FALSE NARRATIVE

To some people the reaction of the pastor who rejected the young woman seems shocking and insensitive (which it is), but in truth, it reflects a dominant narrative among many Christians (and non-Christians): God only loves us when we’re good.

Many people live with the assumption that God’s love is conditional. Our behavior, it’s assumed, determines how God feels about us. Consequently, God’s love is constantly in flux. It’s as if God were on a kind of swivel chair, looking at us and smiling when we keep our minds, hands and hearts pure, but the moment we sin God turns his back on us. The only way to get God to turn back to us is by resuming our good behavior. I know this narrative firsthand. The god I created in my mind years ago was spinning so much it made me dizzy to watch.

THE WORLD OF PERFORMANCE-BASED ACCEPTANCE

Not long after we’re born we discover that the world we live in is based on performance. Our parents begin molding and shaping our behavior from a very early age. Some of the first words we learn are good and bad. We hear things like “Oh, you ate all of your peas—good girl” or “Do not write on the wall with your crayon—bad boy.” Before we can speak, we become aware that acceptance hinges on our behavior, which produces a decidedly unstable world of highly conditional love.

As a parent it’s easy to promote this narrative. I watch over my children, and when they do something well I’m quick to affirm it. Conversely, when they do something wrong they’re certain to hear about it. No matter how much I try to avoid it, it comes out. Part of this is necessary because a parent’s job is to teach right and wrong; the difficulty is making it clear to my children that their actions and not their identity is being evaluated.

While this narrative of performance-based acceptance begins in our families, it is no different outside our homes. The world we live in reinforces performance-based acceptance. If we do well in school we’re praised; if we score the winning basket we’re admired; and if we are handsome or beautiful we’re affirmed. Our acceptance, our value and our worth, we quickly discern, are based on external talents and abilities and performance.

Because this is so much a part of the way we see and experience the world, it is only natural that we project this same understanding onto God. God is bigger, smarter and more powerful than our parents, the coach and the boss. God sees everything! What can we do to get God to approve of, accept and love us? The answer, as you would expect, has to do with our religious performance. If you ask the average person, “What must you do to get God to like, favor and bless you?” the answer would be clear and consistent: “Well, I think I would have to go to church, read my Bible, give some money, serve on committees and serve the needy. Oh, and God does not want me to sin—or at least keep it at a minimum.”

Thus we can control how God feels about us by doing those things on the list and avoiding sin. This is legalism, the attempt to earn God’s love through our actions, to earn God’s favor or avoid God’s curses through pious activities. In the end, legalism is superstition, not unlike avoiding black cats and ladders. We are drawn to superstitious and legalistic behaviors because they provide a sense of control in an otherwise chaotic world. But God’s favor is not earned by what we do any more than good luck is found in a rabbit’s foot.

Performance-based acceptance (legalism) is a dominant narrative for many of us despite the fact that it leaves us in a state of constant uncertainty and anxiety. The good news is that this is not Jesus’ narrative. In fact, he seemed to go out of his way, in both words and actions, to tell the opposite story about God.

JESUS’ NARRATIVES

In my search of Scripture I was unable to find a passage in which Jesus tells us that God only likes us when we’re good or when we engage in pious activities. Instead he tells of a God who offers unconditional acceptance to all people. But before we look at his words, let’s look at his actions.

A God who welcomes sinners. Jesus not only reveals the Father in his stories, he reflects the Father in his character and his actions. The following story from Matthew’s Gospel tells us a lot about the Father whom Jesus reveals.

Matthew was a tax collector, which was a despicable occupation for Jewish men. Tax collectors typically sat in roadside booths, like tollbooths, collecting taxes from the Jewish people for the Roman government. They worked for the “bad guys,” so to speak. But even worse, they were notorious for skimming money off the top for themselves. They were thought of as traitors and cheats—not a great combination.

In this passage Jesus invites Matthew, a tax collector, to be one of his disciples. This is amazing, considering that in the first century, a rabbi was usually very selective when choosing his disciples. Being selected by a rabbi was a rare and great privilege that was offered only to those who were deemed especially righteous. Jesus’ choice is therefore ludicrous and shocking.

After being chosen, Matthew invites Jesus to dine with him in his home. This is a sign of his allegiance to Jesus, his new rabbi. Naturally, Matthew’s friends are tax collectors and other kinds of “sinners.” Jesus dines with these sinners, which is a sign of love and acceptance. The Pharisees, a group of strict religious men, had been keeping an eye on Jesus for some time, and when they catch him eating with sinners1 they’re sure they have exposed him as a false prophet, a fake, a charlatan, a hypocrite.

But Jesus says to them that he has not come for the healthy but for the sick, not for the righteous but for the unrighteous. The irony of the story is that the Pharisees are just as sick and sinful as the tax collectors; they just fail to admit it. The tax collectors, on the other hand, have no pretense. They’re used to being called sinners. Their only question is why they’re invited to the party.

If Jesus reached out to known scoundrels, then the rest of us have a chance. As Brennan Manning writes of the passage we’ve been looking at:

Why do we, as Manning notes, try to “dim” this message? Why does it seem “too good to be true”? Because Jesus’ narrative of unconditional acceptance goes against the grain of the performance-based-acceptance narrative that is so deeply embedded in our lives. How could God possibly love sinners? He might be able to forgive them and even love them if they promise to improve. But this is not what Jesus taught. In actions and words he proclaimed that God loves sinners—as they are, and not as they should be.

God loves sinners. In what is probably the most famous of all of the verses in the Bible, Jesus tells us:

This passage has brought comfort to countless people, and is considered by many to be a summation of the entire Bible. Jesus is explaining the reason for his mission: God loved the world and wanted to save it. Many people believe that God is mad at them, but for some reason he has yet to punish them fully. Such people would be more comfortable had Jesus said, “For God was so mad at the world that he sent his Son to come down and tell them to shape up, that whosoever would shape up would have eternal life. Indeed, God did send his Son into the world to condemn it, in order that the world might be saved through good works.”

Jesus does not say that God loved “a few,” or “some” or even “many.” He says God loved the world. And the world, as we know it, is full of sinners. Therefore, God must love sinners. Jesus did not say, “For God so loved the good people, the righteous people, the religious people, that he gave his only Son.” He said God loved the world—an all- inclusive world of sinners. The apostle Paul echoes this when he writes, “But God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8).

God loves in spite of the broken and sinful condition of the beloved, and this is the only real proof of genuine love. The most well-known of all Jesus’ parables is a story about a father and his two sons, which resonates with our deep yearning to be loved by God without condition.

THE PRODIGAL FATHER

The parable of the prodigal son should really be called the parable of the father’s love4. The word prodigal means “recklessly extravagant.” We attach the word to the younger son, the one in the story who spends all of his inheritance on sinful living. But it is the father who is the most recklessly extravagant, offering his wealth to an ungrateful son and lavishly loving the son when he returns. The story is familiar to most Christians, but I want to point out a few important aspects of the story that heighten Jesus’ teaching about his Father (see Luke 15:11-32).

We have heard this parable so many times that the shocking parts of it are often unnoticed. The younger of two sons asks his father for his inheritance so he can go off on his own. This was a stunning and disrespectful request5, and yet the father grants it to him. The younger son then wastes all of his money on sinful living and eventually hits rock bottom. The only job he can find is feeding pigs, and while dining on their slop he becomes sick. In a moment of reflection the younger son decides that his father’s servants are better off than he is, so he composes a confession he will make to his father, asking to be one of his servants.

Then the story takes another surprising turn. In what I think is one of the most beautiful verses in the Bible, we read, “But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion” (Luke 15:20). We are given the sense that this father has been looking for his son’s return, perhaps every day. And when he sees the son he is “filled with compassion.” This is no small detail; it tells us about the character and heart of God. God looks at us with compassion, even when we have done the very worst to God we could possibly do.

In the world of Jesus’ day the father had a right to take his son before the elders and have him stoned, perhaps even to death. No one would have questioned the father had he done this. Justice would have been served (a natural narrative). But instead, the father hugs the son—and kisses him, which is a sign of forgiveness—welcomes him home and throws him a party. He asks for his servants to bring6 his son a robe, a ring and a pair of shoes—three signs of restored sonship. He has all the rights of a son; his position has been restored; he has lost nothing. And he deserves none of it.

God, it appears, is very fond of sinners. Not their sin. The father obviously was grieved over his son’s decisions; he neither endorsed nor overlooked the son’s reckless living. Any good father would be rightly upset by the actions of the younger son. But Jesus wants us to understand that even the worst of our sins will not prevent God from loving us or stop God from longing for our return. The parable is not so much about a sinner getting saved as it is about a God who loves even those who sin against him.

THE ELDER BROTHER AND ME

Remember, Jesus tells this parable in response to the criticism that he’s dining with sinners. Luke sets the scene for us: “Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to him. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, ‘This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them’ ” (Luke 15:1-2). As noted earlier, Jesus’ actions were revolutionary. No rabbi would dine with known sinners, and the Pharisees openly criticized him for it.

Most of us tend to focus on the prodigal son and the father, but the second half of the parable (Luke 15:25-32) reveals Jesus’ primary storytelling aim7. This parable was not directed to the downtrodden and marginalized as much as it was to the upright and the pious who could not accept the radical message of God’s unconditional love. The character of the elder brother represents those of us who chafe at the idea of God loving sinners. The elder brother represents the part of us that is not comfortable with God’s unconditional love for others or even ourselves.

The elder son is working in the field when he hears a party going on. He comes in the house to discover a feast in his younger brother’s honor. So he complains to his father, “This is unfair! I work hard every day and I’ve never been given a party like this! This horrible son of yours—I refuse to call him ‘brother’—nearly ruined our estate and spent it on whores, and you give him a feast?” The elder brother has a right to be angry. He has never disrespected his father. He has never hurt the family financially. He has never acted selfishly. And yet the younger son, who has done all of that and more, gets a hero’s welcome.

The father reminds the elder son that there is no injustice in his actions. He says, “All that is mine is yours.” In other words, you have the same things your brother has. This is similar to the parable of the workers in the vineyard who worked different amounts for the same wage. Jesus is striking at the heart of the problem we have with grace: we don’t like it. It seems unfair, but in reality it is perfectly fair. God is gracious to all. It smacks against our performance-based-acceptance narrative.

The chief point is that there is only one thing that separates us from God, and it is not our sin. It is our self-righteousness. Our self-righteousness does not turn God from us, but us from God. It is not my sin that moves me away from God, it is my refusal of grace, both for myself and for others. The father tells the older son that the return of his younger son is cause for celebration and rejoicing. Jesus is speaking to the Pharisees, essentially saying, “When you see the tax collectors, the prostitutes and the other known sinners coming to me, you should rejoice—they were dead and now are alive. Instead, you grumble.”

The Pharisees had to decide whether to accept that God welcomes sinners and to share in their joy. Sadly, they refused. I am more like the elder brother (the Pharisees) than the prodigal son. But God’s grace toward sinners is not what troubles me; it is God’s grace toward me that I sometimes have difficulty with. My earning-favor narrative is so deeply embedded in my theological template that I find God’s love difficult. That is why I was so moved by a poem I discovered in a dusty old library book.

THE TRUTH ABOUT GOD

Several years ago I was reading about Simone Weil, a writer whose work I had recently come to appreciate. Her books reveal her deep thinking and devout faith. She was raised in a Jewish family, but became a Christian later in life. Her biographer noted that she became a Christian when she read a poem by a seventeenth-century pastor named George Herbert. The poem is Herbert’s third poem on love.

I quickly went to the library and checked out a book of Herbert’s poems. I sat down to read the poem, and I too was so moved that I could hardly speak for a few moments. The more I read and thought about it, the more I realized just how profound it is.

“You must sit down,” says Love, “and taste my meat.”

So I did sit and eat.

Since the poem is quite old and the language is difficult, I would like to explain what the poem means (at least to me) in an attempt to offer some insights into it.

• Love bade me welcome. Right away Herbert tells us about the nature of God. The poet agrees with John—God is love (1 John 4:8). Throughout the poem you could substitute the word love with the word God. The poet is saying, “God bade me welcome.” God invites us in.

• Yet my soul drew back. But what is the soul’s response? When God draws near—really near—it is natural and even right for us to draw back. God is, after all, holy and righteous.

• Guilty of dust and sin. Herbert tells us why we draw back; he never says we are anything other than guilty. You and I all know in our heart of hearts that we have failed, that we have fallen short of God countless times, and we draw back because we are guilty.

• But quick-ey’d Love. Herbert describes God’s sight as “quick-eyed Love.” Isn’t that beautiful? God sees us fully and completely. He watches us, yes, but with eyes of love and compassion.

• Observing me grow slack / From my first entrance in. Growing slack, in Herbert’s day, meant hesitation. Do you see the movement? God invites us in, but we draw back. God knows why—we feel guilty. So what does God do?

• Drew nearer to me. God comes closer. He sees us falter and steps toward us. Even as we faint and fall away, God draws closer to us.

• Sweetly questioning. God sweetly questions us. Here begins a kind of gentle argument. God draws near and asks us a question. With my earning-favor narrative well in place, I am sure God will ask, “Why have you sinned so much?” But it is not so.

• If I lack’d any thing. God’s first question is not, “What do you have to say for yourself, you rotten sinner?” but rather, “What do you lack? Do you need something?”

• “A guest,” I answer’d, “worthy to be here.” We lack a sense of being worthy. Most of us feel unworthy before God. The speaker is telling the truth.

• Love said, “You shall be he.” Love responds to our doubts about our worthiness by saying, “You are worthy. You are because I say you are. You are because of my love for you.” Augustine once wrote, “By loving us, God makes us lovable.” Our worthiness will never be merited, achieved or earned. It is given to us as a gift, and a gift can only be received.

• “I, the unkind, ungrateful? ah my dear, / I cannot look on thee.” But we have a hard time receiving gifts. After all, the whole world runs on merit, on earning what we get. So we respond, “Who . . . me? I, the ungrateful, the unkind? Do you really know how bad I am, God? I cannot even look at you!”

• Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, / “Who made the eyes but I?” This is a shocking image. Can you imagine God smiling—about anything? About you? Many people I know cannot imagine that God is proud of them, that God even likes them. And look at God’s marvelous response: “Who made your eyes—wasn’t it me?” We say, “God, I am unworthy to look at you,” and God replies, “Can’t you understand that those eyes, the ones you can’t lift up to me—I made them!”

• “Truth, Lord, but I have marr’d them.” “Yes,” we answer. We cannot argue with God on this one. “But [there is always a ‘but’] I have marr’d them.” Hebert is saying, “Yes, you made my eyes, God, but I have not used them rightly. I have looked on things I should not have; I have marred them by my own actions.”

• “Let my shame / Go where it doth deserve.” Once again, the poor soul argues, “God, do you know who you are talking to? I am a mess. You gave me my eyes—my everything—and I have ruined them. So, please, let my shame go where it deserves.” It is here in the poem that the soul cries out not for mercy but for justice: “I am not worthy—give me not what I want but what I deserve.”

• “And know you not,” says Love, “who bore the blame?” When we reach this important place, God steps in and says, “I will not disagree. You have failed. And you deserve to be punished for it. But—pay attention to this—do you not know who bore the blame?” God is saying, “Jesus bore the blame. My Son took your shame, and you bear it no more.”

We need to stop here for a moment. Sometimes people talk about God’s love as being this cosmic good feeling toward all people with no regard for justice, as though sin were no big deal. This is why many do not think of themselves as sinners. But notice: if you are not a sinner, then why do you feel so bad? And if you pretend you are a sinner, then you will have to pretend you are forgiven. God says, “Your sin is real. The penalty is death. But my Son, Jesus, took the blame. He nailed your sins to his cross. He is ‘the judge judged in our place.’8 ”

• “My dear, then I will serve.” Quite often the message of grace makes us feel guilty, instead of making us feel joyful and free. And there are many preachers who preach with that effect in mind: “Don’t you know, young man, that Jesus died for you—don’t you feel guilty about that?” And the intended response is, “Yes, yes I do. I’m sorry, Lord. I promise to do better. I’ll try harder to do better—I promise! I’ll even die on a mission field for you. Just give me a command, and I’ll do it. I owe you, God.”

• “You must sit down,” says Love, “and taste my meat.” In response God says, “Sit down. Rest here. Feast with me. Be with me. Enjoy my presence, and let me serve you first. I don’t need you to serve me. I don’t need you for anything. I made you because I love you, and what I really want is to be with you. My deepest desire is not that you go off to try to serve me, but that you would let me love you.”

What do you think God wants most from you?

• So I did sit and eat. This is what God wants most of all. He wants to serve us, to see us feast and rejoice in his goodness. One day we will serve others, but only as a response to God’s love, not motivated by guilt.

George Herbert was a brilliant politician who left it all to be the pastor of a small church. He wrote many poems, but never intended for them to be read, much less published. On his deathbed he told a close friend that he had a number of poems he had written, and said, “Please read them, and if you think they might be useful, do with them what you will.”

His poems were published posthumously. I was stunned by his modest words: “If you think they might be useful.” I thank God that his friend had the wisdom to see that they would indeed be useful. I know Simone Weil felt the same way I do.

LEGALISM LIMITS; LOVE COMPELS

This chapter opened with the story of a young woman who became pregnant out of wedlock and was shunned by her pastor when she wanted to help the young women in the youth group. The pastor also refused to baptize her baby. She ended up in another church, and her child was baptized not long after. She worked with young people, finished her education and eventually went into mission work. Today she and her daughter live and work as missionaries in Africa.