Unoffendable: How Just One Change Can Make All of Life Better

by Brant Hansen

We should forfeit our right to be offended. That means forfeiting our right to hold on to anger. When we do this, we’ll be making a sacrifice that’s very pleasing to God. It strikes at our very pride. It forces us not only to think about humility, but to actually be humble.

Forfeiting our right to anger makes us deny ourselves, and makes us others-centered. When we start living this way, it changes everything.

That’s the whole point: The thing that you think makes your anger “righteous” is the very thing you are called to forgive. Grace isn’t for the deserving. Forgiving means surrendering your claim to resentment and letting go of anger. Anger is extraordinarily easy. It’s our default setting. Love is very difficult. Love is a miracle.

Here’s what I think, given that we’re to “get rid of all anger”: Anger will happen; we’re human. But we can’t keep it. Like the Reverend King, we can recognize injustice, grieve it, and act against it—but without rage, without malice, and without anger. We have enough motivation, I hope, to defend the defenseless and protect the vulnerable, without needing anger.

hear this objection too: “What about being angry at sin, Brant? Of course, we’re supposed to be angry at sin.” It’s probably worth noting that, usually, when this question is asked of me, it’s about something more specific. By “sin,” we mean, other people’s sin. Are we to cling to anger at their sin? God took out His wrath on Jesus for other people’s sin. And I believe Jesus suffered enough to pay for it, and my sin too. I’m so thankful for that. He will deal with others’ sin; it’s not my deal. That’s a huge relief. Again, life is better this way.

Being offended is a tiring business. Letting things go gives you energy.

I can let stuff go, because it’s not all about me. Simply reminding myself to refuse to take offense is a big part of the battle.

We have no idea what is in someone else’s heart. We don’t know the backstory. We don’t know what’s happening in his mind. We don’t know how her brain works. We think we do, sure, but we don’t. So let’s review: God knows others’ private motives. We don’t. God knows our private motives. We don’t. We think we can judge others’ motives. We’re wrong.

Don't attribute to malice what ignorance can explain

And it’s not as if the “smartest” people were able to do better at solving the problems. In fact, the researchers found that the better the people were at math, the more apt they were to try to avoid the actual answer.2 (This applied to both liberals and conservatives, by the way.) Instead of changing our beliefs to match reality, we often just rearrange reality, in our heads, to match what we want.

Yet another wrinkle: when there are two “sides” to a story, we tend to think the first one we hear is the right one. I learned this, of course, by watching The People’s Court after school every day. I always thought the plaintiff had a great case . . . until I heard the other side. This bias is universal. It’s not new, either. Check out Proverbs 18:17: “The first one to plead his cause seems right, until his neighbor comes and examines him” (NKJV). Life is full of conflicts, disputes, differing perspectives . . . and in all of those, guess whose perspective I hear first? That’s easy: mine. I establish a story line, and I can get angry before I even hear the other side, which is yet another reason to be very suspicious of ourselves. So let’s have the guts—and the humility—to believe what the Bible says about us, and what the research shows us. We simply can’t trust ourselves in our judgments of others. We don’t know what they’re really thinking, or their background, or what really motivated whatever they did. And since we don’t know, let’s choose ahead of time: we’re just not going to get offended by people. If I don’t need to be right, I don’t have to reshape reality to fit “The Story of My Rightness.” That makes life much easier, and makes us much more peaceful, and even fun to be around.

Your life will become less stressful when you give up your right to anger and offense.

Forgive in the big things and the small things. Don’t take offense. In fact, the stuff that usually might offend us is a huge opportunity! Jesus told us we will be forgiven as we forgive others.

John simply refused to be offended. He was free to love Bill just the way he was. Bill was actually tearing up. “You know what?” he went on. “That guy is really good to me. And he just treats everyone the same up here. All of us the same. The interns, me, the stadium manager, everybody. He just treats us all like he loves us.”

My instinct, and I’m sure the instincts of many in Bill’s life, was to tell Bill to shut up, or at least watch his mouth, or get his act together. Or maybe I could ignore him. But John? John went and made him a plaque.

John, my baseball-announcing friend, sees things too. He looks at Bill and sees Bill as he could be, as he was made to be. He’s not being naive; he’s being like God, “who gives life to the dead, and calls those things which do not exist as though they did” (Rom. 4:17 NKJV).

He’s also a Father. Good dads are like that. You may be a drop-out, underachiever, whatever, and a good dad will still love you, but he’ll push you to change, because he sees a different you ahead. He sees a finished product, an adult who uses his or her talents and is a blessing to others. He sees something wonderful.

That person you find so offensive? Somehow, God sees something there. Something you don’t. Ask Him what it is. Maybe He’ll show you. I bet He wants to.

Perhaps a big part of being less offendable is seeing the human heart for what it is: Untrustworthy. Unfaithful. Prone to selfishness. Got it. Now we don’t have to be shocked. Jesus is not a cynic. He’s never scornful, hopeless, or jaded. It’s purely about growing up enough to recognize just how messed up our world really is, and how messed up humans are.

Ask anyone who works in Christian radio, and you’ll get similar stories. Being told you’re “disappointing” is a way of life. It’s enough to make someone quit, unless—and here’s a big, beautiful unless—we just decide to quit being offended.

Yes, the world is broken. But don’t be offended by it. Instead, thank God that He’s intervened in it, and He’s going to restore it to everything it was meant to be. His kingdom is breaking through, bit by bit. Recognize it, and wonder at it. War is not exceptional; peace is. Worry is not exceptional; trust is. Decay is not exceptional; restoration is. Anger is not exceptional; gratitude is. Selfishness is not exceptional; sacrifice is. Defensiveness is not exceptional; love is. And judgmentalism is not exceptional . . . But grace is.

Someone cuts you off on your commute? Just expect it. No big deal. Let it drop, and then be thankful for the person, that exceptional person, who lets you merge. See the human heart for what it is, adjust expectations, and be grateful, not angry.

Quit thinking it’s up to you to police people, and that God needs you to “take a stand.” God “needs” nothing. Quit trying to parent the whole world. Quit offering advice when exactly zero people asked for it. Quit being shocked when people don’t share your morality. Quit serving as judge and jury, in your own mind, of that person who just cut you off in traffic. Quit thinking you need to “discern” what others’ motives are. And quit rehearsing in your mind what that other person did to you. It’s all so exhausting.

We are too good at deceiving ourselves to know if we have “righteous anger” or not. Maybe this is why there is no such allowance in Scripture. Even so, we can fool ourselves into thinking we’re innocent, or justified, or victimized. This human trait goes way back. Study Adam and Eve and their interactions with God right after they disobeyed Him. Adam’s very first reaction was to blame Eve. Eve’s very first reaction was to blame the serpent. Victims.

Perhaps I’m wrong on this, but I doubt people will love God more because of my list of moral accomplishments. They’re more likely to be annoyed, and I don’t blame them. Even worse, at least one person would probably think, Yep, Brant’s morally better than me. I’m a loser, just like I figured. Great. You lost. What do I win? Truth is—and this goes for secular “righteousness,” too, like bragging about buying your own carbon offsets, or your sanctimonious bumper sticker—precious few people are attracted to displays of moral fastidiousness.

If you think people are drawn to you by an impressive religious résumé, you’re in for a shock. When people are in crisis or need to know that God loves them, that they’re not alone, they don’t seek out the guy who thinks he’s Mr. Answer or who radiates superiority and disapproval. They want someone who loves God and who loves them. Refusing to be offended by others is a powerful door-opener to actual relationships. I don’t expect people who aren’t believers to act like followers of Jesus. Why should they? How about I give up the sanctimonious act and just love them, without thinking I need to change their moral behavior?

Love people where they are, and love them boldly. And if you really want to go crazy, like them too. I love what author Mike Yaconelli once wrote: “Christians do not condone unbiblical living; we redeem it.”2 In the book Messy Spirituality, Yaconelli told a story about a small group of American soldiers during World War II who sought out a burial site for one of their fallen friends. They were pulling out the next day, and were hoping to bury him in a fenced churchyard cemetery nearby. As the sun was setting, they approached the house next to the church and knocked on the door. The priest answered. They asked him if they could bury their friend in the cemetery. “I’m sorry,” he replied, “but that’s only for members of our church.” The priest went on to tell the soldiers they could, if they chose, bury their comrade near the cemetery but on the other side of the fence. They were saddened but had few options, so that’s what they did. The next day, they wanted to visit their fellow soldier’s grave site one last time before moving on. When they came to the churchyard, they were shocked: they couldn’t find his grave. It simply wasn’t there. One of them went to the parsonage door and knocked. “What happened to the grave we dug?” one soldier asked when the priest answered. “It’s not there. We did it last night, and it’s not there.” “It’s still there.” The soldier was baffled. “You see, last night, I couldn’t sleep,” the priest confessed. “All I could think about was what I’d told ...

My goal with relationships is no longer to try to change people. It’s to introduce people to a God who is already reaching toward them, right where they are. This changes everything. It means everyone is welcome, and not just theoretically, but really: everyone—no matter what their political or religious beliefs—is welcome in my home, at my table. I happen to be a pro-life, limited-government Jesus-follower. So you’re an atheist and a socialist who’s pro-choice and thinks Jesus is for losers? Fascinating! Say, how do you like your toast? Tell me more about your thoughts about Jesus and losers . . .

Welcoming people into our lives isn’t “glossing over important issues.” Refusing to be angry about others’ views isn’t conflict avoidance or happy-talk. It’s the very nature of serving people. I don’t pretend the differences aren’t there; I just appreciate that God has a different timetable with everyone. And yes, I’ve seen wonderful things happen as a result of this newfound patience with people, things like great conversations and changed lives. But that’s not even the point for me, because I’m not responsible for changing people’s lives. I’m responsible for faithfully loving them. As a believer, that means pointing them to a God who dearly wants them, and for whom I happen to know they yearn.

Don’t condemn the culture; redeem it.

Acting out of love, to show mercy, to correct injustices, to set things right . . . is beautiful. Love should be motivation enough to do the right thing. And not “love” as a fuzzy abstraction, but love as a gutsy, willful decision to seek the best for others. What the world needs, I think you’ll agree, is not a group of people patting themselves on the back for being angry. We need people who actually act to set things right.

But he knew he needed to get rid of his anger. During the famous bus boycott in Montgomery, Alabama, in 1955, King was blamed by the authorities for the lack of a settlement. He knew it wasn’t fair. And he wrote this in his autobiography: That Monday I went home with a heavy heart. I was weighed down by a terrible sense of guilt, remembering that on two or three occasions I had allowed myself to become angry and indignant. I had spoken hastily and resentfully. Yet I knew that this was no way to solve a problem. “You must not harbor anger,” I admonished myself. “You must be willing to suffer the anger of the opponent, and yet not return anger.”6 For those who ask, “But how can we fight injustice without anger?” King’s response is simple: Be motivated by love. Love for victims, love for bystanders, and even love for our enemies themselves. We are not advocating violence. We want to love our enemies. I want you to love our enemies. Be good to them. Love them and let them know that you love them.7

Choosing to be unoffendable, or relinquishing my right to anger, does not mean accepting injustice. It means actively seeking justice, and loving mercy, while walking humbly with God. And that means remembering I’m not Him. What a relief.

Hard to do

When you start practicing it, you realize: choosing to be unoffendable means actually, for real, trusting God. The sooner we start this, the healthier we’ll be. Not just now and not just physically, but long-term and spiritually. C. S. Lewis wrote about this lifetime trajectory, and how “little things” wind up shaping our entire existence, in The Great Divorce: Hell . . . begins with a grumbling mood, and yourself still distinct from it . . . Ye can repent, and come out of it again. But there may come a day when you can do that no longer. Then there will be no you left to criticize the mood, nor even to enjoy it, but just the grumble itself going on forever, like a machine.4 Choosing to be unoffendable and relinquishing our “right” to anger is a means of unplugging this machine before it gets going.

So he’s a Christian, and also a great-looking, tall, athletic, wealth-making, beauty-queen-marrying, Special Forces–serving, celebrity-befriending, weapons-bearing, multiple-language-speaking, business-starting, cutting-edge-equipment-inventing, world-hopping, child-saving plastic surgeon. And there’s one more thing . . . He’s insecure. He told us as much. He really struggles with it. He feels as though he’s trying to live up to something, and he doesn’t know what, and he feels he’s falling short. I’m so thankful for his honesty. (Though my first thought was actually, Great. Now he’s authentic and likable too?) But as he told us over dinner that it’s just how he is, and he doesn’t want to be this way, I believed him and respected him more when he admitted it. We can all relate. But still . . . why? What could you possibly need to do besides all this? “I don’t know,” he admits. “I really don’t.” The lie, for most of us, is that we’ll “get there,” that we’ll somehow, someday, make it to a point where that thing, that whatever, that we think we need to be secure, is finally ours, and we won’t be threatened anymore, because we made it.

There’s only one way to not be threatened by anything, and that’s if you have nothing to lose. And this is where this choosing-to-be-unoffendable business really becomes not only possible but also completely consonant with the teachings and life of Jesus. Just making the choice, and being mindful each day that “I’m not going to let people offend me,” is very helpful, and it will make life better. But ultimately, if I’m living in fear of losing something—whether it’s security through status, looks, money, family, whatever—I’m going to be fearful, more easily threatened, and therefore prone to anger.

We say “I trust Jesus,” or “Trust in the Lord, and . . .” and all that stuff. But here’s where the words actually mean something: What if . . . the worst happens? Do you still trust Him? Do you believe it’s really the end of the story if it does happen? Isn’t that the point of trust itself, that you’re stepping into mystery?

I’m a moral failure whose mind has drifted while even writing the last few paragraphs, with thoughts ranging from silly to immature to rebellious to lazy to selfish. I’m inconsistent to the core. But in a very real sense, it just doesn’t matter. I want to grow up, but my Father loves me even as I am. It’s incredible news. And that matters, when it comes to our offendability. Imagine you open your e-mail and there’s actually some great news: someone wants to give you a hundred million dollars. (Now that I think about it, I get this offer from Nigerian friends on a daily basis. But say this is legit.) Chances are, after getting the money, you won’t be quickly offended when someone cuts you off in traffic a few minutes later.

We modern Westerners have difficulty relating to the idea of a king. So I was struck when reading Laurence Bergreen’s Over the Edge of the World, a book about the travels of Ferdinand Magellan and his crew, which lends clarity to the concept of “king” in so many cultures. When they arrived in a Pacific island kingdom, they wanted an audience with the king. But they were told that no one could speak directly to him. If they wanted to say something, they had to tell a servant. And that servant would then have the honor of giving the message to another servant, one with a higher rank. The high-ranking servant was allowed to speak to the brother of the governor. And the governor’s brother was allowed to speak to a servant of the king. But not directly, of course. No, he could only speak through a “speaking-tube” that ran through a wall. The servant on the other end of the tube would then, and only then, relay the message to the king.2

In fact, if this is true, that very love toward one another would be an accurate test of whether we really believed all this. If we loved others with a newfound patience, a refusal to take offense, and a lack of self-seeking, it would be evidence that all this is real.

Sherri’s love is not naive. But that’s exactly why it’s so profound. She’s setting her offense aside, not because it doesn’t matter, not because it isn’t completely understandable, but because of what Jesus has done for her. She’s choosing against offense, not just because God loves these men but also because God loves her and has set aside her very real offenses in order to be with her.

To be in ministry means to choose to be unoffendable. Ask anyone in ministry to the homeless. Or families who open up homes and hearts to foster children. Or prison ministers. Or people serving troubled kids. Or anyone, anywhere, truly serving anyone. It’s not a side issue, not a secondary concern, not a strategy. Again: Choosing to be unoffendable out of love for others is ministry. And real ministry forces us to abandon our relentless search for approval from others. That frees us to love . . . beautifully and recklessly.

terms. Someone gives you a backbreaking job, and you’re happy for it, but at the end of the day, when you’re getting paid, the guys who came in with five minutes left get the same amount you just got. Seriously? It’s imbalanced, unfair, maddening . . . and it’s also exactly what Jesus just said the kingdom of God is like. Not only is it maddening; it’s maddening to the “good” people! Common sense says you don’t do this. You don’t pay latecomers who came in a few minutes ago the same amount that you paid the hardworking folks you hired first. Jesus tells this story, knowing full well that the conscientious ones listening would find this hardest to take. And, as a matter of fact, as a conscientious one, I find this hard to take. I’m just being honest. This story does not fit my style. I’m all about people getting what they deserve. Oh, it’s offensive, too,

Zacchaeus’s heart was changed. It didn’t take a big, blasting speech from Jesus at the dinner table, either. The very fact that Jesus wasn’t offended by him, and would be with him, and would show love to him in front of others, and would sit in his dining room—that changed his heart. And that’s just it: it’s always grace that changes hearts. Rules are wonderful. As I said in chapter 2, I’m a rules guy. Rules bring wisdom into our lives. They help us live better. They spare us from pain. But rules don’t change anyone’s heart, ever. Grace does.

God wants us to accept gifts. It takes humility to do it, which is why kids are so much better than we are at this. No kid balks at a gift. No eight-year-old opens a PlayStation on Christmas morning and says, “No—I just can’t. I don’t deserve this. I am unworthy. No. Take it back.” It takes humility, and accepting the world-saving unfairness of the kingdom is no different. Accept it. Breathe it in. You might finally be able to relax, not have to worry about how you “measure up,” and then you can actually focus on other people.

I’ve noticed, too, that Christians are especially good at wrapping our significance in Christian terms, in ministry terms, to avoid the impression that we’re self-centered. But it’s still about us. We’re not content in what God has done and is doing, and we want the Big Story to include us in a starring role.

Self-forgetfulness is not about mystically wishing myself into nonexistence or pretending I’m meaningless. It’s just the opposite. Self-forgetfulness is what happens when we’re emotionally healthy. It’s remembering that God is my defender, His opinion is what matters, and whatever my offenders are doing to me, I’ve done to others as well. And God has forgiven me. I simply must forgive in return and forfeit my right to anger. So it’s not about “clearing the mind” or embracing nothingness. On the contrary; rather than clearing my mind, I have to remind myself of those larger truths. I have to consider others better than myself, consider how the lilies of the field don’t worry about themselves. Consider. Remind myself. Remember that, ultimately, there’s something greater happening, a deeper story at work in the world, and at work in me.

The things you think matter so much? They don’t matter so much. If you put your trust in God, you’re already a “success” because Jesus succeeded. You needn’t be insecure in who you are—not because you’re so great, but because your security isn’t found in who you are. In the end, you’re free to fail all you want, kids, because here’s a sweet thought: The limo is coming for you anyway.

So let’s review: Choosing to be unoffendable means choosing to be humble. Not only that, the practice teaches humility. Once you’ve decided you can’t control other people; once you’ve reconciled yourself to the fact that the world, and its people, are broken; once you’ve realized your own moral failure before God; once you’ve abandoned the idea that your significance comes from anything other than God, you’re growing in humility, and that’s exactly where God wants us all. It’s contrary to seemingly everything in our culture, but the more we divest ourselves of ourselves, the better our lives get. Jesus told us as much. He said if we’d give up our lives, for His sake, we’d find real life. When we surrender our perceived “rights,” when we let go of our attempts to manipulate, we find—surprise!—joy.

I have to die to myself. What I’m finding is it doesn’t happen all at once, and it’s simultaneously simple to understand and arduous to actually do. But little by little, I think I’m seeing what God is up to. He wants to be in control. And you know what? I want Him to be. This hasn’t always been the case. I think I can trust Him. I don’t need to control things anymore. There’s so much less at stake when I let go, so much less of me to defend, so much less of “my way” to get in the way and feed my anger. What a relief. God tells us to die to ourselves, and get rid of anger, for a reason: He loves us. And I guess I always knew that, that He loves us. But I’m now less prone to anger, and more prone to forgive, because I’m finally really believing, a bit more, day by day, that He actually loves me. Why am I so stressed? Why do I need to pretend I can control people? Why do I need to make myself “significant”? Why do I think I need to assess other people spiritually? Why am I always trying to assess myself spiritually? Why do I need to defend myself? God is my Defender. He’s in control. And no, I don’t know where I’m going, but I know He loves me.

If you ever write a book and think, for even a split-second, that you don’t need an editor . . . you’re wrong. They see things. Bad things. But then they make them better. (And yes, I know “bad things” is a sentence fragment. But please let that stay.)