Sunday Read: The Lust for Revenge

David's nephew Abishai was ready to solve the king's Shimei problem permanently. As the Benjamite cursed David and threw stones at the retreating king during Absalom's rebellion, Abishai asked, "Why should this dead dog curse my lord the king? Let me go over and take off his head" (2 Samuel 16:9). It was the logical response—protect the king, silence the opposition, demonstrate strength. But David refused: "Leave him alone, and let him curse, for the Lord has told him to" (2 Samuel 16:11). The king who could have justly executed his tormentor chose instead to absorb the abuse and trust God's justice.

Revenge feels righteous because it restores balance. When someone wrongs us, retaliation seems like justice, payback appears to be fairness. Social media has weaponized this instinct, giving us platforms to destroy reputations, expose failures, and mobilize virtual mobs against those who offend us. We call it "accountability" or "speaking truth," but often it's just ancient revenge dressed in modern clothes.

The human heart craves the satisfaction of making others pay for their sins against us. But God reserves vengeance for himself: "Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord" (Romans 12:19). This isn't because God is petty or controlling—it's because human revenge is always imperfect, often excessive, and invariably corrupting to those who pursue it. We don't have the wisdom to know what justice truly requires, the power to execute it perfectly, or the purity to administer it without sin.

Jesus demonstrated this principle perfectly. Betrayed by Judas, denied by Peter, abandoned by his disciples, and executed by corrupt authorities, he had infinite cause for revenge and infinite power to pursue it. Instead, he prayed, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do" (Luke 23:34). The Son of God chose to absorb injustice rather than return it, to suffer evil rather than multiply it.

Stephen followed this pattern when he was stoned to death, crying out with his dying breath, "Lord, do not hold this sin against them" (Acts 7:60). Paul, who was present at Stephen's execution, later wrote that love "does not keep a record of wrongs" (1 Corinthians 13:5). The early Christians transformed the Roman Empire not by fighting back but by absorbing persecution with grace, demonstrating a supernatural love that their enemies couldn't explain or resist.

What wrongs are you keeping score of? Who have you written off as beyond forgiveness? When someone hurts you, is your first instinct retaliation or intercession? The mark of spiritual maturity isn't the ability to fight back—it's the willingness to trust God's justice enough to lay down your right to revenge.