A Punching Widow & Black-Eyed Judge: Why prayer doesn’t need us to get God right, but it helps. ~ Luke 18:1-8

 

According to Jesus, prayer can be an honest to God problem. Not that we don’t do it—but that we suffer from misunderstandings about who we’re praying to. We offer prayers that beg or bargain and somewhere, understandably, they turn toxic. So we get tired. We stop—not always with our words, but with something deeper in us – our hearts. And Jesus reveals that it’s not simply a discipline problem. It’s a God problem and a heart problem.

Because the way we see God shapes the way we pray—or whether we pray at all. If God feels distant, prayer becomes performance. If God seems reluctant, prayer turns into negotiation. If God appears harsh, prayer slowly dies. So people may keep saying prayers—but lose their heart.

And that’s the problem Jesus is trying to address in Luke 18. Because if we get God wrong, we won’t just struggle to pray—we’ll stop trusting. We’ll start protecting. We’ll begin to harden. So Jesus tells a weird and clever story—not about spiritual heroes, but about two deeply flawed people—to confront the way we imagine God, the way we approach prayer, and what’s really going on inside of us. Our prayers are not always calm or composed. Sometimes they’re raw, impatient, even desperate. And Jesus doesn’t dismiss that or disqualify us. He lovingly meets us there.

This is not a rosy theology but an honest one. A theology that invites us to bring our real selves before a God who is really good—not to perform, not to pretend, but to pray – from wherever we’re at. Because in the end, this parable isn’t just about persistence. It’s about seeing clearly—who God really is, who God really isn’t, and who we really are—so that our prayers become not polished words, but honest encounters and open doorways. So that we learn to pray and not lose heart, Jesus shows us:

You don’t need to be like her —because God is not like him.

Jesus tells us about two characters: An aggressive widow. And a wicked judge. The widow comes again and again, pleading for justice. Or does she? Because the Greek isn’t the standard word for “justice” [dikaiosyne]. It’s a more fraught word - ekdikeō often meaning vindication or vengeance. It carries a negative edge and was something that Paul, in Romans 12:19, commands us not to do: “Do not take [ekdikeō] revenge . . . ”

So she is neither passive nor positive. She’s aggressive. Violent. Vengeful. And Jesus says the judge finally gives in because he fears what she might do. What does the judge fear? The NET says that the judge worries that she will “wear me out” but the word is a boxing term meaning to punch someone in the face, literally give a black eye [hupópiazó, a compound word from hypó, "under" and ōps, "eye"]. It signals physical assault and not angry words. This is not a sweet story about gentle, grandmotherly persistence. This is a story about someone who is threatening, hostile, and fed up. She’s desperate. I know this pain and fear – do you?

And the judge? He’s even worse. He doesn’t care about God. He doesn’t care about people. He’s indifferent, detached, “unjust.” And yet—Jesus notes, due to her aggressiveness, even he gives in. And here’s the point Jesus seems to make:

You don’t need to be like the widow because God is not like judge. You don’t need to demand out of fear or frustration, to threaten God or beg God’s mercy. It’s okay. God is good. Imagine that you were over at someone’s house who had little kids. And their 6-year-old comes in from outside asking for something to eat and the parent says, “What do you say?” And the kid responds by falling on the floor, in utter desperation, groveling and begging for something to eat, which can feel either overly dramatic, for sure. But if the parent responds, “Now that’s better.”  You’d think that’s dysfunctional at best or actual child abuse at its worst. You’ll lose your heart with that God. Let that sink in. God is not like that. God is not indifferent. God is not reluctant. God is not someone you have to wear down, threaten, or manipulate. You don’t have to punch God in the eye to be heard or receive.

According to Jesus, as we’ve seen, God is more like:

• A Father who runs toward all his children
• A gentle seed sower and bird feeder who gives generously.
• A shepherd who goes after the lost

So what does this reveal? Theology matters. What you believe about God will shape how you pray.

If you believe God is distant—you’ll manipulate.
If you believe God is harsh—you’ll hide or fight.
If you believe God is unjust—you’ll despair.

And those beliefs are painful, abusive, hurtful. But don’t lose heart, Jesus says, for God is truly good. Prayer is not a battle to win. It’s a relationship to enter. Not a way to beg. But a relationship of trust with a God who is ever-loving.

But what if you are like the widow and offer a black-eye prayer?

Because if we’re honest, there are moments when we feel or act like the widow. Moments when we’re re angry, when we’re bruised, when we want revenge—and maybe blood. We want things made right and we also want our enemies hurt. We want wrongs repaid and someone else to pay for them. And we bring that anger to God. We’re messy people with mixed motives, twisted intentions, and sometimes problematic prayers. And Jesus encourages us – don’t lose heart, “Pray anyway.” Jesus wants us to know who God truly is but he also doesn’t make getting God right necessary to talk to God or receive God’s love. If you are bruised or bruising, God still doesn’t demand that you pray better.

Sometimes our prayers are not calm or polished. They’re raw. They’re sharp. They’re full of questions. And here’s the critical truth: God can handle our punches. God is not an unjust judge – and Jesus is clear on that. But notice that Jesus never says that the widow is wrong or wicked. He passes no moral judgment or psychological critique. In fact, in Jesus, God does something astonishing. God doesn’t strike back or threaten in return. God allows Himself to be struck by us. Not just threatened with a black eye— but beaten, mocked, crucified. God mercifully receives our pain. He does not pass it on but opens his arms wide.

Across the Gospels, we see this clearly: God absorbs our violence—and responds with mercy. So even when our prayers are mixed. Even when our motives are tangled. Even when our words are raw and our theology rough. God does not respond with rejection or retribution. God responds with overflowing grace. Not giving us what our anger might demand— but giving us what love desires for us. Because God is not unjust. And even when we breathe vindictiveness, don’t lose heart, God holds us in love.

Because what if you’re the adversary?

But this messy story gets even messier. Because there is another character in the story that’s easy to overlook: The adversary. The one the widow is crying out against. And this is where the parable becomes deeply uncomfortable. Because what if—at times— we are not the widow – but the problem she is praying against? What if we are the object of vengeful prayers and we even deserve it? What if the ones praying are Palestinian Christians in Gaza who cry out for vindication against genocide while we do nothing? What if the widows are Christians in Iran who long for freedom and pray against being bombed to hell? What if the widow is a brother or sister of color, frustrated by centuries of white-privilege and racial hostility, who achingly prays understandably threatening prayers? Now Jesus has already told us that God is good but what does he mean when he tells his audience, “Listen to what the unrighteous judge says! Won’t God give vindication to his chosen ones, who cry out to him and quickly? Is this a dangerous threat? What if, friends, we aren’t so much being threatened by God but being enlisted by this prayer – to cease what we’re doing, to join with God’s own Spirit, in order to become the swift justice of God. What if we are lovingly being warned so that we don’t experience the natural collateral and terrible consequences of our own adversarial injustice?

It’s striking that Jesus tells a parable about prayer, violence and revenge, and ends with a question about faith. “When the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on the earth?” Not just belief. Not just prayer. But faith lived out – now - in the real world.

Faith is prayerful trust in God and prayerful intention toward others to figure out “justice” “on the earth.” It’s arguing. It’s debating. It’s feeling unsure, or angry, maybe even violent.  It’s asking who is God? What is just – in this moment? How should I pray? Who am I? Where am I in this story – in my world – on this planet? What does “quickly” mean or look like? Faith takes responsibility. Faith listens when others cry out. Faith prayerfully seeks God. Faith is self-aware.  Faith refuses to lose heart. And this is where the parable stops being abstract. It becomes concrete. Present. Urgent. Because there are still voices crying with pain on the earth: “Grant us vindication. Grant us justice.” And the question is not only: Will God hear their pain quickly?  But also: Will we?

Because for Jesus, the two questions are inseparable. Praying to God isn’t some attempt at begging or bargaining with an unjust judge. Nor is prayer our escape from the world and its very real demands. Prayer is engagement with it. Faith is not just what we say in private. It is how we live in public with grief, or joy, in fear, through pain, in the face of injustice. And Jesus doesn’t so much judge you for the appropriateness of your prayers but he does demand an integrity to act in concert with your prayers.  

To pray for justice is to ask: “God, make me just.” To pray for justice is to ask God to act and also to ask: “Where are you calling me to act?” This is what Jesus means by “faith on the earth.” Not perfect faith. Not flawless faith. But lived faith now. Faith that wrestles. Faith that listens. Faith that moves. Faith that prays.

So, according to Jesus: God is not the unjust judge. God is good. Attentive. Compassionate. Faithful. And we? We are complicated.

Sometimes the widow—crying out for a kind of justice and often tinged with pain, with hurt, with anger, with vengeance against others and a God who must be begged, beaten, or bought.

Sometimes the adversary—failing to see others clearly, perhaps the subject of someone’s violent prayer, perhaps participating, willingly or not, in the harm of others.

And yet— God meets us in all of those places. Not with indifference. Not with avoidance. But with a love that is stronger than our confusion and deeper than our pain.

So here is the question Jesus leaves us with: “When I return, will I find faith on the earth?” Will He find:

• People who pray honestly?
• People who trust deeply?
• People who justly act out their prayers?

Will He find that in us? Not perfectly. But truly. Because this is the invitation:

To become people who pray honestly, who trust boldly, and who pray with integrity BECAUSE God is NOT unjust— so that when Christ returns, faith will not be missing from the earth. It will be visible in us because we know a God who is good and we have not lost our heart. Amen.

 

Be Who You Are: Children of the Father ~ Matthew 5:43-48

 

Recently, a friend of my wife’s was finishing a Master’s degree in counseling, preparing to become a therapist. As part of her program, she had to take a DNA test—an academic exercise to explore her own family history.

Then the results came back and everything she thought she knew about herself shattered. She had grown up an only child, raised by a single parent, believing a simple story about who her father was.

But it wasn’t true. The man she had always been told was her father - wasn’t. Her real father was someone else entirely—someone from a different country, a different ethnic background, a completely different story. And then came the second shock.

She had sisters. Just like that, her identity cracked open. The ground shifted beneath her. Her world didn’t just fall apart—it expanded. It became bigger, stranger, more beautiful, and far more unsettling than she ever imagined. And friends, in much the same way, Jesus steps up, calls us over—and hands us the results of our spiritual DNA test.

⁴³ “You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor’ and ‘hate your enemy.’ ⁴⁴ But I say to you, love your enemy and pray for those who persecute you, ⁴⁵ so that you may be like your Father in heaven, since he causes the sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.

Not just don’t retaliate. Not just avoid revenge. Love them. Pray for them. Because, [deep, scary breathing] “I’m your Father.” Jesus isn’t just giving moral advice here. He’s revealing something deeper—something about who God is, who God is not, and who God parents us to be.

He says: love your enemies “so that you may be children of your Father in heaven.” And then he tells us why: Because God “causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.”

In other words, Jesus begins with an introduction of who our Father truly is and what God is actually like. God is not tribal. God is not retaliatory. God is not stingy with grace nor violent with discipline. God is a Father whose love is indiscriminate, generous, and unceasing – whether you love God or not; whether you hate God or not. God’s Fatherhood is not conditional on our behavior.

This matters, because we often imagine God in our image. People assume God loves like we love—selectively. That God blesses like we bless—conditionally. That God draws lines where we draw lines.  Zorba the Greek said, “I think of God as being exactly like me . . . only bigger, stronger, crazier.” And Jesus says: No, that’s not your Father. Your Father loves enemies – actively, blessingly.

So Jesus challenges any vision of God where God uses violence or retribution to get what God wants. And we must likewise challenge any depiction of God needing to enact violence to save his reputation or save us from our sins. Meister Eckhart writing around the 14^th c., said: “How long will grown men and women in this world keep drawing in their coloring books an image of God that makes them sad?”

But Jesus’ words also lead us to another big question: Who are the children of this Father-God?

Scripture actually uses the parent/child metaphor in more than one way which can create some confusion. 

On the one hand, all people are God’s children.

·       In Luke 3, the genealogy of Jesus traces his ancestors all the way back to Adam, who is called “the son of God.” We are ALL God’s children by virtue of creation.

·       In Acts 17, Paul tells a pagan audience, “We are all God’s offspring.”

·       In Ephesians 3, he speaks of the Father “from whom every family in heaven and on earth is named.”

God is Creator. And as Creator, God is Father of us all. Jesus’ own parable of the prodigal son makes this beautifully clear: the younger son never stopped being a son, even when he ran away. The older son never stopped being a son, even while resenting the father. Both were always children—though neither was living like it nor receiving its benefits. So yes—all are God’s children – whether they listen or not.

But it’s equally true that not all live as God’s children.  

Jesus also speaks of “children of God” in a more specific way. “Love your enemies… so that you may be children of your Father.”

That sounds conditional. But it’s not about earning a status—it’s about revealing a likeness. In the ancient world, to be called someone’s “child” often meant you resembled them. You carried their character. You acted like them. We know this truth and have many ways to say it in English:

• “A chip off the old block”
• “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree”
• “Like father, like son” / “Like mother, like daughter”
• “Spitting image (of)”
• “His/Her father’s (or mother’s) child”
• “Cut from the same cloth“ / Cast in the same mold” / “Made of the same stuff”

• “Following in his/her father’s/mother’s footsteps”
• “Takes after his/her mother/father”
• “Runs in the family”
• “It’s in his/her blood”
• “S/he’s his mother/father all over again”

 

So when Jesus says, “so that you may be children of your Father,” he’s really saying: Demonstrate the family resemblance. Join the family business. It shows up all over the New Testament:

• “Blessed are the peacemakers, for [they’re a chip off the old block] they will be called children of God” (Matthew 5:9).
• “This is how we know [the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree] who the children of God are… anyone who does not love their brother and sister does not resemble God” (1 John 3:10).

This isn’t about exclusion. It’s about recognition. All belong to God. But not all look like God. In the same way, when Jesus rebukes the Pharisees in John 8 calling them “children of the devil,” he’s not literally saying they are the spawn of Satan. He is chastising them for imitating the enemy in their lies and in their plot to kill him. 

One time my son Jordan, when he was in First Grade, had a friend from Scotland and they joined together to do an act in the annual school talent show. My son was a bit a secretive about it but when the day came I showed up like a proud parent excited to see what the boys had come up with. I was less than thrilled, however, when they came on stage and proceeded to fake punch each other – dramatically falling down, insulting one another, while speaking English with a Scottish accent. I could feel the eyes of people roving around trying to figure out who their parents were and I remember looking around myself – hoping desperately that no one would know it was me. Make no mistake – I didn’t disown my child nor did he cease to be my child but he definitely wasn’t acting like me or how I taught him to behave.

And this is where Jesus’ teaching gets very concrete and challenging. Because likeness isn’t simply claimed—it’s also enacted. Being called a child of God doesn’t mean God favors some and not others. It means that some are actively participating and partnering in that love—experiencing it, embodying it, following Jesus. Being a “child of God” means living as if everyone is a sister or brother because God calls everyone daughter and son.

Earlier in the passage, Jesus gives three vivid, embodied examples:

• Turn the other cheek—not as passive submission, but as a courageous refusal to cower or be humiliated.
• Give your coat also—exposing injustice by prophetically revealing your nakedness.
• Go the second mile—transforming oppression into surprising freedom.

Being a child of God is not about doing nothing. It’s about resisting evil without becoming like it in order to look like the God who does just that – resists evil without becoming it.

As Martin Luther King Jr. said, “Love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into a friend.” This is what God does. And Jesus says: This is what God’s children do too. They join the family business of loving everyone.

So here’s the heart of it: According to Jesus, God is the loving Father of all. And you are already God’s child. That is the truth of your being.

Now—be who you are. In learning who your father truly is, let that truth shape your identity and your actions. Love like your Father loves. Give like your Father gives. Refuse retaliation. Seek justice without hatred. Pray for those who oppose you. Follow Jesus. Share in God’s likeness. Because when you do, you don’t become God’s child— you reveal that you are and receive the blessing of returning home, of being united with family.

This vision of the Father matters because our world is trapped in cycles of retaliation. Hurt people hurt. Violence leads to violence. Division deepens division. And into that cycle, Jesus speaks: You’re worshiping the wrong God. There is another way:

·       A way that reflects the God who is father of all.

·       A way that creates the possibility of reconciliation.

·       A way that restores dignity to every human being, regardless whether they’re good or not.

·       A way that shares the actively loving likeness of who God is, according to Jesus.

So hear Jesus’ words again: “Love your enemies… so that you may be children of your Father.” And ask yourself: Where is God calling me to be a chip off the old block? Because the world doesn’t need more religion. It needs people who look like God and who participate in a family reunion. And that leads me to return to the story of Marianne’s friend who discovered that her Dad was someone else. What I didn’t tell you – which feels holy in our current moment – is that her Dad and his family were from Iran. When she discovered who her Father truly was - the enemy was no longer the enemy – they were family. Amen.