From the Love of Jesus - A Christmas Story

It’s amazing the amount of hope that a couple of Christmas gifts can bring.

~~~~~~~

He had only been 9 for a few weeks when he heard the news that they were moving again. It didn’t faze him much. They moved quite a bit after his dad had left them on their own. His mom had little resources and no safety net. Practically everyone they knew was just as poor as them, since GM had nearly crippled the entire city by closing most of the plants. The boy’s mom, a mother of six, had been a housewife all her life. She dropped out of high school to get married, and now that she was over fifty without even a standard diploma to put on a resume, getting a job to support her family would be a tricky feat. Returning to the city was the only way they could hope to afford to survive as they figured out what to do next.

There was one major problem: they didn’t have a place to stay. A family member owned a small, run-down office building in the city, and they were told they could stay in the moldy basement that housed their inventory and broken equipment. It wasn’t exactly livable, but it would cost next to nothing. And the boy’s mom assured him that it was only going to be for a few weeks.

They put up plywood for walls and sectioned off three “rooms” to live in, partitioned away from the scrap metal and mice that filled the musty cellar. Six people crammed into that minute jerry-built living space.

The boy and his mom shared a tiny, windowless room with a concrete floor covered in spare bits of carpet. The ironing board doubled as a dinner table. He didn’t have a bed, so they taped together some cardboard boxes leftover from inventory shipments and place a feather blanket from Goodwill inside as a makeshift mattress. He painted the outside of it with off-brand watercolor paint in attempts to make it look like the race car bed he saw in the Sunday paper advertisements. His mom slept on a cot in the corner of the room, while his sister and her husband and two kids lived in the other two rooms that doubled as storage and a living room.

Few people knew they lived there. To avoid detection and the dreaded CPS, they had to sneak out early in the morning before the office staff arrived, and sneak back in after school. They had to stay silent during the day, and weren’t allowed to go upstairs during work hours. Unfortunately for the children, that’s where the bathroom was. Let’s just say it’s a good thing their pants were washable, because they didn’t always make it in time. And they were probably the only kids on the planet who hated snow days.

The office was in the city school district. But to his mom, that wasn’t really an option. Some cousins lived in the suburbs and offered to let them share their mailing address so the kids would be able to go to the suburb schools instead.

School officials were quick to be suspicious about the boy’s home life, and he was often brought into the office for interrogation. His evasive answers were practiced ahead of time, and never gave them anything substantial, so he was always let go.

He didn’t like lying, but he heard of the terrors that his siblings had faced in the city schools, so he just pretended that he was a spy. Besides, it was only going to be for a few weeks.

But a few weeks turned into a month. Which turned into a few months. Before he knew it, a whole semester had gone by and Christmas was approaching. The day before break, he realized that for the first time in his life, he wasn’t excited about it. If his family couldn’t even afford to live in a real place, how could they have Christmas?

Only one gift topped his list that year: a Real Power Tool Shop. His dad loved woodworking when he was alive, and the boy just knew that if he ever had his own tool shop, he’d probably learn to be just as good. He asked for it half-heartedly, knowing that there was no way it’d happen. He almost didn’t even write it down. $50 was a lot of money, and he didn’t want his mom feeling bad that she couldn’t get it, so he quickly added a couple of toys that he knew were at the dollar store, because at least she could afford those.

Unlike the rest of the world, his family opened presents on Christmas Eve. With the office closed, they could roam around freely upstairs, escaping the mold and dust that made them all cough and sneeze so much. When his mom called everyone into the conference room for gifts, he dragged his feet every step of the way. Slowly rounding the corner into the room, he noticed the usual rows of chairs had been shoved aside, and what he saw in their place made his heart stop and his jaw get rug burns as it crashed to the floor.

The room was completely full of presents. Wall to wall. Big ones, small ones. Presents for all six of them. And there were giant boxes and bags that held even more presents. He tried to count his own gifts, but kept losing track. And the more he looked, the more he found. It was as if picking up one gift made another appear. He couldn’t believe his eyes nor his fingers. And he couldn’t stop shaking, shouting, and hopping. Neither could anyone else. He had so many questions! Who bought them? How did they get there? Where were they from? He searched the labels of his own gifts for clues, but each of his gift tags simply stated,

“To Michael. From the Love of Jesus.”

~~~~~~~

I can’t tell you how many tears I’ve shed while writing this. The people at Panera must think me a basketcase.

There are many seasons and events in my life that I’ve never shared publicly. This is one of them. Until today, only a handful of people know this happened. It will come as a surprise to most of you.

My old friends at Flushing have no idea that I wasn’t even supposed to be there for part of the time we were classmates. We did move to Flushing eventually, but it took us awhile to get there.

That dark time spent living in the basement of an office building in Flint, hiding from CPS, giving false whereabouts to the schools... it’s not really a shining moment for us. Not something we’re proud of. If we only knew then what we know now. But we didn’t. And for all we did know, we were stuck.

So why share it? Because I want you to know just how much of an impact a few Christmas gifts can make on a kid.

If you ask any of us to name an event that spurred the biggest positive change in the trajectory of our family story, all six of us that were crammed into that basement will probably tell you that it was that Christmas.

To this day, I still could tell you nearly every gift I received. I could tell you the order I unwrapped them in. I might even be able to tell you what color the wrapping paper was. But I could never put into words everything that those gifts brought us. I still don’t know where all those gifts came from. Or who gave them all.

They were just simple gifts. Toys, games, books, clothes, candy. But they were so much more than that. Because that night, I went to bed with something that I hadn’t had in a long time.

Hope.

Hope that the way things were, wasn't how it was always going to be. Hope that we weren’t going to be stuck in that dingy basement forever. Hope that good could still come even when life was so off course from where we wanted it to be.
My mom labeled those gifts oh so brilliantly, because even though they were just gifts, each one played a part that night in pointing us back to the kind of hope that comes from only one place:

From the Love of Jesus (Which she STILL writes on all our Christmas gifts)

~~~~~~~

A few nights ago, my niece and her five-year-old son joined me in delivering hundreds of gifts to families in my park. In all, eighteen families received gifts or assistance from people they have never even met. Over the hours it took us to deliver, Tammie and I were met with dozens of hugs, a couple of tears, and even a batch of fresh, authentic tamales still hot from the oven.

In the middle of our stint being Santa’s helpers, we talked about that Christmas in the office, and how much of a highlight it still remains for us. We remarked that in some way, we were joining a crew of other people (some of you who are reading this, even) who just did the same thing for the families in my park that someone did for us so very long ago.

So in a way, this story is a very long thank you letter.

A thank you to the people who helped our family that year in the basement of the office.

And a thank you to those of you who helped by giving your time and your resources to provide gifts, money, coats, food, and car seats to a slew of people you’ve never even met. I’m in awe of you and of God at work in you. THANK YOU. 

Over fifty kids in my neighborhood went to bed this Christmas Eve with empty trees. Each with a different story. Each facing different circumstances. And each still unsure of what they'd find in the morning. And they woke up to find presents filling their living rooms wall-to-wall. All because of you, my friends.

I’m sure that many of them asked the same questions we asked. Who did this? Where did these come from? And even if they might not know the answer now, they will one day. And their parents sure do:

From the Love of Jesus

Merry Christmas, friends.

(By the way…I got my Real Power Tool Set that year. It was wrapped in plain red wrapping paper. And it was the very last gift I opened. I'm pretty sure I cried. I know Mom did.)

Think Inside the Box

Harry Lenardson was well into his 80’s when I first met him and his wife, Louise. The two of them lived in a tiny house on Stone St., just a few blocks away from the parsonage that housed my dad, mom, and I in downtown Flint.

The Lenardsons attended the church my dad pastored, and since my folks believed in the power of modeling servanthood to their kids, I usually tagged along or was dragged along whenever we visited them.

Harry was tall and thin, had a quiet demeanor, and a kind smile. Louise was his compliment in every way with her infectious laugh, her boisterous personality that could overfill a large room, and her mission to make sure every man, woman, and child that entered her home always had a full glass of iced tea within their reach. Which was unfortunate for me because I hated tea as a child. But my mom made me drink it anyway ("Mind your manners, Michael!").

I loved visiting the Lenardsons because their house was full of the most interesting items. Colorful afghans, antiquated toys, potted cacti, giant photography books of historical events and exotic countries, and (my favorite) hand-carved wooden trinkets.

By the time I arrived on the scene, Harry had developed quite an issue with “shaky hands,” as he called it. He experienced constant tremors that skyrocketed the most mundane of tasks into near impossibility. As a four-year-old, I was completely fascinated with watching him eat, and one time I even imitated his unique style, to my mother’s horror, spilling my food all over my plate just like he did. Mom was mortified. But Harry just laughed and said, “boys will be boys.”

The only time Harry’s hands didn’t shake was when he carved wood. Harry was an artist to the core, and quite an experienced wood carver, hence the dozens of artifacts around his house. My favorite one was a cube that contained a ball inside that was much too big to have been shoved into the box it rested in (pictured below). It had no seams because Harry had carved the sphere out from within the block of wood, but I hadn’t quite figured that part out yet. I thought that maybe Harry was a magician, having found a way to shrink the wooden box around the ball. Harry knew I enjoyed his carvings, and he made sure that my favorites were left to me when he died. But before he passed, I worked up the courage one night to ask him the about the box's secret. He told me in a Michelangelo-esque manner that “The ball was inside the box the whole time. Someone just needed to let it know.”

~~~

When I first moved into this trailer park almost two years ago, I really had no clue what I was doing. I still don’t, actually. There aren’t many books about trailer park ministry (yet). Thankfully, God isn't clueless. I spent my prayer times asking God for wisdom. “How do I bring your Kingdom to the park?” is a question I asked him over and over. He must have got tired of listening to me on repeat, because in one of my few silent moments, He fired something back at me.

My mind raced with two images. The first was Harry Lenardson’s wooden box from my childhood. Then that image switched to faces of people on my street; people whom I had seen but not yet met. As their faces panned through my mind’s eye, a quiet voice which sounded suspiciously like old Harry’s spoke over the scene, “My kingdom is already in there. Someone just needs to let them know.”

He was right. Of course. 

Because that’s the message, isn’t it? That’s the good news.

God is on the move, and there's a place for us on the journey.

He hasn't abandoned, but rather engaged.

Jesus was often heard declaring that “The Kingdom of God is at hand,” (Greek: “here,” “now,” also “a joining together”… hmm) and even instructed his disciples to declare the same thing when they went out into the world.

God has moved in the past, yes. And in the future, yes. 

But He is also moving on these streets in the moment at hand.

And He says we belong in that movement.

The biggest party in the history of mankind is underway, and we’re on the VIP list.
Even with our addictions to porn, success, substances, and money
Even with our criminal records
Even with our bankruptcies and broken contracts

Even with our missed child support
Even with our judging of the rich
Even with our ignoring of the poor
Even with our lack
Even with our surplus
Even when we publicly dishonor our government leaders (1 Peter 2:13-17)
Even when we hurt our children through neglect
Even when we hinder our children through overprotectiveness

To a broken people like us, that is good news indeed.

And that kind of good news, the REAL good news, completely went against everything my new neighbors were expecting to hear from the white, young punk of a pastor who moved in on Mockingbird Dr.

They expected me to come into this park with my theological guns blazing. The people on my street wouldn’t even open their doors to me when I tried to give them Christmas cookies my first winter there. One such family, whose doors are now wide open, eventually shared with me that they had figured I was only there to tell them how bad they were, and how they were going to Hell, and how they needed to come to my church, where they would then be taught how to dress properly, quit smoking, and give money.

Really, they expected me to sell them the watered-down version of the “good news” that is all the rage these days: fire insurance and sin management. (One of which lends to fear-based living and the other to shiny, hollow hearts. Both of which Jesus combatted in his ministry, but I digress.)

What they DIDN'T expect to hear was that God’s Kingdom wasn’t stuck inside a church building at all, but it was already there, on their streets, just waiting to explode. 

Just like Harry's carving, something altogether different is being created inside the box.

A new kind of community, a new way of life, a hope for real freedom, an unhurtful love.

And what they DEFINITELY didn’t expect to hear was that they belonged in it. That there was a place at the party for them. Right where they were at.

So that's exactly the good news my friends and I started sharing.

What I quickly found is that the most effective faith conversations are those that are marked by invitation rather than condemnation.

I say this, because I've tried it both ways. In fact, I'm more familiar with condemnation than I am with invitation. I spent the better part of a decade joining my former churches as we knocked on strangers' doors, leaving fire and brimstone pamphlets in their hands and on their handles. But no matter how deep the wells of good intent were, the story always ended the same: after years of the same Christians and the same churches infiltrating the same neighborhoods with the same message, the number of closed doors only ever increased. It's not that there wasn't any truth within those booklets. There just wasn't any fruit from them.

And it's no wonder, really. Because if you spend enough time telling people how much they don't belong, eventually they are going to believe you.

But on the other hand, if you show them what God is calling them to be,
if you show them the kind of life He has for them both in the future and in the moment "at hand,"
if you show them how Jesus died and rose so that they DO belong, in spite of their messes,
eventually they just might believe THAT.

The question then, is, are you thinking "inside the box?"

You see, I’ve not met many people in my life who really just needed ME to convince them of how wrong, bad, or broken they are.

But I sure have met a lot of people who needed to know how loved they are in spite of their brokenness.

I’ve not met too many people who really just needed ME to teach them about what’s wrong with the world that we live in.

But I sure have met a lot of people that needed to know what God is doing right now in the middle of the mess, and just exactly how they fit into it. 

That's not a new idea, though. Jesus did this kind of stuff all the time (read: the Beatitudes)

Because God’s Kingdom IS alive and well in the moment "at hand"

Being carved out from inside the boxes of our neighborhoods, workplaces, schools, families, nations, cultures, subcultures

Or even from inside our own churches.

There's a standing invitation for us to join. There's even a seat saved for us at the party. 

And it's the only place where we ever truly belong.

We just need(ed) someone to let us know.

Finding Jesus in the Laundromat

(This is a true story. It’s one of my favorites.)

Ernest Boggs stood next to the coin washer that held the last load of his family’s laundry. The spin cycle had just started when the bell at the front of the laundromat rang out. A rambunctious little five-year-old boy burst through the door, triumphantly winning a race against his older sister, who entered a few steps after him. Through the large storefront windows, Ernest watched their mother as she trailed behind them, balancing a large laundry bag on either hip and calling out their names. So much for a quiet afternoon.

The young mother filled the remaining washers and inserted her coins, then took a seat next to Ernest. The whirring of tumbling dryer drums was not enough to cover the silence, so he broke it. He introduced himself, and quickly found that she was kind, and easy to talk to. He shared about his family, and asked about hers. Her husband was an electrician and handyman. The young couple lived a few blocks away with their kids. They had gotten married as teenagers nearly a decade earlier. 

Conversation was light, simple, and full of interruptions. During their chatting, Ernest felt an urge to talk about Jesus. Something inside of him nudged him to do so. She was polite, but it was clear she was interested in changing the subject. As he folded his clothes and put them in his bag, he invited her to visit his church. She insisted that she would come on Sunday. The two said goodbye and Ernest left, excited for Sunday.

That Sunday morning, Ernest drove to the church early, and stood outside the entrance. He wanted to ensure that she and her family would feel welcome as soon as they arrived. When church started, he continued to wait, just in case they showed up late. They didn’t show up late. They didn’t show up at all.

This wasn't the first time he'd been stood up at church. She was just a random stranger at the laundromat. But for some reason, he couldn’t let it go. He barely slept that night, until he remembered what street she said she lived on. So the next morning, he called a friend and together they drove to her street, and started knocking on doors in hopes of finding her.

When they knocked on the young woman's door, she was quite surprised. She quickly began spouting excuses for why she missed church on Sunday. Those darn kids. She invited them in, and Ernest picked up the conversation right where they left off the week before. 

She told Ernest that she desperately wished that everything he was telling her about Jesus was true. He invited her to give Jesus a chance. So she did. She prayed and accepted Jesus right then and there. Then she asked him to come back a few hours later to talk to her husband. He agreed. When returned, he watched as the young woman helped lead her own husband to accept Jesus, just hours after she did herself. All because of a conversation in a laundromat.

Soon after meeting the young couple, Ernest's job moved him to another state, but in that short time, he was able to watch a stunning transformation in those two.

The young woman became a new person overnight, and told everyone she met about Jesus' crazy love. Supermarket cashiers, bank tellers, school teachers, and strangers on the sidewalk. She didn’t care that she wasn’t educated, she didn’t care that she hadn’t gone to Bible college. The only thing she knew for sure was that she didn’t really know much, aside from the fact that she believed that Jesus was exactly who he said he was, and that she believed his love had the ability to change lives. She unleashed Jesus' love on her family and watched it change them as they begun following Him one by one. Her siblings, her parents, her cousins, her nephews and nieces, and even her mother-in-law. She was like a walking embodiment of the domino effect.

The young woman’s husband traded his tradesman job to become a pastor at a church plant in the city. No education, no Bible college, no formal training. Just Jesus and a posse of pastors to pour into him. Together, they made it their mission to go after the city people that the suburb churches were content to ignore in the great white flight. The young couple did so because they hadn't yet forgotten that they themselves were once those very people.

During her years as a preacher’s wife and Sunday school teacher in the city, the young woman helped lead hundreds of people to Jesus, including her own children. Each of her children, in turn, carried on in the example she had been living out for them. Between the six of them, they went on to share God’s love with thousands of children, teenagers, and adults.

Today, nearly 50 years later, the young woman (not so young anymore), still lives with the same fire she had when she was 20: sharing Jesus with everyone she meets. And the number of people who have been touched by that love only continues to rise.

All because of a man in a laundromat.

~~~~~~~

I know this story well, and it is one of my favorites, because I am one of the many people whose lives were changed by the young woman, and consequently, by Ernest.

That young woman’s story has become quite a legacy in my family.

Because that young woman… is my mom.

Those bratty kids? My older siblings, of course. 

I, the youngest/perfect one, had not been born yet.

I may never meet Ernest on this side of Heaven, but I am so grateful he was willing to invite a complete stranger to church, when he could have just read a magazine to himself.

THANK GOODNESS that scenario didn't take place today, because if it were 2013, he probably would have kept to himself with his iPod, tablet, or smart phone. We don't like to talk to strangers anymore. Maybe because we're scared. Maybe because we're self-absorbed. Maybe because we're too busy (or maybe because we want to be too busy).
Regardless, I sure am glad good 'ol Ernest cared enough to talk to a stranger. 

In some sense, I owe my faith to Ernest. Even though he was only in my family’s story for a short chapter, his impact will carry on for many chapters and books to come. Our family's entire plot was changed in a day. 

Here's the crazy thing: I’m sure when Ernest chose to talk to that young lady with the rowdy kids, he had no idea that thousands of people would one day be touched by Jesus because of that conversation.

Did you catch that?

Thousands of lives forever changed. 

All because of one conversation in a laundromat.

~~~

Put your smartphone away.
Don't avoid conversation.

Don't be too busy to care.

Make the most of every situation.

Always be ready to share the Hope you have.

You never know who you might be talking to.

When the Church becomes the Angry Mob

One night last fall, I was pulled from a dead sleep by a Bible story. Maybe God was talking to me, or maybe it was because of my midnight run to Taco Bell. Regardless, the story of the adulterous woman and the religious angry mob (John 8:1-11) was projecting brightly in my brain at 4am.

I could see the woman’s tears trickle down her face, soaking into her flushed cheeks. She had been caught in the act of adultery and they were going to make her pay. Finger-shaped bruises were fast forming on her wrists as the religious elite dragged her through the streets of first-century Jerusalem; their shouts overpowering her desperate cries as they marched their convict to the temple.

It’s always a sad day when “God’s people” become an angry mob.

The Pharisees had orchestrated this scenario, seeking her out as bait to trick Jesus with. She was a mere pawn, as if her violation of their law gave them the right to treat her as such.

They had labeled her as a sinner first, and a person second

Given their knowledge of the Law, the quickness and ease of their process, and the lack of surprise from the crowd, I would wager that this wasn’t their first street side stoning.

They were well-versed in the art of seeking and judging the sinful

They knew Leviticus 20:10 mandated death for adulterous people. So according to the scriptures, they had a right to do it! However, the full law states that they were supposed to stone BOTH people involved. Either they lost him, or someone was picking and choosing which parts of the law they wanted to enforce…

They were using (pieces of) scripture to condemn only who they wanted to

These Pharisees donned and shined their badges as God’s Moral Police (self-appointed, of course) and pulled this sinner into the public realm to face the consequences of her evil deeds. They carried their convict through the city and cast her at the feet of Jesus, ready to whip out the list of scriptures that so clearly condemned her.

I’d bet they were quite proud of themselves. Attacking heresy AND sexual sin at the same time? Talk about two birds with one stoning! Boom goes the dynamite.

What would Jesus do? Um, well, the exact opposite of how most Christians “debate” on Facebook. (oh yes I did)

Rather than attempting to verbally “one-up” them, he remained silent, and started scribbling in sand.  The result? His silence silenced the angry mob. YOU try sustaining a one-sided argument without looking foolish.

He didn’t say a single word about the woman’s sin, and instead zoomed the scope of conviction onto their own hearts. "Let the person without sin cast the first stone."

It’s tougher to be trigger-happy when YOUR life is in the crosshairs.

Then he kept drawing, and this time his silence disarmed and drove them away.

Ok. Hold on. Let’s get this straight: God’s righteous avengers came shouting, with the Law in their hearts and stones in their hands. They had freedom of speech AND scriptures to back them up, and yet Jesus ignored their scripture quoting, and made them leave. Why?

Well, if you asked the woman, I’m sure she’d tell you that he did it for her.

Because it’s hard to believe in a God who loves and forgives when all you can see are the stones in the hands of his people.

You see, angry mobs only ever seek destruction. They always aim to eradicate something. Or some sin. Or someone. Or some people. But Jesus, who claimed to be one with God (John 10:30), therefore showing us exactly who God is and what He’s like (John 14:7), sought restoration instead of judgment. (John 3:17)

When restoration is the goal, sometimes being “right” isn’t helpful. Seeing that God desires mercy over sacrifice (Hosea 6:6), it looks awfully backward if “his people” continue to seek and emphasize judgment instead.

It's possible be “right” in a way that only destroys those that are “wrong”

Well what about her sin, then? Jesus can’t just let that slide, right? Again, Jesus was brilliant, of course. He turned to the woman, who had just received life anew.

And without the woman ever admitting any sin (that we read of)

Without her ever publicly declaring repentance (that we read of)

He told her he refused to condemn her, refused to sentence and judge.

He forgave her. She didn’t even ask for it.

Before tackling the way she was living, forgiveness came first

THEN he finished by telling her to leave her “life of sin.” Sin is an archery term for missing the bullseye. He didn’t say to stop being an adulterer. He kept it general.

Jesus didn’t define her by her worst sin

Jesus faced a religious culture where God’s “righteous” were eager to exploit certain sins in order to turn attention from their own, a culture where God’s "servants" were content to cash in on certain sins for political or social gain.

Jesus didn’t do that. He lumped it all together. “Go. Sin no more.” Plain and simple. Because as the apostle James tells us, if you break one law, you’ve broken them all.

From sexual impurity to overeating.

From lying to your grandmother to ignoring poor people.

From cheating on taxes to disrespecting government leaders.

From building bigger barns with your excess to stealing quarters from your parents.

They’re on the same level.

So while holding stones in their gluttonous fingers, they failed to see that the very rocks they picked up made their hands even dirtier than hers.

In a temple full of “God’s people,” Jesus was the only one who was actually concerned about the woman as an individual. He knew her story contained more than her sins. And he was the only one who offered hope, the only one who could.

I believe Jesus is the head of The Church. I believe He commanded us to live like he did, to pray like he did, to love like he did, and to act like he did. He was her hope. And he calls us to be the same. 

The Church is supposed to be JESUS to the world, NOT be the angry mob.

When the Church becomes the angry mob, everyone loses.

We were not meant to hold stones.

A Hot Mess Called Love

Even though “teacher” is part of my title in this neighborhood, I feel that I am the student more often than not around here.
These kids, these families, they school me every day. They daily take the fabric of what I learned in Sunday School as a youth, and show me where all the holes are. 

Lately, the biggest lesson they've been teaching me is that real love is unfair.

~~~~~~~

Of course, that's not really anything new.

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus scolded those who only loved people who would be capable of loving them back in the same way. 

At another time, Jesus took on the “religious right,” and the rich and famous, challenging them to have extravagant feasts and parties where only the poor, the handicapped, and the socially despised were invited to be wined and dined.

Did Jesus have a vendetta against rich people? Did he hate the religious right? Nope. He was speaking against a shallow kind of love that many "godly" people of the day celebrated. In their attempts to publicly separate themselves as being "holy," and in their desire to make life easier, they had adopted a version of love that had completely missed the mark. They only surrounded themselves with people who were essentially like them. Regardless of their motives, Jesus exposed their "love" as selfishness.

I can't say I blame them. 

Because it’s easy to love, hang with, and invest in people who…

look like you

believe like you

vote like you

We like love when love is easy and fair and safe.

However, Jesus said that kind of love, isn’t even CLOSE to being what real love is like. It’s not an accurate picture of love. It’s not deep enough.

He said it’s TOO easy.

In his words: “ANYONE can do that.”

Well if that's not love, what does real love look like? For that answer, we look to God.

God, in his relentless pursuit of capturing humanity’s hearts, paints for us a picture of a deeper love.

He shows us that real love is a hot mess, but continues on even when it is unrequited.

And that at its core, real love is unsafe, unfair, and uneven.

~~~~~~~

The kids in my park shine a light on this truth nearly every day. Just ask our other volunteers.

I’ve had to learn that these kids will never love me back in same the way I love them, and that in repayment for giving them my extra time, for connecting them with the coolest tutors on the planet, for finding people to give snacks and resources, and for answering the door no matter what time they knock,

they are still going to lie to me.

they are still going to steal from me.

they are still going to curse me out under their breath when I make them upset.

they are still going to make bad choices when I beg them not to.

they are still going to break my rules, my stuff, my trust, my heart.
Because they are people. That's what we do.

I would love to tell you that I handle it well all the time. But that wouldn’t be true.

It’s tough. Because I’ve noticed that my knee-jerk reaction is usually more like Jonah, and less like Jesus.

I’d rather run and hide than step in and engage.

I’d rather emphasize how wrong someone is than attempt to discover their story.

I’d rather they face the consequences of their “sins” than simply forgive them outright, even without them asking.

I’d much prefer that showing them love would be easy and fair and safe.

But like Jesus said, that’s not what real love looks like. Instead...

…sometimes it looks like waiting for the angry kid without a dad to finish screaming hurtful words at me before speaking softly in return, because not every kid has seen a love that is patient and a love that is kind.

…sometimes it looks like finding the kid that broke into my car and stole my new game and giving him the expensive and hard-to-find batteries that power it, because not every kid has seen a love that doesn’t envy and isn’t self-seeking.

…sometimes it looks like offering the boy down the street $10 to shovel my driveway with my shovel that he lied about stealing from me, because not every kid has seen a love that rejoices in truth, yet isn’t prideful and boastful about it.

…sometimes it looks like going out of my way to say kind words to the shifty-eyed kid who likes to spread rumors and break other kids’ stuff, because not every kid has seen a love that doesn’t dishonor others and doesn’t delight in evil.

…sometimes it looks like refraining from ever rehashing a bad deed that a kid has done once it’s been dealt with, not even as a future “reminder,” because not every kid has seen a love that doesn’t keep a record of wrongs.

…sometimes it looks like constantly urging kids to use their voices and tell if bad things happen to them, while knowing that most of them won’t, because not every kid has seen a love that protects.

…sometimes it looks like asking people to help financially support a depressed, unemployed single mom while she goes on a job hunt, even when chances of her “bouncing back” seem slim, because not every lady has seen a love worth trusting and a love that instills hope.

…sometimes it looks like continuing to pursue a kid that takes your kindness for granted and is quick to trade your advice for poor decisions, because not every kid has seen a love that perseveres, never fails, and never leaves.

Real love, selfless love, is stupid by most cultural standards.

It defies logic, especially if/when it transcends consequence.

Real love is hard, it is risky, and it is always unfair.

But it is in the times when I am most aware of how unfair love is that I can hear God whisper, “That is how I love you.”

And suddenly, I’m so very grateful that it is.