On my way home last night, driving through the Dallas storm, I was wondering if people think I’m kind. Not to depend on the opinion of man, of course, but to depend definitely on the knowledge that good will towards men still matters. It should matter. Godliness matters, too, but sometimes that basket is heavy and so we start with just one fruit that fits our fingers. 

What constitutes the pursuit of kindness, really? Someone who’s soft, lively, affectionate, warm? Not particularly the cluster of adjectives that would decorate my eulogy. Those who know me know I am other things - sturdy, loyal, maybe, driven, and true. Those who don’t may see a shell that’s polite but distant. Helpful but a bit cold. Friendly perhaps but too unapproachable to know for sure.

In a snow globe, I see men and women greet strangers with vibrancy, affirmation poured out thick like honey from their lips. They smile like my husband, big and wide so it leaves lines on the cheeks. I give it a shake and watch the snow settle on a village of people not like me. Will sanctification take me there? In the meantime, how will anyone know that I care. 

Ram Dass says, “We're all going to the same place, and we're all on a path. Sometimes our paths converge. Sometimes they separate, and we can hardly see each other, much less hear each other. But on the good days, we're walking on the same path, close together, and we're walking each other home.” The rain crawled up my windshield, and I asked the Spirit to show me how His kindness walks us home and then to go ahead and make me like that.

A song by Angus and Julia stone played next — the very first verse hit me like an answer and I trust that it was: “You can’t call a dog home if you don’t know his name.” I was brought to John 10 and the words of Jesus that say his sheep recognize His voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. He doesn’t bribe them and he certainly doesn’t leave them there to starve. He doesn’t refer to them by the color of their coat, and he doesn’t begrudgingly pick them up by the ears. Lovingkindness calls us home because He’s a shepherd and He knows our name.

Early the next morning at work, a young girl came in, twenties. Her shorts were too short and she was fanning herself from her jog. With a smile, I asked how she was doing - no reply. She ordered her espresso in as few words as possible. A complete bitch. Pompous, she smacked her gum and hovered high above me as I prepared her drink. I handed it off and she sipped it in front of me, hurried. I stood with her and before she left, I asked, “What’s your name?” Her face softened and she met my eyes for the first time. “Amanda,” she said. “I think I like this place.”

Maybe you’re not the smiley spirited sort, and you’re wondering if your kindness isn’t right. Well, be encouraged in this small step. We have neighbors on our pilgrimage home, and we’re supposed to love them as ourselves. Whatever that means. You and I are not the same, but maybe peace on earth wants us to at least use their names.

What did I do to deserve this? Cancerous relapse, a clean bill of health. The promotion at work versus working the cardboard intersections. A renewal of vows. Taking inventory of the newer, misplaced bruises. Beautiful children. A too-small casket. Enduring the words of a bully, or a faithful friend enduring you.

To deserve any of these assumes that we’re either blameless enough for reward or vile enough for punishment, and are attached with strings to a marionette who plays by those rules. Growing up, church people would announce one of two things, each iteration still warring with the other. We, as sinners, are dust. Doomed. Grateful to even be alive under His eye. And we, as image-bearers, are also washed anew. Cut from His cloth. Passing from glory to glory, He chose us. Pure.

So which is it? As disorienting as this may sound, I still think it’s both and the duality of his death and resurrection — his finite humanness and infinite Godliness — is what lets it make sense to me. But to pit them against their opposite and hold them in two hands unbalanced is how we’ve regretfully spun the story. We, as sinners, are no less deserving and we, as image-bearers, are no more. They are held level, one and the same. Wholly undeserving without penalty and wholly justified without prize, save his presence, of course.

You and I don’t deserve each other’s kindness, goodness, or gentleness like we often think we do. Likewise, it’s not in our best interest to admire when someone “gets what was coming for them.” This stokes the narrative that somehow, by good deeds, we are worthy. And of the opposite, when we fail, which is mostly, that badness should find us.

I’ve just been thinking about this lately. I guess what I’m saying is to tread lightly when you start telling yourself this story. That you need a drink at the end of a long day because you deserve it. Work hard for hard work’s sake and let it be to His glory. Self care is fine, but care for yourself, your body and soul, as if it’s the only one you have here on this earth. Not because you rallied a hundred kids and your merit of motherhood depends on it (though maybe I’ll someday say it does).

It’s a slippery slope when we start claiming our own favor and fortune the way we want to. Suddenly, we’re tired, sick, things hurt, everything’s an inconvenience to us, so we deserve the world. Culture tells us to treat ourselves, and so we do until our entitlement surpasses His sufficiency. I’m guilty of it. And I’ve had people ask that if I had nothing else, would Christ be enough and sometimes my true answer has been no. I want it to be yes. And I want it to be without caveat. I want the good things to be just gifts in light of God’s inherent goodness. Not mine. And I want the burdens to make me grateful even to be alive under His eye. And instead of carrying the weight of my own sin, self-deprecating, I want to trust his easy yoke.

We can rest quietly knowing that we don’t deserve anything — grace, mercy, the kindness of a stranger, even the estrangement of our kin. For “if when we were at our worst, we were put on friendly terms with God by the sacrificial death of his son, now that we’re at our best, just think of how our lives will expand and deepen by means of his resurrection life.” Romans 5:10. Undeserving and still justified so that we can drop the act and just be faithful.