Some years ago I was serving on the staff of a local church. One of my responsibilities was to oversee the budget and give some direction to the finance committee. I should have known better.

I’ll spare you the gory details, but there was one fateful evening when I was meeting with said committee. The group was going over the Visa receipts, and one individual on the committee took issue with an item with my signature on it. Never mind that the item was in the budget and there was plenty in that particular line item … and that I was acting at the direction of the pastor.

I’ll call that individual Joe. He was so upset his hands were literally shaking.

That dude lit into me. His spittle-flecked rant was along the lines of “Who okayed this? Why did you need to spend this money in the first place? Why was it used that way?” And so forth. His tirade lasted a good five minutes. I sat there, gritting my teeth. The other six members of the committee just sat there with their heads down. I thought maybe the chairman would intervene. It didn’t happen that way.

When Joe stopped long enough to get a breath, I dredged up enough gumption to ask, “Joe, do you love me?”

Joe turned purple, spluttered, and replied, “What do you mean, do I love you? What’s that got to do with it?”

I said, “Because … if you loved me, you wouldn’t treat me this way. You’d want to help me.”

I wanted him to cry. Instead, my appeal to reason and compassion fell flat. He just got madder and resumed his attack.

Look. If I’m wrong, I need to know it so I can make corrections. But don’t devalue me in the process. It’s not right, and it hurts.

I guess we resolved it. I have selective amnesia when it comes to things like this. The bottom line is that Joe simply didn’t like me, for whatever reason. Maybe I reminded him of a kid that beat him up in the 5^th grade. Who knows? Mostly, though, he had an obscenely critical spirit, and it showed up in other areas of his church life, too.

It’s easy to find fault in others, isn’t it? Almost a reflex, some might say. We’ve all been on both ends of criticism, and I think it’s safe to say, it doesn’t feel great being on the receiving end. Especially, when the criticism is less about helping us improve and more about knocking us down a peg. This brings us to an essential thought: “Anyone can criticize another, but it takes a special person to build others up.”

Why Do People Criticize?

Criticism is often the easiest route to take when we feel threatened, insecure, or jealous. It can be a defensive mechanism, shielding us from facing our own shortcomings. And sometimes, people criticize because it gives them a sense of superiority. It’s an unfortunate truth that putting others down can sometimes make us feel better about our own situations.

Criticizing Christians

Criticism from the world towards Christians often feels particularly pointed and persistent. Perhaps it’s because of the high standards that Christianity sets. People expect Christians to live up to Christ-like ideals, and when they fall short, it becomes easy fodder for criticism. Additionally, Christianity, by its nature, challenges the moral and ethical norms of society, which can lead to pushback from those who feel indicted or judged by Christian teachings.

Christians Criticizing Each Other

You’d think Christians would be the most supportive of one another, right? Yet, often we are the first to criticize our brothers and sisters in faith. This could stem from differing interpretations of Scripture or varying degrees of adherence to Christian doctrines. More often — especially in the local church — it’s just evidence of pure meanness. It shows up with squabbles about who is elected deacon, or the colors of the new mop handles. Sometimes, it’s easier to spot a splinter in our brother’s eye than a plank in our own. It’s a human flaw, one that we must be vigilant against.

Responding to Criticism

In moments of criticism, it’s crucial to remember the words of Jesus in John 8:7, “Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her.” This reminds us that we all fall short and should approach each other with grace rather than judgment.

Moreover, it’s essential to distinguish between constructive and destructive criticism. Constructive criticism comes from a place of love and aims to help us grow. It’s based on truth and delivered with kindness. Proverbs 12:17 says, “Whoever speaks the truth gives honest evidence, but a false witness utters deceit.” This highlights the importance of truthfulness in our critiques of others.

Destructive criticism, on the other hand, seeks to harm. It’s often rooted in falsehood and serves no purpose other than to discourage.

When You’re the Critic

It’s worth examining our hearts to see if a critical spirit resides there. A few signs could be constant negativity, joy in others’ failures, and a habit of gossip or slander. Recognizing these traits is the first step towards repentance.

To repent from a critical spirit, start with prayer. Ask God to transform your heart and to help you see others as He sees them — with love and mercy. Practice replacing critical thoughts with compassionate ones. And, when you do need to offer correction, ensure it’s constructive, coming from a place of genuine concern and spoken with gentleness.

Building others up doesn’t just change them — it changes us. As we make a conscious effort to encourage rather than criticize, we align closer with the teachings of Christ. We create a more loving, supportive community where everyone can grow. After all, it takes a special person to build others up, and that person, with God’s help, can be each of us.

Let’s be those special people, the builders in a world that’s too often busy tearing down.

This week, I want to dive into a memory lane moment that’s been tugging at my heartstrings, all centered around a term we’re all too familiar with — bullying. But, I’m not just talking about the kind we remember from the playground; I’m eyeing its more grown-up, yet equally damaging counterpart in our adult lives.

This grows from an incident I saw in the news that can only be classified as bullying, and it involves public figures, grown men. Frankly, it’s troubled me perhaps more than it should have. Let me tell you a story. There are some real parallels here.

My thoughts drift back to a childhood memory from Camp Ridgecrest for Boys — a memory that, oddly enough, has rippled through the years, influencing my understanding of kindness, courage, and the subtle forms of bullying that don’t always leave visible scars.

I was in the 6th grade, sharing a cabin with five other boys, one of whom, Ernie, had a stutter. His vulnerability became the target of another cabin mate, Herbie, who found a perverse delight in mocking him. Despite Ernie’s attempts to laugh it off, the bullying escalated until it reduced him to tears. Herbie accomplished what he set out to do. As a witness, my silence has since felt like complicity, a haunting reminder of the power of our actions — and inactions. I should have said or done something. As a 6^th grader, though, I guess I didn’t want to run the risk of being treated like Ernie had been.

The memory serves as a stark reflection on bullying, not just as a relic of our school days but as a shadow that can follow us into adulthood, morphing into forms that are harder to recognize but equally harmful. Adult bullying may not involve stolen lunch money or physical altercations, but it can manifest in workplace politics, social exclusion, or cutting remarks dressed as jokes, even to the extent of making fun of someone’s physical appearance or handicaps. These actions, though less overt, stem from the same desire to exert power over another.

As Christians, or simply as humans striving to be better, we’re compelled to ask ourselves, “What would Jesus do?” This question isn’t meant to invoke guilt but to encourage a profound introspection about our conduct and its impact on those around us. Jesus’ life was a testament to love, inclusivity, and standing up for the marginalized — a guidepost for our interactions.

Acknowledging feelings of complicity in the face of bullying is not an admission of defeat but a step toward growth. It’s a call to action, urging us to be vigilant and brave, to stand up against injustices, and to support those who are being diminished. Our silence can be as impactful as our words, and choosing to speak out can be a beacon of hope for someone in the throes of bullying.

As adults, we wield considerable influence — through our actions, our words, and our decisions about when to speak and when to listen. This influence gives us a unique responsibility to create environments (churches?) where respect and kindness overshadow the impulse to belittle or dominate. It’s about building communities where the Ernies of the world feel supported and valued, not for their ability to endure mockery but for their inherent worth as individuals.

This is an invitation — a call to reflect on our behaviors and the subtle ways we might contribute to or combat bullying in our everyday lives. It’s an encouragement to foster empathy, to be the ally that our younger selves needed, and to cultivate spaces where compassion drowns out cruelty.

In closing, let’s remember that the lessons learned on the playground have far-reaching implications. The way we navigate adult bullying, standing up for fairness and kindness, can transform our workplaces, homes, and social circles into havens of respect and understanding. By doing so, we honor the spirit of what Jesus taught, living out our faith through actions that speak louder than words.

Together, let’s pledge to be the change, to be adults who embody the virtues we wish to see in the world. Because in the end, it’s not just about preventing bullying; it’s about nurturing a society where every person is seen, heard, and valued — where the playground, the workplace, and the church are places of growth, not battlegrounds for dominance.

I should know better when on social media. I’ll read a post from someone I know and care for, and think, “Are you even listening to yourself? You’re a believer. And if I were to take what you’re sharing at face value, I’d say you’re moving close to despair. How cynical can you get?”  

It’s like a drowning man who not only won’t reach for a lifesaver but isn’t content until they drown someone else along with them.

In a world that often seems overwhelmed by negativity and cynicism, it’s easy to wonder where we, as Christians, fit into the grand scheme of things. We’re bombarded with news that paints a less-than-hopeful picture of humanity and the future. It’s in these moments, however, that our faith is not just a belief but a beacon—a source of perpetual hope and unwavering trust in God’s sovereignty.

The idea that “you can’t be cynical and a Christian” might seem bold at first glance. After all, isn’t it human to feel disheartened by the seemingly endless cycle of bad news? Yet, this statement isn’t about denying our emotions or ignoring reality. It’s about recognizing that, as Christians, we are called to view the world differently. We are called to hope.

Hope, in the Christian sense, is not blind optimism. It’s a confident expectation based on the character and promises of God. Despite the chaos, despite the brokenness, we stand firm in the belief that God is always glorified in all things. This isn’t a passive hope; it’s active and alive, compelling us to engage with the world in a way that reflects God’s love and redemption.

Don’t let your familiarity with Romans 8:28 dilute its truthfulness. Paul reminds us, “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” This verse isn’t a platitude; it’s a cornerstone of our faith. It assures us that, no matter the circumstances, God is at work. He’s weaving every thread, even those tarnished by sin and sorrow, into a tapestry that glorifies Him and fulfills His divine plan.

When we look at others or the world around us, it’s crucial to remember that there’s no person or situation beyond God’s redemption. To think otherwise is to limit the infinite power of our Creator, the one who spoke the universe into existence. How, then, can we doubt His ability to transform lives and circumstances?

Embracing this perspective shifts our focus from despair to action. It challenges us to be agents of hope and vessels of God’s love. Instead of being overwhelmed by the darkness, we’re inspired to shine our light brighter, to reach out with compassion, and to partake in God’s redemptive work in the world.

“God’s got this” might sound like a casual affirmation, but it’s a profound declaration of faith. It’s an acknowledgment of God’s omnipotence and a commitment to trust Him, even when the path ahead seems uncertain. This trust isn’t naive; it’s rooted in a deep understanding of who God is and His promises to us.

So, as we navigate through life, let’s challenge ourselves to shed any cynicism that dims our light. Let’s replace it with a hope that is as unshakeable as it is contagious. Let’s be so filled with God’s love and trust in His plan that others can’t help but be drawn to the hope that lives within us.

As you reflect on these words, I encourage you to evaluate your own heart. Are there areas of your life where cynicism has taken root? How can you actively replace that cynicism with hope? Remember, it’s a journey we’re all on together, supporting one another, as we strive to live out our faith in a world that desperately needs the hope only God can give.

Let’s not just be hearers of this message but doers. Let’s live out our hope in such a way that it provokes others to seek the source of our hope, the very heart of God. Because, in the end, hope is not just what we have; it’s what we are called to share.

There is no shame to ask for prayer. I’m trying to work through my natural tendency to NOT ask.

Here’s the thing: I do not, not, not want to come across as needy, or craving attention or pity, or anything like that. 

You know the type. The person who is clingy, ill-adjusted, and needs to be the star in their autobiography. The person who would say, without irony, “It’s all about me.”

The flip side of this is scripture informs me that it’s absolutely appropriate to ask for prayer. That’s not being selfish. It’s being real. 

The Apostle Paul often asked his fellow believers to pray for him as he preached Christ. In his letter to the Christians at Corinth, Paul asked them to pray for him as he was constantly under duress for preaching Jesus (2 Corinthians 1:11).

Paul asked his fellow believers in Colossae to pray for him as he preached Christ: “At the same time, pray also for us, that God may open to us a door for the word, to declare the mystery of Christ, on account of which I am in prison — that I may make it clear, which is how I ought to speak” (Colossians 4: 3-4, ESV).

We must not be ashamed of asking others to pray for us. Paul needed the prayers of his Christian family, we too need the prayers of our brothers and sisters. And those two passages I cited are just for starters – there are plenty more.

The reality is that I AM needy, and you are too. It’s out of that needful place that you and I can ask for prayer. 

I’m a case study in this. I’ve needed to ask for prayer in an acute, even desperate way the last couple of weeks. You’ll need to indulge me. 

Here’s background, and if you’ve heard all this before, feel free to skim it (yawn).

In June of 2018 I suffered a nasty concussion. At first it wasn’t too big of a deal – my eye swelled shut, I had stitches, but it all seemed pretty routine. CT scans and x-rays showed no head or brain damage, but I did have three broken ribs. About a week after the injury, I started getting headaches on the opposite side of my head from the impact site. Overnight I developed a sensitivity to light and sound. There were some cognitive issues – it’s like my brain was shrouded in fog. 

Worst of all was the deepest, darkest emotional funk you can imagine. Anxiety, depression, and what I characterized as “a sense of impending doom” became realities. It was/is perfectly awful. 

After another round of scans and x-rays, my internist – whom I love much – told me I had post-concussion syndrome. No, I’d never heard of it either. All my symptoms were textbook. The cure? Time. I was to be patient. It would “take time.” (I’ve heard that “take time” phrase so many times that I’m afraid the next time I hear it I’m gonna punch someone in the throat.) He also put me on a killer combo of depression/anxiety meds. 

Apparently PCS victims are prone to suicidal thoughts. Praise God that hasn’t been an issue. Since then, I’ve been to a chiropractor, I’ve tried acupuncture (which was actually pretty fun, but it didn’t really help), and talked to a counselor. All well and good. 

I’ve also been to a neurologist, and that’s been very encouraging. I’d had a migraine headache 24/7 – that was taking its toll – but again, she’s tinkered and experimented with several drugs and the headaches are more manageable.

About two weeks ago, the Apocalypse. 

The mother of all migraines, which would respond briefly to meds then come roaring back. It was taking a real toll not just physically, but mentally and emotionally too.

In full senior adult mode – we love to share our ailments, right? the wonderful Dr. Bridget Jones, neurologist par excellence, restricted me to the house for five days with orders to be still and quiet, which suited me just fine. Lots of couch time, limited screen time. 

The thing about brain injuries, at least in my case, is that they become part of a new normal. I’m not completely over it, it’s mostly manageable, but some days – whew. I feel as stupid as a sack of rocks, I can’t articulate what I want to say, and I generally just need to avoid people. It’s like living under a cloud. And people will say, “You look fine,” which sounds pretty good.

The thing is, it’s not like faking being sick to get out of school or work. I’ve been having to fake being well.

So, when the doc was able to work me in, which was a miracle in itself because she stays booked up months in advance, she took lots of time with me to make sure she knew what was going on. I got a toradol shot, which is a HUGELY amped-up NSAID, and I got some relief in less than a half hour.

She sent me home with this stuff called Reyvow. It’s not a narcotic – oddly enough, migraines don’t respond well to opioids – but I SWEAR, I’ve never taken anything like THIS. Yesterday morning, within about 15 minutes of taking it, I was in a zone I can’t even describe. The headache vanished. Poof. 

But the side effects … I MEAN. I was on the couch, and it was like someone had thrown a weighted blanket over me. I couldn’t move (well, I actually could, but didn’t want to!), and experienced something like euphoria. This lasted a while, and then, well, the rest of the day, I basically didn’t get off the couch. I just sort of hovered in a groggy haze. I’d googled the med and read reviews from others who’d taken it. Some folks hallucinated. Others went numb in their hands and feet. Scary, but it did what it was supposed to do. It’s a tradeoff.

I was warned several times to NOT attempt to drive. I get that. Instead of driving 2 miles to Walmart, I might end up in Memphis. And to not try to make any important decisions, which made sense … in my state, it would have been easy to put our house up for sale or something, and not know I did it. The nurse said, “Not only could you make bad decisions, you won’t KNOW you’re even making decisions.”

I went back to work a couple of days ago. I’m making it.

I needed to ask for prayer, and I did. God has honored those prayers from so many folks who have prayed.

Why am I sharing all this? It’s because I think you can relate.

Here me again – if you are in need of prayer, ask for prayer. Folks love to pray if they know of a need. It gives them an opportunity to put some feet to what they say they believe. 

One more thought. 

In a counseling session not long after I scrambled my head, I discovered that part of what I was experiencing was actual grief – grief for the old Tony and adapting to the new Tony. Once I realized what was going on – missing the old me – it brought things into perspective and sure helped a lot. I share this to say – be kind to others. Be kind to people who don’t see things as you do, or hold the same values as you. You simply don’t know what they’re facing or have faced. As I always say, “You don’t know their stories.” Don’t be reactionary and lump them in a category of “them” or “those ____”.

Everyone you have any contact with under any circumstances was made in the image of God, and if that isn’t reason enough for respect, I don’t know what is. Please be kind. Life is challenging enough as it is without you devaluing others. 

I just made myself cry. Talk later!

Love all, serve all, be mistreated. My goodness. There’s all sorts of irony in the title of this blog.

When I cobble these posts together, I purposefully try to be as broad as I can for people all along the faith spectrum. Most of the time, I’m writing what I want to hear for myself. I just kind of let you sit in.

Today, though, I am more in the camp of believers, Christians.

If you are a Christian, how well do you love? Do you love all? And what if you’re mistreated?

You know I’m not talking about love in the sense of romantic love, or even love among friends and family. I’m not even talking about self-love, which is a big deal.

Nope – I’m talking about supernatural, God-ordained love.

That kind of love operates separate from feelings. It’s a love that is actually an act of the will. It’s a love that can’t be self-generated. It has to come from another source outside ourselves.

Because, y’know, in and of ourselves I simply don’t think we have the capacity for that kind of love, even though we’re to love all. 

Here’s my autobiographical note: This actually comes easy for me. It’s a capacity for love that God just has seen fit to give me, and I’m grateful for that. I can say without hesitation that, to the best of my knowledge and heart, I love everyone.

Which is NOT to say that I care to keep company with everyone. There are some people I’d just as soon see going as coming.

And, of course, there have been people who’ve hurt me. Maybe I’ve been mistreated.

What’s your response to that? Unless you’re a hermit (and some days that seems appealing – like my friend Becky Brown noted, “I could easily be a hermit, but God won’t let me”), you have had someone – or maybe multiple someone’s – wound your soul.

You’re gonna have to look hard to find benefit in that, right?

The benefit comes in how you respond to being mistreated.

Talk about self-revelatory! Hurt can teach you an awful lot about yourself.

So. Are you a grudge holder? Do you erupt in Jovian anger? Do you retreat just to sulk and brood? How about plotting revenge? Is that you?

Well, how about this in response to hurt: be kind. Love all.

Stay with me here, because I’m not being patronizing.

I will tell you that the world may not look favorably on you if your response to being mistreated is to be kind. That’s not the way things work, right?

Some of the kindest Christians I know have lived in a world that wasn’t so kind to them.

That is so intriguing. Not only does it fly in the face of conventional wisdom, it doesn’t even really make sense. That is not a typical response.

Yet there are those who have been through so much at the hands of others, and they love deeply. They still care.

Are there steps one can take to reach that state? Can you really love all? Even if others mistreated you?

I’m not sure. You don’t find it in our sinful, carnal nature. It has to come from a different place. I dunno. Some people relish unforgiveness. I’ve never known of a time when forgiveness was anything other than a virtue.

In giving this a lot of thought over the years – the reason why people choose not to forgive – I have come up with a handful of “why’s,” possible reasons why people cling to this unique misery of unforgiveness.

• They don’t understand mercy. Mercy is one of the most divine of all traits. We are simply thunderstruck by Jesus’ words from the Cross – “Father, forgive them, because they don’t know what they’re doing.” That’s mercy, right there, all encapsulated in a magnificent example of forgiveness.
• They prefer a hard heart to a tender one. Perhaps being tender hearted is viewed as weakness. I’d suggest that it’s a whole lot more courageous to be tenderhearted than it is to take a hard line.
• We are fallen people who live in a fallen world. It’s hard to to be kind when the whole of civilization seems to want us to be harsh and inappropriately aggressive. I see so much hatefulness everywhere I turn. This is not, nor will ever be, a “political” blog, but given the current state of things … I mean. Mama said “if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” Looking back, that might be a lot more wise (or certainly more kind) than I used to believe. What a toxic world! And don’t come at me with a statement like, “Jesus was controversial. Jesus was harsh. Jesus turned over tables and ran people out of the table.” C’mon, now. Really? Of course He did. But when your (or my) motivations are the same as Jesus’, we can use His tactics. Otherwise, it’s best that we stand down. This culture of outrage we have embraced doesn’t seem to help – all it does is make folks on the same side of an issue feel good (or empowered) about themselves. I don’t see many converts coming from rage.
• It’s simply easier to hold a grudge. It takes no effort. It feels good for a season. It makes you feel mighty and self-righteous. It feeds into that nature that says, “I’ll show you. I’m gonna hurt you back. And when I hurt you back, that’s gonna make me feel really, really good.”

“I can’t forgive,” you say. “I can’t be kind to him/her/them. They mistreated me.”

Here’s my bottom line for the day:

Sometimes, it’s the Christians who have been mistreated the most who refuse to be hardened in this world, because they would never want to make another person feel the same way they themselves have felt.

If that’s not something to be in awe of, I don’t know what it is. Love all.

Talk later.

It’s not all about you. It never has been. Check this out:

“I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet’s, the writer’s, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet’s voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.” – William Faulkner

You just read the closing part of Faulkner’s acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize at the Nobel banquet at City Hall in Stockholm, Sweden, on December 10, 1950. The entire speech lasted about three minutes and, like the Gettysburg Address, has no fat on its bones at all. It was succinct, powerful stuff. I won’t post the whole thing, but it bears reading. Google it.

If you read Faulkner, you’ll find that his writings are packed with Christian themes (although his personal life, with multiple affairs, leads me to think that he lived his life just a little on the wrong side of the King James Version.) But I love the quote above, and here’s why:

It’s not all about you.

We can, if we aren’t careful, turn into self-serving little clods.

We live in this culture of outrage. We are offended by everything. Granted, some things are worth getting worked up over. But pity the one who goes through life looking for something to get enraged about. So they rant, and rail, and lash out at anyone who doesn’t see things the way they do. And, in offense’s worst state, they want those not agreeing with them shut down, silenced, banished.

I want to state unequivocally that wanting someone who disagrees with you to be silenced is cowardly and non-Christian.

What are you afraid of? Have we become such weenies that we are threatened by opposing viewpoints? To put a finer point on things, are we not as Christians so uncertain about our own beliefs that to be confronted with challenges causes us to run to the nearest rabbit hole?

Check out Faulkner again, and he implies that it’s not all about you. He states that we are capable of compassion, sacrifice, and endurance. In the context of believers, that implies that we can care and love for our enemies, that we can give ourselves to them and for them, and that we can stand up to anything hurtful or harmful – or unfair and inaccurate – that they might say to us. Actually, that sounds pretty Christlike to me.

Faulkner’s answer was found in words, in poetry, in soaring discourse. Read this again:

It is his (the writer’s) privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past.

That’s good counsel for the poet, and good counsel for us, too. We have that same privilege as we look to others.

But we can’t give away something that we don’t have. We are the end product of those before us who give us examples of courage, honor, hope, pride, compassion, pity, and sacrifice. More importantly, we have received the same examples from Christ Himself.

Here’s the point. Don’t miss the point.

To the extent that you can accept these strengths, divinely given, you can prevail against the ill winds of culture. You have a new Spirit in you, if you’re a believer. It’s a Spirit that will guide you away from blind outrage, away from perceived or real slights, away from any sense of entitlement you may have.

Life is hard. It’s SUPPOSED to be. You are supposed to struggle and contend. Without struggle, where would the glory be? No, see, you are supernaturally empowered to be gifted, to be a gift, to be an encourager, and to always and forever have hope. You don’t have to remain in the dark state you are in. O be joyful. You have reason to hope.

Comments are welcome and encouraged.

In the abstract, ending a relationship isn’t something I want to do, even when it’s best for everyone involved. It’s a matter of “We done. I don’t love you any less, but we done.”

Social media, specifically Facebook, gives you an easy out in ending a relationship. Unfriend them. Boom. Done. But what if you want to salvage things? Perhaps you’re thinking after this troubling season is over, which is rife with toxic politics and COVID issues, we can go back to normal with the people we care about.

What do you do when you want something for someone worse than they want it for themselves?

I’ve always prided myself on being able to build solid, lasting relationships.

I don’t make friends easily. Now, I can’t imagine anyone not liking me, although I’m sure it’s happened and I was unaware. There have been a couple of times when I knew someone didn’t like me, but because of who it was, I didn’t particularly care.

I’ve just been selective in who I invest in. It’s an introvert thing. If we’re friends, you’re stuck with me, unless we move on because of distance, interests, or something else. 

But what if you DO care?

For those of you who know me well, I’m going to deal in hypotheticals here. So don’t spend a lot of time trying to figure out if I’m talking about one specific individual. This is a fictional character – or, at most, a composite. It’s a story of ending a relationship.

Let’s call her Martha.

I first met Martha my sophomore year in college. She was supercute. We had a handful of classes together. I don’t know if there was any “chemistry” there, but it was pretty obvious early on that we could have a relationship.

We became friends first. Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to happen? She had a wry sense of humor, was somewhat introverted, but could still strike up a conversation with anyone. Actually, I didn’t know of anyone who didn’t like her.

There was this unspoken thing between us, and we were both sensitive enough to know it. We would never be anything other than friends. And that was just the way it was supposed to be. If the relationship had gone to another level, it would’ve messed everything up. So friends we remained. Really, really good friends.

We were sort of inseparable. We were so, so open and transparent with each other.

Invariably our conversations gravitated toward two things. We were both Christians. Martha was well read, and we’d have these late night theological discussions about the most obscure tenets of our faith. We tended to have the same beliefs.

The other, of course, was romantic relationships.

We’d talk about the differences in males and females – especially the vast chasm between how we looked at dating life. Martha got plenty of attention from guys. I wanted to vet them all. And she did the same, and more than once she kept me from really messing up with some girl. Fortunately, that personal threshold between us was never crossed. While I was astutely aware of just how pretty she was, and I kind of enjoyed being seen out and about with her, a dating relationship was never an option. Which was good; sometimes I think a friendship can be one of the most pure, uncomplicated relationships around.

Growing old together?

I thought that’s what was going to happen. We’d joke about that. We’d talk about both of us being in the nursing home with our spouses, spending evening playing dominos. We talked about being in each others’ weddings.

And then, the bad thing.

It was over a guy. Wouldn’t you know it? This is what led to me ending this relationship.

I knew Charles vaguely – we didn’t run in the same circles, but I was on a decent enough acquaintance level with him. He was handsome, of course, and charming, and always at ease. I liked him well enough.

He and Martha had grown up in the same town, went to the same school, but he’d graduated a year earlier than her. While they knew each other growing up, they really hadn’t had anything to do with each other.

Now – for reasons unknown – they’d rediscovered each other.

Bottom line is that they started dating. She’d asked me what I thought, and I’d observed them together. I’ll spare you my “A guy knows another guy” lecture, but the simple fact is that this cat only had one thing on his mind. You don’t think I could look in his two eyes and tell you what he was up to?

So I told her what I thought.

She’d asked me what I thought, right? But what I said wasn’t what she wanted to hear. I told her that he was decent, but that she could do better. Sne needed to know that he had the capacity to tell her just the stuff she wanted to hear. I told her I thought he was capable of manipulating her and the relationship.

She took it in stride, but I knew she was gonna do whatever she wanted to do anyway.

My mistake? I couldn’t let it go.

Truth and not fiction here – I want to fix everyone and everything. I want everyone to be happy, to get along, to be at peace. Maybe that’s some sort of weird codependency thing. I’m not sure.

So I kept warning, giving advice. Finally, one night, Martha said, “Tony, you’re gonna have to give this a rest. You’ve said all you need to.”

I feigned hurt, told her that she’d misunderstood, that I wouldn’t hurt her for the world, all that.

She blew up. I don’t mean just telling me to back off. She went Vesuvian on me. It was awful. I didn’t see it coming, and I couldn’t even respond.

Martha spent a good ten minutes peeling the hide off me, accusing me of meddling, of misunderstanding, of being sanctimonious and holier-than-thou. She said I’d been that way with her and others for a long time.

There was more, but that was the gist. She cried. A lot. I couldn’t string together a coherent sentence in my defense. Blindsided doesn’t even begin to explain what happened to me. “I’m sorry,” I said over and over again.

And that was it.

She stormed off after that exchange, and you know what? It was the last real conversation we ever had.

I reached out to her through friends, because she wouldn’t take my calls. When we were in proximity to each other, what little conversation we had was brittle and uncomfortable.

I wanted to patch things up, to make things right. She would have nothing to do with it or me.

I’ve spent a lot of time on this story. Here’s why, and here’s my takeaways.

Maybe they’ll be yours, too, because I’m fairly certain you’ve had a relationship go south yourself. Perhaps you didn’t handle it appropriately. Maybe you aren’t over it yet. Ending a relationship is thoroughly unpleasant, even when it’s right.

• You aren’t exempt from loving that person. Nope, you don’t get a pass. If you’re a believer, hate isn’t an option. You are commanded to love them (love your enemies, right? That’s a non-negotiable.)
• Love, in this context, isn’t a feeling. You will feel what you will feel. That’s not what this is about. Love, here, is a purposeful act that exists apart from your emotions. (I don’t know how to tell you how to disengage your emotions from this. You just choose to.)
• Relational issues may be objectively obvious to you as you observe someone else. But etch this in stone – if you want something for someone worse than they want it for themselves, you will experience horrific grief. 
• You have to develop the skills and sensitivity to know when a relationship can’t be salvaged. If you’ve reached out in good faith, had an attitude of accepting and receiving forgiveness, and done all that decency and Christian faith have required, and you’re still rebuffed, it’s done. But refer back to that first point.
• Sometimes you genuinely have to mind your own business. Enough said.
• I don’t want to address self-care too much here, but you do need to protect yourself from emotional pain. There can be a breaking point when you’ve done too much to try to fix things.
• Ultimately, you may need to simply close the door. Or even slam it. 

Which brings me to the title of this blog. I mean what it says.

There are times when ending a relationship is appropriate. Sometimes you just have to be done with someone. Not mad. Not upset. Just done.

Our challenge is to be done with them in love. Do this, and allow God to do the healing. Perhaps, in His providence, He’ll restore that relationship, and you need to be sensitive to His hand as it works in your life (and the other persons’ life.) Until then, take care of yourself.

“Why don’t you drink?” This question has cropped up numerous times over the years in my work with teenagers as a youth minister, and to explain why I don’t drink has always struck me as odd. Alcohol is the only drug in my experience that I’ve had to explain why I don’t use it. And I was asked the question just this past week. I’m intrigued.

So I’m diving into this today. Now – pay attention: this is NOT a discussion as to why you shouldn’t drink, Christian or not. So, I’m not riding some moralistic high horse here. I am not doling out judgement. There are many Christians who will drink wine with a meal, or have the occasional craft beer.

The only thing I would say is that “Is it wrong?” is NOT the only question a Christian needs to ask, and I’ll leave it at that.

I’m Southern Baptist by choice. There are those semi-humorous tags that come along with that. It’s all those don’t’s … over the years, it’s been stuff like Baptists shouldn’t dance, shouldn’t play cards, shouldn’t go to movies, shouldn’t drink – you get the picture. That’s not what this is about.

I’ll try to explain why I don’t drink, and I’ll start with some scriptural acknowledgements. These are well-known:

• Jesus’ first miracle was the changing of water to wine at the marriage in Cana. I’ve heard people try to explain that the wine of that day didn’t have the alcohol content of what we have today. Well, the word for wine in Greek is oinos, and this is the same word used when the Good Samaritan poured oil and wine on the man’s wounds (there’s an antiseptic quality here).
• Paul famously told Timothy to take a little wine for his stomach’s sake. That oinos again.
• Ephesians tells us to “not be drunk with wine.” Yeah, that’s oinos. What Jesus made at Cana would make you drunk.

Scripture doesn’t speak of abstaining from alcohol. But it does say plenty about drunkenness. Some simple research will affirm that: Proverbs 20:1, Galatians 5:19-21, Luke 21:34, Proverbs 23:29-35, Isaiah 5:11, and lots more. Drunkenness isn’t going to be a neutral state. Scripture says “Nope.”

In our culture, it’s almost as if sobriety makes people uncomfortable.

Storytime!

When our daughter Amy was preparing for her wedding and subsequent reception, she and Teresa looked at several different venues to host the reception. They trusted me enough to do a little vetting, with the understanding that they had the final say.

One spot I visited was gorgeous. The menu they could put together makes me salivate just to even think about it.

The owner asked me if we wanted an open bar. I said, “Thanks, but no. We won’t be serving alcohol.”

He looked at me like I had seven heads. “W-what?” he stammered.

I repeated myself, but didn’t offer any explanation. Once he composed himself, his face sort of clouded and he said sarcastically, “Well, I hope you folks enjoy your punch and cookies!”

That was that.  I thanked him for his time and left.

Going back further, I could talk about the alcohol-fueled experience that was college life. I sampled stuff a couple of times, and didn’t see the appeal. (More later.) There wasn’t any real pressure on me – about the only comments were along the lines of “What could it hurt?” or “You’d be so funny drunk.”

There was one horrific experience in New Orleans when our marching band performed at halftime for a Saints football game. Afterwards, there were shuttle buses running all night from the French Quarter to our hotel. The little group I was hanging with wanted to go to Pat O’Brien’s, home of the notorious hurricane. I thought the glasses this rum concoction came in were pretty cool, and I wanted one. Of course, I didn’t realize that (a) I could have just purchased a glass, and (b) I could’ve got a non-alcoholic version. I got one for the glass, and figured if I chugged it quickly it wouldn’t affect me. I’ll leave the rest to your imagination. I’m not proud of any of that.

About the only other experience I had was as a kid at a wedding reception. There was champagne, and I’d always heard about how wonderful champagne was. I took a sip when no one was looking. It tasted like a burp.

One and done.

There’s your background. I’ve heard every argument for and against. Maybe you’ve gotten curious and have done the same kind of research, and come up with an answer that is consistent with what God teaches you.

For me, here are seven of my reasons for not drinking – why I don’t drink. They may or may not be yours. This may be a non-issue for you.

1. I just don’t like the taste. Pretty basic, huh? I’d much rather have sweet tea.
2. We all have this great freedom because of Christ on the Cross. Because of that freedom, we’re allowed to do certain things as Christians without fear of condemnation. (Paul does a deep dive on this in 1 Corinthians 10). But just because I have the freedom in Christ to do something doesn’t mean that I should.
3. If there is such a thing – this is scientifically debatable – I have an addictive personality. Personalities are complex, and there is no one factor in an addiction, other than you have to be exposed to that substance. Look – I’ve struggled with weight all my adult life, and trying to eat right is a bear. Sugar, for instance, or carbs. Ack. For some folks, it may be drugs, or porn, or social media, or Candy Crush. Perhaps, God forbid, SEC football. Even running! Shopping! Chocolate! You feelin’ me? I just know once something gets ahold of me, shedding it is perfectly awful. Drinking would be a really, really bad idea for me.
4. If I don’t drink, I don’t have to worry about abusing it.
5. I’ve seen the bad side of alcohol too, too many times. After performing a few funerals for adults and teenagers who died because of alcohol, you start asking those hard questions. No one sets out to be an alcoholic. Everyone begins with the attitude of “I’m just a social drinker and there’s nothing wrong with it. God doesn’t forbid it.” All those destroyed people, friendships, marriages, life itself – gone. Chocolate typically doesn’t cause that kind of destruction. (We can make a case how someone who doesn’t take care of their health can certainly hurt those they love, too.)
6. I don’t see how it would make me any closer to God. Okay, bingewatching The Mandalorian, or cheering for the New Orleans Saints doesn’t either. Still, it’s a matter of what would do me the more heinous damage. And it’s also a matter of what has the greater influence on me. Jesus hung out in some seedy places, with folks of questionable character, but He was also the Son of God.
7. The big one for me, as for why I don’t drink, comes down to the issue of being a stumbling block. There are some areas in life where I don’t want others to follow my example. I’ve been aware, as a father and a student minister, that impressionable eyes were watching me. There’s an argument out there that, as a parent, I could’ve shown my kids how to “drink responsibly.” You know, demystify it. Don’t make it glamorous or treat it like some forbidden fruit. Show it as a part of day-to-day living. Perhaps. But if I were to drink responsibly, and one of my kids couldn’t, or didn’t, then I would struggle with some real guilt there. The exercise of my freedom in Christ would have not been a good thing.

Those are seven of mine. And again, I’m not obligating you to come up with any reasoning, for or against.

In my walk with Christ, I want to stay as close to Him as possible. If anything interferes with that, I need to kick it to the curb and be done with it. Lord knows I struggle with consistency on this one! It’s easy for me to justify most anything. I just don’t want alcohol to be added to that list. There is enough I have to contend with already.

I want to become one with Christ. That means that I shouldn’t do things that get in the way of that.

Be well.

I sure would appreciate your comments below.

I’m an empath. Your response might be “so what?” closely accompanied by “who cares?” Stick around. You may learn something.

Empaths make up less than 2% of the population. It is derived from the word “empathy,” which is the ability to both understand and feel other people’s feelings. “An empath is someone who doesn’t have the same filters that others have so they tend to feel everything. Empaths are emotional sponges who tend to take on the stress (and positivity) of the world,” explains Judith Orloff, M.D., psychiatrist and author of the book “Thriving as an Empath: 365 Days of Self-Care for Sensitive People.”

If you’re an empath, these last few weeks have been perfectly awful for you. Here’s why.

1. You feel the pain of others. If you share that with people who don’t understand what an empath is, it quickly freaks them out. I’ve said, “Not only do I know how you feel, I feel what you feel.” Saying that is always a good way to make a new friend. Not. I’d add, too, that empathy isn’t some new-agey feely-touchy concept. It’s a psychological reality.
2. If someone says one thing and means another, you know it. I’ve had people try to bluff and bluster their way through a situation and I’m sitting there thinking, “Really?” In your attempt to listen to others, you’ve heard stuff that was outright baloney. You knew it, too.
3. You feel drained if you’re around certain people for too long. The term is “energy vampire.” There are some folks in my life I’d just as soon see going as coming. I’ve been around certain individuals and left their presence with relief. They were so incredibly negative and cynical that I felt like I needed a shower.
4. You feel a certain emotion around specific people every time you’re with them. Several years ago there was a gentleman in a church I was serving whose two daughters were in my youth group. This man was so special to me, and he never even knew it. My thought was, “I want people to feel around me the way I feel around him.” There’s an opposite to this, of course – see #3 above.
5. Emotions can be confusing – one minute you were feeling normal and the next you’re feeling something else entirely and you don’t understand why. “Moody” doesn’t even come close as a descriptor. It’s a different thing altogether. It sometimes has nothing to do with what’s going on in your environment. It just is.
6. You dislike and avoid conflict. It can make you physically ill. You don’t want to even be around conflict, whether you’re a part of it yoursef or not. It genuinely bewilders you when people don’t try to get along. It just hurts.
7. You have trouble fitting in. That’s not to say you don’t have friends – you can have close, intimate friends and enjoy their company. Still, you have a sense of not belonging. You may self-identify as being socially awkward. Those profound things you want to say come out as gibberish.
8. You are easily overwhelmed. I’ve joked about when the next Space-X flight takes place, I’d like to hitch a ride. I need a break from earth. You really, really need your alone time.
9. People tend to tell you their problems – sometimes even their life stories. It can happen randomly. It doesn’t even have to be someone you know. I’ve got a couple of airplane stories that verify this.
10. You are highly intuitive – you simply “get” things that others don’t. There is a specific sense of your surroundings – you constantly have the experiences of, say, walking into a “peaceful” house or a “happy” room. And you are uncannily right about your senses.

“Tony,” you say, “I find that all rather odd. Why are you sharing this? It doesn’t really apply to me or where I am.”

If you’re an empath, your greatest strength can also be your greatest curse.

I’m coming from a place of some life experience. I’ve been around a while. Age doesn’t equate with wisdom, though. I know plenty of stupid old people.

As subjectively as I can, I’m telling you that these are unprecedented days for me. Maybe you, too.

If you aren’t an empath (and, statistically, you probably aren’t), then you are most likely a “just the facts, ma’am” kind of person. “Tell me what you’re going to do. Tell me what I’m supposed to do. Don’t bog down in how all this ‘feels.'”

Well, pilgrim, facts aren’t going to serve you as well as they might once have. You have to recognize how hurting, frustrated, confused, angry, hopeful people feel, and give them the grace and space to let them feel.

An empath understand that. They intuitively know how people feel. That’s a good thing. But they also feel what other people feel, and that’s not all that great.

Go back and look at my arbitrary list of 10. Maybe you see yourself in one or more of them. Maybe not.

If you do, then exploit that. Turn it into a positive. Let it be an asset, a helpful trait, to help you get some answers. Ask those questions. Let others ask those questions of you. Listen. Love harder.

But – and this is a huge but – be smart about when to engage and when to disengage with someone. Observe, don’t absorb. Your survival depends on that. That’s a solemn admonition to anyone.

Tony’s question: What can you do today to demonstrate empathy with someone else? Please share in the comments below. You might just encourage someone.

The indifference of God. Maybe you know what I’m talking about.

If you’re a believer, you’ve been taught that God cares for you. You’ve experienced that care, perhaps.

There have been times when I’ve rested in the arms of Jesus. Storms wail, waves crash, darkness looms, and yet I feel perfectly safe. He’s got me, in other words.

Other times, it’s as though I’ve hung on for dear life. It’s like walking to the edge of the abyss, peeking over, and knowing that one misstep is certain death.

I was taught that I would never walk alone. What about those times when you don’t sense His presence at all? And before you climb up on your spiritual high horse and try to convince me that you’ve always known He’s there, I will tell you that part of your spiritual growth process is to experience the silence of God.

This is nothing new.

If you want to take this thought to its extreme manifestation, consider Jesus’ words from the cross:

“My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?”

Jesus experienced silence. His Father God was nowhere to be found.

How are we to respond to God’s silence? Is the indifference of God even a thing?

It is not. But that’s not to say that we should interpret God’s silence as His indifference.

In the bleakest of moments, you might have said to yourself, “No one cares.” The companion thought is, “No one understands.”

These are actual possibilities, I’m sorry to say. It’s unlikely, but there are people who genuinely don’t have anyone that cares about them. And to say “no one understands” is to some degree true of all of us. No one is going to completely “get” you because they aren’t you. If you don’t always understand your thoughts and actions, it’s not likely anyone else is, either.

My Sunday School diploma gives me the authority to say this: God cares. God understands.

Don’t blow that off as simplistic or just a t-shirt slogan. I don’t think the issue is believing those statements – the problem comes in making them a reality in your life.

What can you do, then? When God is silent, are there steps you can take to assure yourself that He is indeed there and is continually present?

Try these:

1. Understand that the silence of God is not the indifference of God. God, by His nature, cannot be indifferent. He is intimately involved in every aspect of your life.
2. If you’re wondering if God cares, let me direct you toward the Cross. That’s proof aplenty.
3. God routinely takes us to places of desperation. I’d be presumptuous to try to explain why. I think it has everything to do with our personal growth and maturity in Christ. He leaves us to our own desires, and we wander far afield. Like the prodigal in the far country, He engineers circumstances to take us to a place of hopelessness. If we’re reasonably intelligent, self-inflicted hopelessness should point us to repentance. Repentance leads to restoration.
4. Part of God’s strategy with us is when He seals up the heavens and you not only don’t “hear” from Him through scripture or prayer, you can’t even tell if He’s around.
5. This is much, much different from the human “silent treatment.” That passive-aggressive tactic is deployed to make someone feel guilty or unworthy. That’s not how God rolls. Quite the opposite.
6. God’s silence is intended to move us to a place of longing. We experience a leanness in our souls. We move into a place on dependence on Him. You don’t take Him for granted anymore.
7. When the time is right – and He determines the time – He’ll break through. It’s incumbent on us to put ourselves in a place where we can hear and discern clearly.
8. Just because you can’t feel His presence is no evidence that He isn’t there. Feelings are great betrayers. Don’t base your relationship with God on how you feel.

Can you trust Him no matter what?

It’s easy to trust God when the bush is burning and you hear His voice. You can easily trust Him when the waters part before you and you can cross safely on dry land. It’s those times of silence that are disturbing.

Guess what? You are not exempt from God’s silence.

If silence serves His purposes and causes you to yearn for Him, you can count on Him to be very, very quiet.

It’s easy for me to say “hang on.” It’s much tougher to have to be the one who’s hanging. I believe your best strategy is to acknowledge that we all experience those times of silence, from the weakest believer to to the strongest saint. God trusts you enough to let you experience His silence. There is no such thing as the indifference of God. When He refuses to speak, take comfort in knowing He’s up to something big. He is going to grow you in a totally unexpected fashion.

Go with that. He’ll never leave you or forsake you.

“I hate myself some days.”

Or, perhaps, most days.

Consider these lovely activities:

• You constantly remind yourself of your perceived shortcomings.
• You think about what you should have said instead of what you did say.
• You replay the mistakes you’ve made, even those from years ago.
• You look in the mirror and think, “Who is this loser staring back at me?”
• You believe the negative things people have said to you.
• You yearn for “do-overs” when there aren’t any.
• You realize “I can’t take it back.”

I could go on. You probably don’t want me to.

I don’t know that I’ve ever been in a place that I actually hated myself. But there have been plenty of times I’ve hated what I did/thought/believed. Problem is, for many, it’s virtually impossible to separate what you do from yourself.

Are you defined by your actions? Perhaps.

If you think in terms of how the world perceives you, then, yeah. People’s perceptions of you are based on what they see, not what you think.

What facade you offer the world can be quite different than what’s going on inside. If you’re skilled at mask-wearing, then you can put on that proverbial happy face. People may never know the difference.

“I hate myself some days.” How would you like to reduce some to very few or no?

This is a radical change, and I don’t think there’s a quick fix.

Let’s begin with some basics. And this primarily for Believers, but there are some universal principles in play here.

• God protects you. Think of it as a hedge or wall. This doesn’t mean that bad things won’t happen to you or those you care about. (This is why so many people choke on the teachings of Christianity. It’s that “how can a loving God allow a child to die of leukemia?” We can take that discussion up later.) Fact is – there are a lot of terrible things that never happened because you were protected.
• God protects you from contempt and disapproval. Before you bristle up at me – “Hey, Tony, do you know the awful things people have said about me or to me?” – stick with me. It’s true, some people may view you as worthless at best and despicable at worst. They may say that to your face. They may certainly say that to others. When I say “God protects you,” I mean that He supernaturally equips you to bear up under the slings and arrows of hurtful words. You can’t do anything about what other people say. You can do plenty about your response to it. Remember – hurt people hurt people. Pity those who would devalue you. They are in quiet agony themselves.
• Sometimes, God has to protect you from yourself. You may have critics, but none of them are as severe as you. People may criticize you for what you do or say. You criticize  yourself for who you are – or who you perceive yourself to be.

It’s that contempt and disapproval of ourselves that can bring on that “I hate myself most days” mindset.

Here’s a case study.

Simon Peter was one of Jesus’ disciples.  He was part of that inner circle that included Peter, James, and John. For whatever reason, Jesus invested just a bit more in those three than He did the group as a whole. Don’t accuse Jesus of “having favorites.” He knew what He was doing.

Peter is a piece of work. He was a man of extremes – all or nothing. He tended to engage his mouth long before his brain engaged. I’m guessing the other disciples got really, really annoyed at him. Maybe even jealous – I could make a case that he and Jesus were best buds.

Still – there’s this:

• He spoke disparagingly of the other disciples: “Even if all fall away on account of you, I never will.” Peter is saying, these other guys are wimps. I’m sticking with you no matter what.
  
• “Lord,” said Peter, “why can’t I follow You now? I will lay down my life for You.” Hey, Peter – talk is cheap.
• “Lord,” said Peter, “I am ready to go with You even to prison and to death.” Riiiight.

Those are some big words from this fisherman. Then this classic, horrific incident:

• “Truly I tell you,” Jesus declared, “this very night before the rooster crows, you will deny Me three times.” Yep. That’s what Jesus told Peter after Peter mouthed off.
• So. Jesus is arrested. Peter tells the crowd in the courtyard of the high priest that he has no idea who Jesus is.
• Then Peter remembered the word that Jesus had spoken: “Before the rooster crows, you will deny Me three times.” And he went outside and wept bitterly.

Okay then. Peter really messes up here. It’s the culmination of a lot of big talk. Peter discovered who he really was, not who he perceived himself to be.

Just sketching out the rest of the story – Peter repents. He receives forgiveness from Jesus Himself. And this same Peter – all mouth and bluster – is seen later in the book of Acts as being bold and fearless and a leader in the fledgling church.

“Okay,” you say, “that’s a great redemptive story. What does that have to do with me hating myself most days?”

I’d wager that after Peter denied Jesus in that courtyard, he was filled with self-loathing. He probably thought that he’d blown it, permanently.

Here’s the kicker, though. Jesus never stopped loving him.

Peter could have never done God’s work, could have never had the courage to live on, or the daring to live for Jesus without being wrapped in God’s tender love.

He didn’t need to be protected from the anger of God. God does indeed discipline, even punish, but in this case God made His redemption of Peter clear to him.

Peter didn’t need to be protected from the scorn of his enemies or the resentment of his friends. Both of these issues were likely realities for Peter, but after realizing he was forgiven, he was bulletproof from scorn and resentment. He was right with God. Everything else was  secondary.

God had to protect Peter from himself.

This is the answer to self-loathing and disappointment in yourself. It’s a matter of recognizing your standing with God Himself, who is crazy in love with you. He proved that at the Cross, and He proves it now. He wants you to turn your back on “hating yourself.” He does want you to be accountable for your actions. He doesn’t give a pass on sin. But what He does do – and this is some real comfort – is give you the opportunity to see yourself as He sees you.

You have no reason to hate yourself. God doesn’t. That’s sufficient.

You can have hope. Don’t forget that.

But you can also, in your search for hope and encouragement, make others miserable.

Some people take a perverse delight in being annoying. That’s not what I’m talking about. Rather, I’m talking about those who desperately reach out to others, perhaps in good faith and with good intentions, and once they get the attention they want, they simply won’t let go.

Here’s an example. There are plenty more, but I’ll start here. You’ll readily understand what I’m talking about. (And if this all sounds too much like any program on the CW, hang on. I’ll give you something more substantive in a bit.)

I’ve worked with teenage students for a lot of years. Kids spend those teenage years swimming in a sea of hormones. Their parents know it (we were all kids once, right?), their peers know it, and they know it.

The result? Romantic urges. A crazy, tsunami of desire to want to have a significant other. (Okay, this isn’t restricted to teenagers. But let me exploit my own example here.)

One scenario: A boy and girl start “talking.” Perhaps they were already friends. Then the talk escalates, each one probes the other trying to determine how they really feel, and they take the next step,

Lo and behold, they are now going together. The clouds part, the sun beams down, angels sing in chorus, and love reaches full bloom.

Then one of them messes a good thing up.

This is not the sole fault of one gender over the other. Clinginess is an equal-opportunity virus. What happens, typically, is that one party becomes obsessed over the other to the extent that the obsessed clinger won’t let the clingee have a life of their own. They want to know what they’re doing, who they’re with, and why are they thinking and acting the way they are.

Putting it succinctly, I’ll quote one line I heard from a 16-year-old girl to her soon-to-be-former boyfriend:

“You act like you own me.”

Know what I mean? But it can be an even more subtle unhealthy attachment. It might just be a tendency on the part of the clinger to want to spend every waking moment with the object of their affection. Love can be like that, but it can get, well, icky.

It is thoroughly unpleasant to be involved with someone that won’t give you the breathing space you need. This teen scenario is pretty obvious.

However – clinginess can manifest itself in other ways:

• A husband doesn’t want his wife to have a life that doesn’t involve him.
• A mom needs to know every aspect of her daughter’s life to the extent it becomes oppressive (can you say “helicopter?”)
• An employee consistently and obnoxiously kisses up to his boss for special favor.
• A student goes to great lengths to be the “teacher’s pet.”
• Someone plays the martyr card if they don’t feel like they’re appreciated.
• Someone depends on another for their sense of self-worth.
• Someone gets their identify from how others treat them or talk about them. So they act like chameleons, trying to be what they think others want them to be.

For me personally, I detest the thought that I might come across as emotionally needy. I don’t want to come across as some sort of invalid. Aggghhh.

My temperament lends itself to that, frankly. I don’t want to be the center of attention, but I still want to feel like I’m needed. That can manifest itself in  my lifelong quest to fix everything and anyone, whether they want fixing or not. I have been horrifically guilty of trying too hard. Being “all in” isn’t always a virtue.

What I’m learning in these sunset years is that there is nothing more pitiful than wanting something for someone worse than they want it for themselves. Listen to your Uncle Tony on this one: Don’t do that. Save yourself a boatload of grief. Don’t try to be the assistant to the Holy Spirit. Last time I checked, He’s the only one that can bring about eternal life change.

But I digress. I’ve said all that before.

There’s an element of codependency in clinginess. The clinger might be well-meaning, thinking he or she is being helpful and affirming, when in reality they are simply being annoying at best and repulsive at worse. It’s not a way to win friends and influence people.

So if you have had to deal with a clinger, you know how unpleasant and cloying that can be. You look for ways to put as much distance between you and them as you can. If you’re gracious and compassionate, you struggle to love them and shut them down at the same time. Sometimes you just have to put your mercy on hold and say, “You are just gonna need to stand down.” If they have a molecule of self-awareness and desire to do the right thing, they’ll understand, and maybe even do what you’ve asked. All will be well because both parties have learned and grown and the relationship is sweeter than ever.

There’s that. But. What if you’re the one who is clinging? What if you’ve abandoned all decency and common sense and figuratively (if not literally!) say “What’s wrong? Don’t you love me? Don’t you appreciate me?”

I hope I’ve never been there. Maybe I have. Shame on me.

Maybe you have yourself. Maybe you knew what you were doing but felt powerless in the grip of some emotion.

I’ve wondered what puts us in that state. Here’s what I’ve decided:

We often demand of people what only God can give us.

We want encouragement, affirmation, strength, motivation, and many other like things. God can provide every one of them. Every one.

But when we look to others as our primary source of these things, we can wring them dry.

It’s okay to expect some things from people as long as you know they are human beings who thirst like you do. But they need an Infinite Well as much as you do.

Those close to you really want to help you and come alongside you. They’ll listen to you, pray for you, and do what they can to make things  better. The problem – and it’s a big one – comes when your dependency on them to meet those needs I mentioned above (and others) overrides your dependence on God. You try to pull from a secondary finite source, and regrettably it’s often someone you care for greatly.

If they’re honest, there may come a time when they have to say, “I got nuthin’.”

What a bad state. You realize you’ve asked them for something they aren’t able to give. You’ve become a clinger.

Others have let you down before. I’ve certainly been let down. But I can’t help but consider today how much of my being let down was because of me. It’s not necessarily because I deserved it. It might, however, be because I didn’t know how or when to turn to God completely rather than thinking someone could be a substitute for Him.

I know and believe that God uses other people in our lives. God’s so cool – so, so many times He has sent along just the right person at just the right time with just the right words to bring about sweet little relational miracles. I cherish that. People are gifts!

It’s when we look toward the gift instead of the Giver for our primary comfort and care that we mess up royally.

The key, methinks, is to learn to recognize when you are trying too hard, reaching out compulsively, and depending on a fellow struggler instead of the true Source of comfort. Love your people. Cherish those who will speak truth to you. But don’t let anyone become a substitute for the transforming Jesus dwelling inside you. It’s impossible to cling to Him too desperately.