Third Sunday of Lent

Psalm 63:1-8.
The Psalms have often been called the great prayer book of both Jews and Christians. Within their pages run the gamut of human emotion—from exultant joy to utter despair. Their words give us a guide to conversation with God. Nothing is off the table. Everything, truly every thought, emotion, complaint, and pleasure is permissible in our prayers to the One who loves us.
Isn't it interesting, then, how often churches (and lectionaries) seem to think the not-so-pretty parts of the Psalter are not ready for Sunday morning. This week's Psalm (Psalm 63) is called a Psalm of Comfort in God's Presence. Indeed, there are wonderful, comforting images here. The sense given in the "thirsting" of the first verse and the "clinging" of the eighth is not just a sense of being glad Christ is around, but that we cannot live without that relationship. However, just beyond the borders of the proscribed reading for today lies another side of the emotional coin.
"And they for ruin will seek my very being, they will go in lowest earth." To put it in our words: "Let those who are out to get me go to hell." Yikes.
But it gets better. Verse ten wants them to be bled out upon a sword and part of them given to feed the foxes. Think of singing something like this next Sunday.
The problem is not, for me, in what is said, but that I'm often afraid to say these things in prayer. Even though I've been told time and time again that God desires all of us, as a lover desires all of their beloved, I still hold back. Sure, I want that person who took credit for the hard work I did to get what's coming to them, but I can't say that, especially not to GOD. Thoughts like that aren't Christian. We're supposed to love our neighbor. And, thoughts like that aren't very loving, are they?
What I've come to realize is that sometimes, actually a lot of the time, it's really hard to love others. It's almost as hard as loving myself. And sometimes the only thing I can think of is how much I don't love someone. Sometimes the only thing that I can think about is how much I'd like someone to get what's coming to them. I want to cry out just like the psalmist did and say, "Oh God, just let them go to hell!"
The funny thing is, when I allow myself to pray those thoughts the strangest thing happens. Rather than my enemy finding themselves hellbound or on the edge of the sword, I find that I have found a way to love them again.
And I find that Christ does not love me any less for having prayed what I did.
God of infinite mercy, give me courage to pray anger as well as joy. Help me to hold nothing back in my talks with you so that I can become like the One with whom I'm speaking.