The other day, Phil posted about his belief (with which I highly concur) that witches and occultists and various kind of spiritual practitioners have no actual power to curse a Christian (or, probably, anybody else). This is the view I’ve taken (I think pretty consistently) in my fantasy novels—that magic is illusion, and all that is necessary to counter it is a cold bucketful of reality.

In the comments, Greybeard brought up “a very popular little book about an obscure Old Testament character who was noted for the prayer he prayed.” He was referring, of course, to The Prayer of Jabez, by Bruce Wilkinson. I’ve never read that book myself (for reasons I’ll explain), but I have a more positive view of it than some, because the people I knew who did try to put its principles into practice did so with view to submitting to God and seeking to expand their fields of service, not their personal prosperity.

Still, I had a grudge against that book, and still do. Because, from all I’ve heard of it, it fails to address the central, primary meaning of the Jabez story. It’s a story that applies to me in a way it probably doesn’t apply to most people, and it irked me that all these people were co-opting my story for their own purposes. It seemed to me a Nathan’s parable (2 Samuel 12) sort of thing—“You people have lots of Bible stories you can use for your inspiration. There’s only one that applies to my situation. Why can’t you just leave it to me?”

The story of Jabez (1 Chronicles 4:9-10) is not a story about how to procure God’s blessing. It’s a story about an abused child who overcame his trauma by appealing to God.

Jabez was more honorable than his brothers. His mother had named him Jabez, saying, “I gave birth to him in pain.” Jabez cried out to the God of Israel, “Oh, that you would bless me and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me, and keep me from harm so that I will be free from pain.” And God granted his request.

The central point of this story is that Jabez is a pun on the Hebrew word for “pain.” Apparently Jabez’ mother, when she first held her baby in her arms, was not filled with love but with anger, on account of the pain she’d endured in delivering him. So she named him the equivalent of “Payne,” just so that every time she spoke his name she’d be reminded of her labor, and remember to hold a grudge against the kid. This was an abusive mother (what used to be called an “unnatural mother”), at least in the emotional sense. She was, in effect, cursing her son.

Remember all the Bible stories you’ve heard about blessings? Remember how Jacob and Esau fought over Isaac’s blessing? Remember the story of Ephraim and Manasseh, how which of Jacob’s hands went on which boy’s head determined how richly he’d be blessed? A blessing was not seen as just a nice sentiment from a parent or grandparent. A blessing was a tangible asset, part of your wealth.

They took a parent’s curse just as seriously. Going out into the world carrying his mother’s curse, Jabez had nothing to look forward to (according to the thinking of the time) but failure and unhappiness.

But Jabez, we are told, “cried out to God.” Denied his mother’s natural love, he called on God to make up the deficit. And God must have been pleased, because He “granted his request.” “Jabez was more honorable than his brothers.” If his brothers suffered under similar curses, Jabez was the only one to overcome the handicap. If his brothers received their mother’s love and blessing, Jabez’ story demonstrated how much more effective God’s blessing is than a parent’s.

I, as I have mentioned before (I won’t go into details here), was cursed by my own mother. That’s why the story of Jabez means so much to me.

The jury’s still out, though, as to whether I’m more honorable than my brothers, who are pretty good guys.