praying through gritted teeth

This sermon was preached on Sunday 21 September by our minister, James Ellis

Texts: 1 Timothy 2:1–7, Jeremiah 8:18–9:1, Luke 16:1–13

If I’m honest, I have a list in my head of people I do not want to pray for.

It includes political leaders whose policies cause harm.
It includes war leaders who order attacks.
It sometimes includes people whose decisions have hurt me or those I love.

I suspect you have your own list.
Maybe it’s a president or prime minister.
Maybe it’s a local politician.
Maybe it’s someone closer to home.

When I hear about starving children in Gaza, about bombs and barricades, about corruption and cruelty in high places, the last thing I want to do is pray for those holding the power.

I’d rather curse them. Ignore them. Or write them off as beyond redemption.

But then I open today’s readings.
And Paul says: Pray for kings, and all who are in authority.
Not just the good ones. All of them.

And Jesus? He tells a parable about a corrupt manager caught in a broken system.
And he dares to suggest that even in that mess, grace can find a way.

The Command to Pray (1 Timothy 2)

So what does it mean to pray for leaders?
Especially the ones we don’t like?
The ones who hurt others – sometimes in our name?

Paul tells Timothy: First of all, pray for them.
So that we may live in peace, and so that the gospel might be known.

Paul is writing while living under Roman occupation.
This isn’t theory. This is the empire that executed Jesus and would eventually execute Paul too.

This is not a call to be naïve.
It’s not about pretending evil doesn’t exist.
It’s about remembering who God is.

To pray for “kings and rulers” is to say:
God is still bigger. God’s justice is deeper. And I refuse to let their corruption define my heart.


Jeremiah’s Lament: Sharing God’s Pain

Jeremiah shows us what that kind of prayer looks like.

His prayer is not tidy.
It’s full of grief, anger, anguish.

"My joy is gone. Grief is upon me."
"For the hurt of my people I am hurt."

Jeremiah doesn’t pretend everything’s fine.
He doesn’t say, “God has a plan,” and move on.

He weeps.
He protests.
And in doing so, he draws near to God.

But Jeremiah’s prayer is more than just messy – it is a kind of sharing in the pain of God.

He looks out at Israel and sees a nation that, on the surface, has never been better. Wealth is flowing. Life seems stable. The markets are humming. But underneath? Hollowed out. Empty.

The corruption he names is not just cheating or dishonesty. It is spiritual shallowness. A people distracted, numbed, self-satisfied. A people rich in possessions, but impoverished in soul.

So Jeremiah cries:
“My joy is gone, grief is upon me… For the hurt of my poor people I am hurt.”

This is not just Jeremiah’s grief. It is God’s own heart breaking through his voice.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth: Jeremiah is not talking about “those people out there.” He is talking about the community of faith – people who looked fine on the surface but had lost depth, compassion, and trust in God.

And if we’re honest, we can recognise ourselves here. In our busyness. In our distractions. In the ways we let comfort cover over the wounds of the world.

Jeremiah invites us to bring that emptiness to God – not with tidy prayers, but with tears and protest.

As Walter Brueggemann reminds us, lament is the most faithful response to injustice.
Because it tells the truth.
It refuses denial.
And it places that pain in God’s presence.


The Dishonest or Shrewd Manager (Luke 16)

And then Jesus tells us a strange parable.

A manager has been skimming, cheating the system.
When he’s caught, he doesn’t repent – he hustles. He reduces debts. He uses what little power he has to change the story, just a little.

And it’s a messy story.
Yet Jesus says: Look at that cleverness. That shrewdness. That ability to work within a broken system and still do something merciful.

He’s not telling us to be corrupt.
Instead he’s saying: Don’t give up. Don’t be naïve. But don’t sit on your hands either.

In a way, prayer is like that manager’s debt-forgiveness – it interrupts the usual flow of the empire’s power.
It’s a shrewd, subversive act that refuses to play by the rules of vengeance or hatred.

Even in unjust systems, God can work through small, surprising acts of mercy – hand prayer is one of the most powerful of them.


Prayer as Protest and Participation

So what does this all mean – for us?

It means praying is not passive.

To pray for Putin or Trump, for Netanyahu or Hamas – not to succeed, but to be changed – is a bold act of protest.
It says: You do not get to have the final word.
It says: I will not become like you in hate or apathy.
It says: God is still at work, even now.

It is not a prayer of agreement.
It’s a prayer of faith.

And sometimes, we pray through gritted teeth.
Sometimes, our “amen” is a whisper of hope in the dark.

As Nadia Bolz-Weber puts it:
“Jesus taught us to pray, ‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us’—not forgive us and smite those bastards who hurt us.”
That is not soft. That is radical. When we pray for our enemies—not to flourish in evil, but to be met and changed—that is protest disguised as prayer.


Stories of Radical Prayer

And then we dare to pray – not as agreement with the powerful, but as protest against them.

We see this in people who have suffered most.

In Sydney, a Lebanese catholic family, the Abdallah’s, lost three of their children when a drunk and drugged driver ploughed into them. Their grief was unbearable. And yet, in the days that followed, they stood before cameras and microphones and offered forgiveness to the driver. Not because what happened was excusable, but because they refused to let hatred rule their lives.

Across the world, in the midst of the ongoing violence between Israel and Palestine, there is a group of parents who have lost their children in the conflict. Some to bombs, some to bullets, some to the silent cruelty of occupation or terror.

They are part of a group called the ‘Parents Circle–Families Forum’, and they do something almost unimaginable.

They gather in a modest meeting hall.
Photos of their children are placed gently on a table in the centre.
There is tea, and there are tissues.
There is the awkwardness of people who might once have crossed the street to avoid each other – now sitting knee to knee.

And somehow, they pray.

One Palestinian father, whose daughter was killed by Israeli soldiers, said:
“When I pray for peace, I also pray for the soldiers… because they are not monsters. They were once children. And maybe God can still reach them.”

An Israeli mother whose son was shot by a Palestinian sniper said:
“I pray for the man who killed my son – not because I excuse what he did, but because I refuse to live in hate.”

That’s not weak. That’s not letting anyone off the hook.
That is strength. That is grace. That is protest.
That is handing even the worst wounds to God and saying: “Only you can hold this.”

These parents – and the Abdullahs – have discovered what Jeremiah knew: that lament and prayer can hold grief and hope in the same breath.

Invitation

So, who is on your list?
Who makes your stomach churn at the thought of praying for them?

Nadia Bolz-Weber reminds us:
“To pray for each other is to live not unaffected by what is happening in the blessed and broken and beautiful world in which God has placed us.”

Prayer is not private finger-wagging. It is a spiritual connection to God’s persistent longing for healing in the world.

Don’t pray for them to succeed in cruelty – pray for them to be changed.
Pray for their hearts to turn.
Pray for peace to prevail despite them.

And if all you can pray is, “Lord, have mercy,” that’s enough.

Where’s the Good News? The Spirit Who Prays

The good news is not that power will suddenly become kind.
It’s that God does not abandon the world to the powerful.

The good news is that even when kings rage and empires fall,
God is still healing. Still saving. Still weeping. Still rising.

When we weep in prayer, we are not alone.
The God who wept over Jerusalem weeps with us now,
and those tears water the seeds of the new world God is already growing.

But here is the deepest promise: when we do not know how to pray, the Spirit intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words (Romans 8:26).

Prayer is not ultimately about our eloquence, or our effort. It is being caught up into God’s own longing for the world.

The final pray-er is not us – it is the Spirit. The One who breathes God’s own groans through us. The One who holds our feeble whispers and turns them into a chorus that reaches the Father’s heart.

So when you pray through gritted teeth, or with tears, or only manage to sigh – remember: That is the Spirit’s unceasing prayer, made flesh in you.

Amen.