — woo! But now that I’ve seen it, I’m like “Heck yeah” throw them all in too.
But the Psalm isn’t just offering us drama, right? It’s naming something real in us…. And I think it’s worth naming a couple words that swim in this conversation — that might be helpful:
- Justice seeks accountability and restoration, underpinned by LOVE. (Cornel West says, “Justice is what love looks like in public.” In other words, justice is love showing up in systems, in communities, in the way we organize our life together.)
- Rage names an emotional response to harm.
- Vengeance moves from emotion to punitive desire — this sentiment of “they must pay.”
And it asserts authority for payback rather than restoration.
- Mercy: Looks squarely at harm and insists love still have a place in it.
For years, when something horrific would happen, my instinctive prayer was,
“Oh God… have mercy.” Have mercy. Have mercy.
And I meant it.
But sometimes what was burning underneath that prayer wasn’t just mercy, *I’m realizing*
it was vengeance. But it’s a little startling if someone is sharing something devastating with you, and you look at them and say, “VENGEANCE!”
Anyway I say that because, mercy and vengeance aren’t always opposites. Sometimes they’re two sides of the same coin. Both rise up when something sacred has been violated.
So when a prayer finally tells the truth about what we’re carrying — and the truth just keeps coming out of us — without censoring or cleaning it up — it is soooo satisfying!
There is nothing sanitized about this Psalm — it is all raw impulse — it is soooooo profoundly human. And in this Psalm, we are reminded that the yearning for vengeance is not only
“present here in the psalms, it is here in the human heart and in the human community as well — it is among us and within us and with real power.” (Brueggemann 64)
We wish for vengeance and retaliation, and for me it’s helpful to be met in the psalms with this.
In this Psalm, it honestly feels like I’m reading someone’s journal that I shouldn’t be reading. It’s that real and honest. But here’s the thing — in praying this Psalm, what would be dangerous if acted out becomes transformative when prayed.
When we can pray like this, we aren’t pretending injustice doesn’t exist or denying rage or fear. We’re telling the truth about them, about how they live in our bodies — and we’re doing that with a LIVING God.
And in my experience, speech before God is safer than silence that erupts elsewhere.
Because unprayed rage doesn’t usually stay quiet, it finds another outlet.
Often sideways. Often harmful.
And that’s why reading the rest of this Psalm 109 is helpful,
After twenty verses of raw, unfiltered honesty…
We get this from the Psalmist…..they say,
21 But you, Lord, my Lord!—
act on my behalf for the sake of your name;
deliver me because your faithful love is so good;22 because I am poor and needy,
and my heart is broken.
23 Like a lengthening shadow, I’m passing away;
I’m shaken off, like some locust.
24 My legs are weak from fasting;
my body is skin and bones.
25 I’ve become a joke to my accusers;
when they see me, they just shake their heads.26 Help me, Lord my God!
Save me according to your faithful love!
27 And let them know that this is by your hand—
that you have done it, Lord!
28 Let them curse—but you, bless me!
If they rise up, let them be disgraced,
but let your servant celebrate!
29 Let my accusers be dressed in shame;
let them wear their disgrace like a coat.
30 But I will give great thanks to the Lord with my mouth;
among a great crowd I will praise God!
31 Because God stands right next to the needy,
to save them from any who would condemn them.
This is a little bit of a tonal shift, right? There’s this handing over, yielding to God that happens, where the speaker says two simple words,
“But you….”
But you, my Lord!—
act on my behalf for the sake of your name;
deliver me because your faithful love is so good;
Let them curse—but you, bless me!
The rage, the bitterness, the venom that has been named and owned and
“filled out quite stupendously”
in the previous 20 verses is yielded to God’s wisdom and care.
And here’s the thing: “the yielding to God, cannot be full and free unless the articulation and owning of the yearning for vengeance is first full and freed. Told right straight to God’s face.
We can’t really skip that part.
*If we do, it’s kind of just spiritual bypassing.*
The Psalmist here, seems to no longer be trying to prove they are right, or justify their strong emotions — but they are trusting God with what they’ve told the truth about. And they trust that God will take seriously what they’ve spoken, and they trust that God will hold what they don’t want to carry alone. By the end of this Psalm, the cry for vengeance is not resolved. The rage isn’t removed even… but it has been transformed by owning fully those emotions and yielding to God.
Now, a question in all of this might come up for you — because up to now, we’ve been talking about our vengeance — right? But in handing it over to God, it raises a deeper question about God like,
“What kind of God are we actually handing this over to? Is God just a vengeful, wrath-filled God? I had sort of hoped God was a loving, life-giving kind of God.”
I think Walter Brueggemann helps here. He says that in the Psalms,
God’s vengeance is not indiscriminate anger.
It’s not God flying off the handle.
In fact the day of God’s vengeance is described as a day of reversals. God reversing the script… lifting the poor, the vulnerable, the oppressed. God confronting systems that crush people — and refusing to let injustice be the final word.
In other words, God’s “vengeance” is really God’s zeal for justice and liberation.
God will not quit on those purposes, even as the world actively resists them.
So when the Psalmists hand vengeance over to God, they’re not endorsing punishment.
They’re trusting that God’s way of setting things right is ultimately oriented toward life, intervening in such a way that refuses to leave the world as it is.
And it’s hard — I find it hard — that movement from full honesty to deliberate hand off to God. There’s something so satisfying about just clutching the emotions, about “nursing affronts” (as Brueggemann says), TO SHIFT THAT — is something that I have to intentionally practice.
And I didn’t just learn this from a Psalm, I had to practice it in my own body — especially this past year.
At a member’s meeting *almost exactly a year ago* I shared with many of you about my husband Scott’s cancer diagnosis. And I also said something that might have felt like a stiff arm — that while it meant a lot to us to know you were praying for us, I didn’t want people coming up to pray with me/for me/ in the moment.
Yes that boundary was, in part, self-protection — but it wasn’t selfish.
The boundary allowed me to protect my spiritual integrity and my privacy.
Right?
“A private life is not the opposite of a public life — it is its condition” (Hannah Arendt).
And I knew I needed time and space to honestly talk with God and with myself about what I was feeling — and I didn’t really know the full extent of what I was feeling. It just felt like A LOT.
With God we don’t need to postpone our feelings in the name of keeping something together, or keeping the peace, or being the regulated one — or strong — or whatever adjective.
Praying the Psalms gives us an outlet, a place to release what we’re carrying, so we can stay close to ourselves and close to God. This is what I knew I needed, in order to make my way through what I knew was going to be hard, without hardening.
It wasn’t the first time, but I was kind of surprised again at the special kind of disorientation that happens when your rage has no clear target. When the enemy isn’t a person — but a disease, or a system, or a history — or a reality that you can’t quite punch in the throat.
I was outraged that Scott had cancer and that target felt nebulous, everywhere…and also nowhere. And I realized I needed to rage with God. Because I knew that somewhere in the anger there was my deep refusal to give up on what I love — and I wanted to make sure that wasn’t lost — and I knew it would take some energy and some time to keep that and God in view .
And I had felt that before…
The feelings I had when we prayed for this baby 21 years ago — mirror the language of this imprecatory (cursing!) Psalm. And they are the same emotions I feel when I still pray for Scott as he faces cancer, and when I pray for so many of you who are dealing with injustices…
My prayers sound extreme. They can feel overstated, hyperbolic.
But at the core there is this simple refusal to accept that goodness should be violated.
That love should be lost.
A refusal that innocence can be twisted to horror.
A refusal that murder, kidnapping, terrorizing, or caging anything that is good, true and sacred whether in name and ESPECIALLY human lives should be happening — as it is in our country right now.
It is with this same fervor I prayed this week for Renee Nicole Good and her family. A mother, a partner, an artist, a poet, a beloved human being, a child of God, whose life mattered.
Many of us are carrying names like this in our hearts right now.
It’s why the language of THIS Psalm isn’t about us becoming callous, it’s about keeping love alive with us — right at the edge of ourselves. Where vengeance is transferred from our heart to the heart of God. It’s about not letting fear or anger colonize our souls.
Somehow, in this way praying the Psalms builds our capacity for the complexities of life — especially the unfair ones. They train us to hold tension — without losing ourselves, even when we are right at the edge.
I think this kind of formation is not theoretical. It’s evidenced by the long, real history of people associated with these Psalms — where fear and violence were not abstract ideas, but daily realities. And I want to close with a story of a woman who I just recently learned about, a young Dutch Jewish woman named Esther “Etty” Hillesum.
Etty lived during World War II, in occupied Amsterdam. She lived at the edge of terror, the edge of violence, as Jews were being rounded up and deported by the Nazis. During this time she refused to choose her own safety over that of her people and took on an administrative role in a Transit Camp. Where she herself would later be deported to Auschwitz and murdered.
I can imagine that living in that kind of terror — that kind of systematic violence – would cause the human spirit to throw itself fully into vengeance. And I don’t know the details of Etty’s inner life — but I wonder if she carried the Psalms in her bones, if she prayed words like these when rage and fear rose up.
Because in the diary entries that have been posthumously published in her book, “The Interrupted Life”, Etty says,
“Life is beautiful. And I believe in God. And I want to be right in the thick of what people call ‘horror’ and still be able to say, ‘life is beautiful.’
And I don’t tell you her story because I think she just persevered and endured better than the rest of us, or was immune to rage or despair — but I do think somewhere along the way she learned to tend her inner life with God.
She wrote that her
“main responsibility was to guard little pieces of God inside of [her]self”.
I don’t hear some abstract spiritual discipline here. I hear Etty refusing to let the horrors of her day define who she was, or exhaust the meaning of life. I wonder if that kind of noticing, that guarding of these little pieces of God, crying out to God in rage — is exactly what praying the Psalms offers us.
And maybe the work isn’t to rid ourselves of rage, but to let it continue to show us what we love.
Because to love is to be human.
And to love is to be at the edge of ourselves (almost always), it’s vulnerable, it’s risky,
And it’s love that keeps us from accepting a world where cruelty reigns.
In God’s mercy and love,
Amen.
References:
Brueggemann, Walter. Praying the Psalms, Second Edition: Engaging Scripture and the Life of the Spirit, 2007