Oops!
“Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.”
When we hear these words from Christ, our minds naturally go outward. We think of political opponents, difficult neighbors, people who’ve wronged us. And loving those people is hard—no question about it.
But, brothers and sisters, I want to suggest something this morning that might be even harder: What if the enemy we most need to learn to love is ourselves?
I don’t mean this in some sentimental, self-help way. I mean something much deeper and more painful. How many of us carry on a running commentary in our heads that sounds nothing like the voice of Christ?
“You’re not good enough.” “You’ll never change.” “Look at you—still struggling with the same sins after all these years.” “You’re a fraud.” “Everyone else has it together, but you’re broken.” “God must be so disappointed in you.”
We would never speak to another person the way we speak to ourselves. We are often our own cruelest enemy. And Christ’s command to love our enemies includes learning to extend mercy to ourselves—to that part of us we despise, resent, or wish we could cut off and throw away.
Ugh!
And this inner enemy is relentless. It doesn’t just attack us occasionally—it’s a constant stream of thoughts telling us we’re inadequate, unworthy, not spiritual enough, not holy enough, not enough, period.
The Desert Fathers called these thoughts logismoi—afflictive thoughts that steal our peace and separate us from God. They recognized what modern psychology is only now catching up to: that we spend much of our lives trapped in obsessive mental commentary about ourselves.
We rehearse our failures. We replay our embarrassments. We compare ourselves to others and always come up short. We judge ourselves more harshly than we would judge anyone else. And then—here’s the twist—we judge ourselves for judging ourselves. “I’m such a terrible Christian for having these thoughts about myself.”
It becomes a vicious cycle. The more we try to push these thoughts away, the more power they seem to have. The more we fight against what we resent in ourselves, the more trapped we become.
And without mercy—without learning to meet our own brokenness with the same compassion God shows us—we cannot heal. We cannot grow. We cannot truly love our neighbors, because we’re too busy at war with ourselves.
Martin Laird puts it beautifully: “God meets the human condition where it stands most in need, in its poverty and brokenness.” But we recoil from our own brokenness. We judge it. We loathe it. And in doing this, we avoid what God in Christ draws close to and embraces.
Aha!
So what’s the answer? How do we break free from this cycle of self-condemnation?
This is where our prayer life becomes not just devotional, but deeply therapeutic. This is where the ancient practice of the Jesus Prayer meets us in our struggle.
“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me.”
The Jesus Prayer isn’t magic. It’s not a technique for getting what we want from God. It’s a way of learning to be still in the presence of God—and in that stillness, to see ourselves clearly.
Here’s what happens when we pray the Jesus Prayer faithfully: We begin to notice our thoughts. Not to fight them, not to judge them, but simply to notice them. A thought of inadequacy arises. A feeling of shame surfaces. A memory of failure plays like a video in our minds.
And instead of getting caught up in the commentary—instead of spinning out into “I’m terrible for having this thought” or “I need to fix this about myself”—we simply return to the prayer. “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.”
The Desert Fathers understood something profound: We are not our thoughts and feelings. Our thoughts and feelings appear in something deeper—in a vast awareness that is held by God. Like weather passing over a mountain, our thoughts come and go. But the mountain—our true self, held in God—remains.
When we practice the Jesus Prayer, we move from being a victim of our thoughts to being a witness of our thoughts. We learn to meet our inner turmoil not with more commentary, but with stillness. With mercy.
And in that stillness, something extraordinary happens. We discover that the part of us that observes our self-condemnation is not condemned. The awareness that witnesses our shame is not ashamed. The ground of our being—what the Fathers call the heart—is pure, vast, and held in God’s love.
Thomas Merton said it this way:
“The Christ we find in ourselves is not identified with what we vainly seek to admire in ourselves. On the contrary, he has identified himself with what we resent in ourselves, for he has taken upon himself our wretchedness and our misery.”
Christ meets us in the very place we’re trying to avoid. And the Jesus Prayer teaches us to stay there, to be still there, to let God’s mercy wash over the parts of ourselves we’ve been at war with.
Whee!
Now imagine what happens when we learn to extend mercy to ourselves.
St. Seraphim of Sarov said, “Acquire the Holy Spirit, and thousands around you will be saved.” What does this mean? It means that the peace we find within ourselves—the mercy we learn to show our own brokenness—naturally overflows into how we treat others.
When we’re no longer exhausted by the battle against ourselves, we have energy to love our neighbors. When we’ve learned to meet our own failures with mercy instead of condemnation, we can meet others’ failures the same way. When we’ve stopped rehearsing the litany of our inadequacies, we can actually see the people in front of us.
Imagine a parish where people have learned this kind of radical self-mercy. Where we’re not performing holiness or hiding our struggles, but actually doing the deep inner work of contemplative prayer. Where the Jesus Prayer isn’t just words we recite, but a practice that’s transforming how we relate to ourselves and each other.
What would that look like? It would look like a community where you can bring your whole self—including the parts you’re ashamed of. Where confession isn’t just ritual, but liberation. Where we’re known not for having it all together, but for knowing how to fall and get back up with grace.
That’s the parish we’re called to be. That’s what it means to offer “healing in Christ, together as one body.” We can’t bring healing to the Northland if we haven’t learned to receive healing ourselves. We can’t love our neighbors radically if we haven’t learned to love ourselves mercifully.
Yeah!
So here’s the invitation this week: Begin a simple practice with the Jesus Prayer.
Set aside ten minutes. Sit quietly. Take a few deep breaths. Then begin to pray: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me.”
Let the prayer sync with your breathing. Half on the inhale, half on the exhale. And when thoughts arise—and they will—simply notice them. Don’t fight them. Don’t judge yourself for having them. Just gently return to the prayer.
“Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.”
The thoughts of inadequacy will come. Let them. “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy.”
The feelings of shame will surface. Let them. “Son of God, have mercy on me.”
You’re not trying to push anything away. You’re learning to be still in the presence of God while everything that needs healing comes into the light.
And over time—not immediately, but gradually—you’ll discover something astonishing. You’ll realize that the part of you that observes all this inner chaos is utterly at peace, held in God’s love. You are not your anxious thoughts. You are not your self-condemnation. You are, as St. Paul says, “in Christ”—and that’s where your true identity lives.
When we learn to meet ourselves with this kind of mercy, then we can truly love our enemies. We can extend to others what we’ve received ourselves. We can become a parish known not for having all the answers, but for knowing how to love radically—starting with the person we see in the mirror.
Brothers and sisters, the Gospel doesn’t just call us to love our external enemies. It calls us to love the enemy within—that voice of condemnation that keeps us separated from God’s mercy. And the way we do that is through prayer. Through stillness. Through learning to be held by God in the midst of our brokenness.
This is the path to healing. This is how we become the Body of Christ. This is how thousands around us will encounter God’s love—when they see a people who have learned to receive mercy and extend it freely.
Amen.