Proverbs 25:18-22

The tongue, meant to be a tree of life, becomes here a stockpile of murder weapons — a war-hammer to bludgeon, a sword to run through, an arrow to strike from a distance. The false witness does to a man's name what those weapons do to his body. Would you recoil in horror at the thought of caving in your neighbor's skull with a hammer? Then why indulge the same barbarity against his reputation, which is as dear to a man as his life? And the tragedy is how many of these mauls and swords and arrows are wielded inside the church, brother against brother. Commit your own good name to the Lord, and refuse to be such a weapon against anyone else's.

Leaning on an unreliable man when you really need him is not just useless — it is painful, the way a broken tooth fails you exactly when you bite down and a dislocated foot collapses exactly when you put your weight on it. The unfaithful are wonderfully friendly when nothing is required; it is "in the time of trouble" that you discover "a faithful man who can find?" Job, David, Paul all felt the sting of being deserted at the bottom. So do not pin too much hope on the arm of flesh. But here is the anchor under it: whoever proves unfaithful, "God is faithful" (1 Corinthians 1:9); He has promised, "I will be with him in trouble" — a very present help that never breaks under your weight.

Forcing cheerfulness on a grieving person is as cruel and useless as stripping a man's coat off in freezing weather, or pouring vinegar on soda so it fizzes away to nothing — the merry song only deepens the heavy heart's pain. Real comfort does not breeze in singing; it sits down by the mourner's side and "weeps with them that weep" (Romans 12:15). This is the gospel's own bedside manner: our Saviour did not sing over our sorrows, He "took our infirmities," and like the good Samaritan He pours in the oil and the wine. When you go to a grieving friend, leave the cheerful songs at the door and bring your presence, your tears, and your prayers.

Here is the peak of the chapter, and one of the most misunderstood images in the Bible. Feed your hungry enemy; give your thirsty enemy a drink. And do not read "coals of fire upon his head" as a sly form of revenge — as if kindness were just a clever way to torture him with shame. It is the opposite. The coals are the picture of melting, not burning: just as a metalworker heaps glowing coals over hard ore in the furnace until the iron softens and the dross runs off, so heaped-up kindness, layer after patient layer, melts a hard heart until the enmity gives way. "Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good" (Romans 12:21). No man ever conquered his enemy's heart by revenge; many have conquered it by love — and was it not exactly this way that the Almighty Saviour dissolved the hardness of our unyielding hearts, loving us while we were yet His enemies? Few hearts are so hard that they will not finally melt under the steady fire of patient, self-denying, burning love. The miner does not think his coals are wasted while the ore still looks cold; he keeps heaping, and the flow comes "sudden and complete at last." To love an enemy is not native to this earth; it is a tender plant brought down from heaven. Give him the table, not the grave — "and the LORD shall reward thee."