Heap Burning Coals Without Losing Your Chill
Key Takeaways
(Short on time? Start here.)
➤ Kindness is not a weapon.
➤ Conviction isn’t your job.
➤ This obedience is shaping you, too.
There is a kind of obedience that feels noble. And then there is the kind that feels like dying. The first we volunteer for. The second God assigns. “Love your enemy” belongs to the second category. Perhaps that is why Proverbs 25:21–22 is so appealing. “Be nice to your enemy and I will make sure they endure pain by burning coals on their head!” Vindication!
Finally. A verse that sounds like it understands the part of us we try to baptize and call “discernment.” Because “burning coals” has a certain ring to it, doesn’t it? It sounds like God is giving us permission to stay polite while still getting our pound of flesh. Like we can feed our enemy with one hand and strike a match with the other, all while keeping our halo perfectly straight.
And if we’re honest, that’s appealing. Romans 12:20 repeats the same line from Proverbs, so we can’t pretend it isn’t there: “in doing this you will heap burning coals on his head.” But Scripture is not handing you a spiritual loophole for revenge. It’s handing you a test of love, and love is rarely as tame as we’d like it to be.
In God’s kingdom, mercy often arrives wearing the clothes of suffering. And kindness, when it is real, is not weak. It is a fire that does not destroy, but purifies. It burns away excuses. It exposes the ugliness of hatred by refusing to participate in it. It’s the kind of goodness that makes a person feel the weight of their own sin, not because you attacked them, but because you didn’t.
This isn’t about humiliating someone. It’s about refusing to become them. It’s about presence, not payback, and obedience that costs you something. So what does “burning coals” actually mean, and why would God attach reward to something so painfully counterintuitive? Let’s unpack it, the way Scripture deserves: gently, boldly, and with enough honesty to let it sting.
Eat, Drink, and Heap Burning Coals
Have you ever been humbled by someone half your age? Not corrected. Not out-argued. Humbled. I have. And it came, of all places, from a high school girl with her Bible open on a quiet afternoon. Her name is Hannah Jit. She comes from one of those families that simply steadies a room when they walk into it. Salt-of-the-earth people. The kind you thank God for when you remember the Church is still alive and well. But Hannah herself is something rarer. There is a thoughtfulness about her that doesn’t match her age. A steadiness. The sort of quiet wisdom that makes you stop mid-sentence and think, Lord, make me more like that. One afternoon she texted me something she had noticed during her time with God.
Nothing dramatic. No sermon. Just an observation from Proverbs 25. And it stopped me cold. She texted me: “‘Burning coals on his head’ comes from an Egyptian ritual where someone carried a pan of hot coals on their head as a sign of repentance. So it’s not punishment. It’s humility. Kindness isn’t about hurting your enemy. It’s about leading them to repent before God.”
I just stared at my phone for a minute. Because sometimes the Spirit doesn’t shout. Sometimes He lets a teenager gently dismantle your assumptions. So I went digging. And sure enough, she was right. In the ancient world, carrying burning coals on your head wasn’t an act of torture. It was an act of remorse. A public confession. A visible way of saying, I was wrong. I want to turn around.
The coals were not meant to destroy. They were meant to humble. And suddenly the verse changed shape in my hands. When Proverbs 25:21–22, later echoed by Paul in Romans 12:20, tells us to feed our enemy and give them drink and “heap burning coals on his head,” it isn’t describing revenge dressed up as righteousness. It’s describing repentance. Your kindness is not meant to scorch them. It is meant to soften them.
Mercy, Not Revenge
This isn’t about torching your enemies with your virtue. It’s about warming them toward repentance. Kindness here is not a weapon. It’s a mirror. It is love so undeserved, so disarming, that it unsettles the conscience. Not to punish, but to pierce. Not to shame, but to awaken. To draw a wandering heart, slowly and tenderly, back toward God. So the next time you feel the urge to defend yourself, to return sharpness for sharpness, to deliver the perfectly timed rebuttal, may I gently suggest something harder? Don’t.
Step back. Let God handle what only God can handle.
Now, we need to talk about what this does not mean. This is not divine permission for spiritualized revenge. “I’ll be kind so they feel bad” is not holiness. It’s manipulation dressed up in church clothes. And it has nothing to do with the heart of Christ. Repentance in them does not begin with your strategy.
It begins with a transformation in you. Something changes when you serve someone not out of smug righteousness, but out of sincere love. You stop seeing them as the villain in your story and start seeing them as what they actually are: a soul made in the image of God. And once you see that, contempt feels different. To despise them would be to despise something sacred. Something He made.
We are called peacemakers, not subtle saboteurs. Jesus never loved people with crossed arms and a clenched jaw. Neither should we. And finally, let’s say this plainly: Kindness with a hidden agenda is not kindness. If you are smiling sweetly while secretly hoping your goodness wrecks them inside, that isn’t sanctification. That’s strategy.
And God is not fooled by strategy. Conviction has never been your job. It belongs to the Holy Spirit. And He is far better at it than you. God sees motives, not just manners. He isn’t grading your behavior like a checklist. He is reading your heart. You can have perfect words and polished composure, but if the engine underneath is bitterness or quiet revenge, it isn’t love. It’s control wearing a Sunday dress.
And here’s the part we don’t like to admit: God is sanctifying you in this, too. Yes, even here. Even in the hurt. Even in the offense. Even in the betrayal. Because this isn’t only about their repentance. It’s about your freedom. So don’t weaponize your goodness. Let it be worship.
How Do I Actually Apply This
Don’t worry. I’m not going to hand you a hard truth and then leave you standing alone with it. We’re going to walk this out together. Because theology that lives only on the page is fragile. Theology that is lived is where the Spirit breathes. So let’s begin where obedience is usually hardest. At home.
I’m Appalachian born and raised. Where I come from, blood is thicker than water, and family isn’t something you escape. You show up. You cook. You host. You stay. You love people through clenched teeth and whispered prayers. But what happens when the person wounding you shares your last name? When the one chipping away at your peace is sitting across from you at Thanksgiving dinner? Here is the quiet, costly answer.
You forgive them. If you aren’t sure how to do this, check out “How To Forgive. ” You serve them. Not because they’ve earned it. Because Christ forgave you first. You stop waiting for the apology that may never come, and you begin loving as an act of defiance against bitterness. And no, this is not permission to become a doormat. Boundaries are not a lack of love. They are wisdom. Sometimes holiness looks like distance.
But kindness? Kindness is never optional.
Then there’s friendship. The kind of betrayal that leaves you crying in your car, rehearsing conversations that never happened, replaying every moment trying to figure out where it fractured. I’ve been there. And what healed me wasn’t their explanation. It wasn’t closure. It wasn’t even reconciliation. It was prayer. Blessing her when I didn’t feel like it. Wishing her well and meaning it. Refusing to let that wound decide my worth. Because bitterness always promises justice and delivers chains. And slowly, God pried my fingers open. “I am not too much,” I learned to say. “I am simply loved by a God who is not intimidated by my heart.” He made oceans and galaxies and still notices sparrows. He is not overwhelmed by you.
And then there’s the workplace. The quiet battleground most of us clock into every morning. This is where sanctification gets practical. Not dramatic. Not glamorous. Just daily. You are called to be light there. Not a spotlight. Not a neon warning sign. A steady candle that refuses to go out when the air gets tense. You’re not just collecting a paycheck. You’re representing a King.
So what does that look like? It looks like speaking with grace when sarcasm would feel better. It looks like refusing gossip when everyone else leans in. It looks like owning your mistakes without shifting blame. It looks like small, ordinary acts of undeserved kindness. A cup of coffee. A patient word. A quiet apology.
As Lewis wrote in Mere Christianity, “Do not waste time bothering whether you ‘love’ your neighbor; act as if you did.” Because sometimes obedience is painfully unromantic. Sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is bring your enemy a cup of coffee and mean it. Not to manipulate. Not to prove a point. Simply because Christ has been that kind to you.
No, this isn’t easy. Obedience rarely is. Often it feels less like comfort and more like crucifixion, because it means laying down your right to retaliate, to be right, to nurse your hurt like a treasured possession. Jesus did not overcome evil by out-arguing it. He overcame it by absorbing it. By hanging on a cross and praying, “Father, forgive them.” And if we belong to Him, then we follow Him there too. Especially when it costs us. So no, heaping burning coals is not about torching your enemies with your virtue. It’s about offering grace that singes pride and invites repentance. It’s love that hurts a little for their healing, not their humiliation. So the next time you’re tempted to sharpen your words or weaponize your silence, remember: The greatest act of strength is choosing love when hate would feel easier.
Not because they deserve it. Because Jesus loved you when you didn’t. Trust that God is working beneath the surface. You don’t have to burn them with justice. Just warm them with grace.
Next Steps
● Circle: Low bandwidth, high desire
If you’re tired and stretched thin but still want to follow Jesus faithfully, start small. Smaller than you think counts. Don’t overhaul your life. Just soften your posture. Next step: Pray one sincere blessing over one difficult person today. That’s it. No speech. No confrontation. No fixing. Just: “Lord, be kind to them.” Sometimes obedience begins in a whisper.
☐ Square: High hunger, ready for depth
If you’re ready to go deeper, this is heart work. Not behavior management. Motives. Next step: Journal through this question slowly: “Where have I been secretly hoping my goodness would make someone feel bad?” Let God expose it gently. Confess it. Then ask Him to replace strategy with sincerity. Depth starts with honesty.
▲ Triangle: New or rebuilding confidence
If you’re newer to this or still learning what following Jesus even looks like, keep it concrete. You don’t need to feel loving. You practice loving. Next step: Do one quiet act of kindness for someone who irritates you this week. Bring the coffee. Send the encouragement. Open the door. Don’t announce it. Don’t explain it. Just do it. Love often grows after obedience, not before.
❥ Heart: Studying or walking with someone else
If you process best with others, don’t carry hard relationships alone. Sanctification deepens in community. Next step: Talk with a trusted friend or spouse about one relationship that feels heavy right now. Pray for that person together. Not about them. For them. There’s something holy about two people choosing mercy out loud.
TL;DR
Loving your enemy isn’t God’s clever way of getting revenge for you. It’s His way of making you more like Christ. “Burning coals” aren’t punishment. They’re repentance. Your kindness isn’t meant to scorch someone. It’s meant to soften them. So stop trying to win. Start trying to love. Let God handle the conviction.
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