Unoffendable: How Just One Change Can Make All of Life Better (updated with two new chapters)

by Brant Hansen

Now I understand that Jesus was talking to a weary, religion-soaked people. They’d been given so much to do and so many rules to follow. So many rabbis had expounded so often the right ways to do things, and Jesus was saying, “My way is easy to understand. Kids understand it. It’s you adults and ‘experts’ who like to make things complex. My teachings are simple at heart.” I love that so much. He’s offering sweet relief from religious burdens. But He’s doing even more than that. When we pay attention to what He’s actually saying, like in the Sermon on the Mount, and actually put His principles into practice, we find life to be more restful.

“I watch you outside, and your wife, and your boy, and when you walk with your girl, and I see how your wife makes people feel—very welcome,” he said. “It makes me think about God. I know that’s strange.”

How I feel

So, “nothing” made a man think about God. In the United States right now, maybe that’s not hard to explain. We did nothing, and nothing is shockingly out of place. Nothing means not everything, not running around infernally, not getting our kids this lesson and that, not trying to sustain a lifestyle we “want”—but not deep down. No, Jesus’ offer of rest isn’t the “after-you’re-dead” variety. It’s a lifestyle, now, that invites other people out of the maelstrom.

Trouble is, the current of our culture (and church culture can be even worse) is so strong in the other direction. We have to actively choose a way to live, because otherwise, we’ll simply get swept along: hurried, stressed, status-driven, easily angered, and opting for madcap busyness without even knowing why. Living the usual way, we’re prone to offense simply because people can’t help but stand in the way of what we’re straining to get. Jesus tells us to resist. He tells us to deny ourselves, and He promises that will bring us the rest we’re looking for. We have to be reminded of this. I hope, if nothing else, this book is a reminder in your life of just how good God is.

It’s a way of life. We get offended; we get disillusioned; we leave. Over and over and over. It’s tiring to have to work through difficulties with people. But for what it’s worth, I’ve learned it’s way easier than starting over.

One of my friends, David, said something this morning during our church gathering that I keep thinking about. He said, “You know what? I think God is really just looking for spiritual people. That’s what He’s always been looking for. He will handle the rest. He wants a people who long to know Him, rest in Him, and love Him.”

He wants to know us, and He wants us to know Him. He wants us to want Him. Not ideas or abstractions about Him, but Him. Ultimately, this is a more restful life. Not just because it might mean some quiet, meditative moments—though they’re wonderful—but because when we surrender control, there’s so much less at stake in life for us. We have nothing to prove, and when we really believe that, we’ll hardly be quick to anger. When we do get angry, we’ll rid ourselves of the anger more easily. Remember: Anger and rest are always at odds. You can’t have both at once.

We’re told, in Psalm 46:10, to “be still,” or to “stop striving” (NASB), and know that He is God. Some people are familiar with this verse but not the larger context, which is that of someone looking over the remains of a battlefield. The original Hebrew is suggestive of stopping the fight, letting go, and relaxing. God wants us to drop our arms. No more defensiveness. No more taking things personally. He’ll handle it. Really.

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.

but in one way or another, we’re all the Dumpster Pastor. I’ve found myself wondering what it would be like to be part of a church of nothing but Dumpster Pastors, people who know they’ve been caught, their lies exposed, and then set free. I think it would be a very, very fun, free, joyous church.

There’s a lot less stress when you’ve been found out. Pretending doesn’t come so easily. You can’t convince yourself that you’re not just as guilty as everyone else anymore. You know the truth, and the truth has a way of setting you free. And that includes a freedom from anger.

When you’re living in the reality of the forgiveness you’ve been extended, you just don’t get angry with others easily.

I love how fair Jesus is on this, how He levels the playing field, so no one can honestly pretend they are righteous anymore. People want to say, for instance, “Well, I’m not an adulterer. I’ve never had sex with someone outside of marriage.” But then Jesus comes along, in the Sermon on the Mount, and says if you’ve ever lusted after someone, you’re just as guilty.

If I get to determine whether my anger is righteous or not, I’m in trouble. So are you. The reason: we can’t trust ourselves.

We struggle with trusting God to mete out justice. We’re afraid He won’t mete out justice, that people won’t get what they deserve. So perhaps our entitlement to anger is our little way of making sure some measure of “justice” is served.

Yes, we’re absolute masters at changing reality to fit our narrative. But Jesus wants to disrupt all of this. He did it with the men who were ready to stone an adulteress to death. They genuinely believed, no doubt, they were doing the “right” thing. They were carrying out God’s justice, they thought. They were angry for all the right reasons. She was guilty, after all. Then Jesus made it simple: You can’t do this, because you’re all just as guilty. Every single one of you. Anger makes me think I have a right to hold the stone. I may not throw it, but I’ll hold on to it since the other person really did do that horrible thing.

You’re not going to like this, but face it for what it is, and say it out loud: “That person I’m angry with? I’m worse.” It hurts, and we can reject that idea if we want. But at least we’re engaging what Jesus actually said, what He actually tells us about ourselves in the unmerciful servant story, rather than devising a less radical, less demanding God of our own choosing. Truth is, we want Jesus to leave our self-righteousness intact. He wants to smash it.

I was just doing what immature humans do, and that is thinking it’s my job to put people in their place. I also thought it was my job to single-handedly “win souls for Christ,” and when these souls saw my impressive purity and how I abstained from worldly things, like cigarettes, they’d say something like, “Wow! I want to be like you. Tell me about this ‘Jesus’ who claimed to be the Jewish Messiah, the fulfillment of all prophecy, the hinge in the history of the universe, and who has inspired you to wear this Smoking Stinks T-shirt.”

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.

That’s not what speaks to us. That’s not our question. What we’re really wondering, what everyone’s really wondering, is simply this: Does God really, truly, after all I’ve done . . . love me?

And the same goes with you. 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?

Why not leave that to God? He’s still changing my own behavior, after all. Again, it’s simple humility. I know God wants my heart and wants their hearts. He wants us to turn away from ourselves and turn to Him. He can handle the rest. He loves them even more than I do.

I used to think it was not only prudent but my duty to be offended by others’ sins. Somehow, I took the example of the King of kings, who wanted to be with us so much that He lowered Himself to be born in a barn full of animals and manure, and I thought it meant I was supposed to raise myself above and away from the messy lives of others.

I now want to be that guy who moves fences. I want to be the guy who says, “Yes, I see the mess you’ve made of things, just as I have. But God wants us, mess and all. No matter what.”

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.

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.

I don’t control anyone, because that’s God’s job. That’s His deal. I can just enjoy and love people. As I keep saying, I wish I would’ve known this sooner. I wish I could’ve seen the entire redemptive, narrative arc of the Bible, rather than cherry-picking a few bits that seemed, when isolated, to suggest disengagement with sinners. But the good thing is, I’ve finally learned: Don’t condemn the culture; redeem it.

There just aren’t lots of references to anger in the Bible as something wonderful. And yet we’re now told it’s a “gift” for our use when we feel it’s “reasonable.” We’re also told we should be aroused to anger when we see one of God’s commands being broken. Really? Then we’re going to be busy . . . really, really busy. We’re also going to be really, really angry, all the time—and that’s just at ourselves, for starters.

I don’t know, ultimately, where people stand. I know what they need and what I need. I know we need Jesus. That’s it. Period. Everybody. All of us. All the time. More of Him. That’s all I know.

And He’s promising something of value that no one else—and literally, no other religion—promises. He’s promising a release from the constant evaluation, never-ending striving, and relentless assessment of where we, and everyone else, stand. He’s promising a better way of life. He’s holding it out to us, saying, “Hand over the garbage;” and He means it, because He loves us, and He has something better to offer. He’s offering peace.

Anger and action are two very different things, and confusing the two actually hurts our efforts to set things right.

The myth of “righteous anger” actually impedes the taking of action, because it lets us congratulate ourselves for a feeling, rather than for doing something.

There’s a book called Who Really Cares that’s about this very thing. It turns out that the people who are often the most indignant voices in protest of injustice are the least likely to part with their own resources to do anything about it.2

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 simply saying that “good might come of it” does not make the “it” a righteous thing.

You can recognize injustice, stand up to it, even sacrifice your life fighting it. And you can do it without anger. In fact, you’ll do it better. You won’t be remembered as angry, but as convicted of what’s right, and loving to the very end. This kind of love leaves an impression on one’s enemies that anger simply never will.

The rationale is, “See, God gets angry in this story. That means we should too!” But that’s not the meaning of the story at all. We are not the king in that story. The king’s anger does not give the unmerciful servant a valid basis for his own anger.

Think about it: in order for us to justify our right to anger, we have to confuse ourselves with God.

Why isn’t righteous anger ever listed among the things that a Spirit-filled life will bring us? If it’s righteous, why is it not akin to the “fruit of the Spirit,” like love, joy, peace, and gentleness? Why is anger in Scripture so consistently lumped in the other lists with things like, say, slander and malice, with no exclusions for the “righteous” variety? (See, for example, Colossians 3:8.)

We aren’t to just pretend anger away or feel guilty for the initial emotion of anger. But we are to deal with it, with the goal of eradicating it within us.

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

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the German pastor and theologian, believed, too, that the idea of our own “righteous anger” is foreign to the Scriptures. In The Cost of Discipleship, he made it clear: “Jesus will not accept the common distinction between righteous indignation and unjustifiable anger. The disciple must be entirely innocent of anger, because anger is an offence against both God and his neighbour.”8

Feeling powerless is sometimes excruciating. We want justice, and we want it now. If we can’t get it, we can at least harbor our self-righteous anger. Sometimes, it’s all we think we can do. The Bible tells us to do something truly revolutionary, certainly un-American, and completely at odds with that: wait.

Living “humbly” is the part I’m so often missing in my anger. I want comeuppance for the proud, and I want it now. I don’t want to wait. In fact, I don’t fully trust God. I’m worried He won’t handle things the way I’d like. Worry and anger often go hand in hand. They’re both about feeling threatened, and they both represent, ultimately, a lack of trust. But there’s a flipside, and it’s good news: we get to see all over again how freeing it really is to trust God.

We don’t need to act like kids who’ve been abandoned and are forced to take matters into our own hands, defending ourselves at every turn. Our Father is coming home, and He tells us, over and over, He’s going to take care of things.

And what does it mean to forgive a man of something so monstrous? I trust in God’s justice and release anger and a desire for personal vengeance. It does not mean that I minimize or mitigate or excuse what he has done. It does not mean that I pursue justice on earth any less zealously. It simply means that I release personal vengeance against him, and I trust God’s justice, whether he chooses to mete that out purely, eternally, or both in heaven and on earth.10

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.