The Hated

I have a heavy heart this morning. Yesterday my daughter told me that yet another one of her public school teachers had verbally singled out Christians as an object of scorn. That same day, my friend said that her son’s preschool has a policy against displaying Christmas trees, while making allowance for Menorahs and Kwanzaa candles.

I understand that much of this persecution arises because of the pure idiocy of some who call themselves Christians. And because far too many of us fail to understand how to properly represent the gracious person and spirit of Jesus Christ in the world around us. I get that. I so get that.

But what I don’t understand is how that those who seem to cry the loudest for tolerance are often the least willing to give it. And why is there not liberty and justice for all? And how is it that in public discourse, one can mention the name of Mohammed or Buddha and not miss a suave beat; but utter the name of “Jesus” and all goes silent as eyes peel or dart down into the protective cup of coffee?

Except I do understand. I sit here in the quiet hours of early morning and hold my Bible close, kiss its pages and read His blood-red words through the blur of my tears:

If the world hates you, you know that it hated me before it hated you. If you were of the world, the world would love its own. Yet because you are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world, therefore the world hates you….If they persecuted Me, they will also persecute you. If they kept my word, they will keep yours also. But all these things they will do to you for My name’s sake, because they do not know him who sent Me….He who hates me, hates My Father also.” John 15:18-22

In the world you will have tribulation (greek=pressure, oppression, adversity). But be of good cheer, I have overcome the world. (John 16:33)

His words are a healing balm to my wounded heart:

I have overcome the world.

Overcome.

I am over it.

I am not angry. I am not Victim. I am not vengeful with a picket sign or bruised with the worn knuckles of those who knock on the door of justice and get no answer.

I am hated.

But I am also loved.

And the more loved I allow myself to be by Him, the more ready I'll be when the real persecution rears its ugly head, rises to its feet, and heads Westward.

We with our thin skin and calloused hearts are hardly ready, my friends.