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

by Brant Hansen

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

In the moment, everyone’s anger always seems righteous. Anger is a feeling, after all, and it sweeps over us and tells us we’re being denied something we should have. It provides its own justification. But an emotion is just an emotion. It’s not critical thinking. Anger doesn’t pause. We have to stop, and we have to question it.

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.

Seek justice; love mercy. You don’t have to be angry to do that. People say we have to get angry to fight injustice, but I’ve noticed that the best police officers don’t do their jobs in anger. The best soldiers don’t function out of anger. Anger does not enhance judgment.

It’s true that sometimes people try to offend us, and they’re intentionally hurtful and spiteful. And yet, there Jesus is, on the cross, saying, “Father, forgive them. They don’t know what they’re doing.” A fair question, then: Is that same Jesus, living in and through me, still saying that?

That’s amazing. Think about what Paul was writing there: He doesn’t know anyone’s motives. Not even his own. Even if his own conscience was clear, that didn’t make him innocent. Paul was aware of his own inability to judge himself. He couldn’t be trusted. So, he said, leave the judging up to God. He’ll sort it out in the end.

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.

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.

I used to be scandalized by others’ moral behavior. I’m just not anymore. It frees up a lot of mental space, and we probably need more of that, to pause and reflect on what matters in life. Sure, I’ve used my free mental space for baseball statistics and Duran Duran lyrics, but I can do better. So can you.

Chris is an artist. He just sees things. 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). I love that. He “calls those things which do not exist as though they did.”

He apparently sees us the same way. He’s not just an artist, of course, like Chris. He’s also a Father. Good dads are like that. You may be a dropout, 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 their talents and is a blessing to others. He sees something wonderful.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It makes brilliant sense too: just because you haven’t had the opportunity to follow through on what you’d like to do, you’re not morally superior to someone who has had that opportunity. You say you haven’t murdered anyone? Jesus says you’re just as guilty if you’ve truly hated someone. You just didn’t have the guts to do what was in your heart.

But our Father is holding out another way of living, entirely. He’s saying it’s far more valuable. He knows. He made us. He knows we can live better this way. We’ll be under less stress. We’ll be able to live in the moment. We won’t be constantly offended, perpetually nursing hurts. He’s telling us to hand over the idea that we know things we don’t about ourselves and others, and simply be humble.

Some people grow up in horrific conditions, see unspeakable things, suffer horrible abuse, act out as teenagers, wind up in prison early, and know no other life. Others are born into wonderful, nurturing, disciplined families, and are “nice” by their very nature. Still others have devastating brain injuries, and their personalities change dramatically in a moment. Many folks have been through things I’ll never understand. So how do I assess the relative spiritual temperature of these people? How do I determine where they stand with God? Answer: I don’t.

So let’s joyfully work for justice and mercy. And while we do it, let’s trust that God, our Father, who actually loves us, and also loves mercy and justice more than we ever could, is ultimately going to set things right. 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.

It may not be fame for you. But if you find your value—your “glory,” as Scripture refers to your self-worth—in anything besides your identity as someone loved by God, you are never going to be truly content. That means ever-present threat, which makes being offended a way of life. And that state of constant threat, that way of life, is deadly.

Honest question: If I am a good Christian, and have faith and stuff, will God protect my children? Honest answer: He might. Or He might not. Honest follow-up question: So what good is He? I think the answer is that He’s still good. But our safety, and the safety of our kids, isn’t part of the deal. This is incredibly hard to accept on the American evangelical church scene, because we love families, and we love loving families, and we nearly associate godliness itself with cherishing family beyond any other earthly thing.

The reality is this: The “good news” is, ultimately, even better. But you and I are forgetful people, and we get distracted, and we certainly don’t always live in the reality of it. We need to be more attentive, and having people and disciplines in our lives to remind us of that great news will help us be remarkably slow to anger and offense.

Letting go of offense and anger means forgiving, and forgiveness means sacrifice. This is what’s so striking to me, as I get older, about Jesus: I’m simultaneously dumbfounded that I’m “off the hook” because of what He’s done for me, but still stopped in my tracks by what’s being asked of me. It’s both. I know God has already forgiven me. And yet this very truth obligates me. It means if someone has done something to wound me, I have to endure a second hurt, one that feels like another wound. My sense of justice says the person who hurt me should pay; but with forgiveness, it’s the forgiver—the victim—who must pay again.

Since anger has value, giving it up requires a sacrifice. And, as we’ve explored, it’s one that’s simply not optional for the follower of Jesus. The cross simultaneously stands as a constant reminder of His willingness to “pay the bill” and as an indictment on us when we are unwilling to do the same for others.

Instead, we tell ourselves that we can live a Christian lifestyle and integrate our own decisions about whom to forgive, and when. This is especially dangerous, because when we do that, we’re walking away. But we’re not aware we’ve walked away at all. We’ve just deradicalized the very nature of following Jesus, because we think we know a better way.

But as we went back and forth, I was reminded again of how God is helping me grow up. I didn’t need to, or even want to, “win” an exchange. I know there’s nothing to win. I knew the people attacking me weren’t really attacking me. I don’t know what they’ve been through. I don’t have to “win,” because I know God is in control and He loves those people. And I don’t have to “win,” because there’s no status at stake. When people make assertions about me, I can actually think them over and occasionally say, “You know what? That’s a good point.”

It makes sense that people who follow the Man of Sorrows, a man who was “acquainted with grief,” are also acquainted with grief (Isa. 53:3 ESV). We don’t run away from it. We run toward it. And we run toward it knowing full well that people may thrash about, scream, punch, kick, curse, cry, and yell at God and us . . . and then, when they look up, wondering, Are you still there? . . . we’re still there. That’s because when we’re at our best, you can kick and punch, sure, but you can’t offend us.

Truth is, we find this very, very hard to accept, but we can’t redeem ourselves. Oh, we like to think we can, deep down, so it’s still about us. Carrying around guilt? Still about us. Feeling stupid? Still about us. Feeling like a failure? Still about us. Turning our guilt into seemingly productive energy so we’re doing the “right” things? Still about us. Seems so . . . so . . . “righteous,” and yet, when we can’t take our eyes off ourselves to celebrate the win, it’s just plain about us. That’s pride. And pride always hurts, but it’s positively deadly when masked by our attempts to pay our own way with our religious activity. The game is over. We’re still on the religious playing field, still trying to redeem ourselves. And God is popping the cork. ***

In the economy of the kingdom of God, we can’t even afford the gnat. The kingdom is not “balanced,” it doesn’t operate via our “common sense,” and you can’t possibly, try as you might, “take it too far.” Being a citizen of that kingdom, then, means operating in that whole new economy, and grace—unfair, imbalanced grace—is the currency.

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.

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.

Still, it is not as simple as it seems. My own desire to be useful, to do something significant, or to be part of some impressive project is so strong that soon my time is taken up by meetings, conferences, study groups, and workshops that prevent me from walking the streets. It is difficult not to have plans, not to organize people around an urgent cause, and not to feel that you are working directly for social progress. But I wonder more and more if the first thing shouldn’t be to know people by name, to eat and drink with them, to listen to their stories and tell your own, and to let them know with words, handshakes, and hugs that you do not simply like them, but truly love them.3

You’ll likely find yourself wondering, What’s wrong with these people? Just relax and enjoy the great gifts you’ve been given! And maybe you’ll recognize yourself in them.

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.

The Bible singles out a species wherein every individual member does whatever needs doing, just by responding to what’s in front of it. An ant can’t worry about the big blueprint. No ant actually has the big picture. If they each do their thing, the thing right in front of them, the big picture takes care of itself.

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.

This isn’t because I’ve arrived at some Zen-like “detachment” level. It’s the opposite of detachment, honestly: it’s attachment. I’m continually attached to a deep gratefulness for what God has done for me. I’m not “emptying my mind” to deal with anger. I’m filling my mind more consistently with the truth about who I am and how God has been good to me.