Pride & Shame
Right now I’m reading John Piper’s book, Battling Unbelief. He once again hits a home-run. It’s an abbreviated version of his longer work, Future Grace, and since as a mommy my time to read is limited, I read this shorter version while I walk on the treadmill :-). The book has categories of things that we battle, all of which have the same root–unbelief. Today I read about battling Pride and battling Shame.
Pride: Two things struck me about battling pride. First, we have gotten it all mixed up in our modern minds because we equate theological wishy-washiness (my word!) with humility. It is not! We are called to know what we believe, which is not pride. As GK Chesterton, a British Catholic journalist who died in 1936 said, “What we suffer from . . . is humility in the wrong place. Modesty has moved from the organ of ambition. Modesty has settled upon the organ of conviction; where it was never meant to be. A man was meant to be doubtful about himself, but undoubting about the truth; this has been exactly reversed. Nowadays the part of a man that a man does assert is exactly the part he ought not to assert–himself. The part he doubts is exactly the part he ought not to doubt–the Divine Reason.” Wow! Joshua Harris calls this Humble Orthodoxy. Well said.
Secondly, CS Lewis says this about Pride: “The pleasure of pride is like the pleasure of scratching. If there is an itch one does want . . . (hold on, Dutch just woke up, I’ll be back in a few hours . . . ok I’m back). If there is an itch one does want to scratch; but it is much nicer to have neither the itch nor the scratch. As long as we have the itch of self-regard we shall want the pleasure of self-approval; but the happiest moments are those when we forget our precious selves and have neither but have everything else (God, our fellow humans, animals, the garden and sky) instead.”
Lastly, consider this about two forms of pride, boasting and self-pity: “Both are manifestations of pride. Boasting is the response of pride to success. Self-pity is the response of pride to suffering. Boasting says, “I deserve admiration because I have achieved so much.” Self-pity says, “I deserve admiration because I have sacrificed so much.” Boasting is the voice of pride in the heart of the strong. Self-pity is the voice of pride in the heart of the weak. Boasting sounds self-sufficient. Self-pity sounds self-sacrificing. The reason self-pity does not look like pride is that it appears to be needy. But the need arises from a wounded ego and the desire of the self-pitying is not really for others to see them as helpless, but heroes. The need self-pity feels does not come from a sense of unworthiness, but from a sense of unrecognized worthiness. It is the response of unapplauded pride.”
Boom. That hits me between the eyes. Have I done that? Do I want people to know the things I’ve “suffered” so that somehow that will exalt me? I hope not! I think of how that relates even to things that I write, things that I say, things that I share with people. Even in my writing of the Santa Clara story–I wanted to write it to remember the marvelous things God has done, and yet I’m afraid I will enjoy it if people somehow thing I’ve “endured” a hard thing, as if it had anything to do with us. It does not. All too often, I have “the itch”. In a way, this revelation makes me scared to share with anyone about the hard things that I may be going through, because I don’t want to be seeking their admiration or applause, but on the other hand I also want to be an authentic person. The difference? My heart. Only God can know my motivation. He and I both know when I have the itch of self-regard. I do know that I wrote the Santa Clara story with a pure motive and purpose, what I have to fight daily is the desire to have other people somehow applaud me somehow for my faith–which has nothing to do with me anyway. God, please purify my heart, my motives, my speech, that I would lose the itch of self-regard and lose myself in You.
Shame:
Piper talks about two kinds of shame–appropriate shame, the type we feel when we’ve wronged God, and misplaced shame, which we ought not to have. The key difference? We shouldn’t feel shame for the things that dishonor us, but only the things that we’ve done that dishonor God. However, most of us spend our time feeling shame for things that either are not our fault or that aren’t shameful because they don’t dishonor God.
This past weekend Jeff and I went to Bend. While we were there we attended a art unveiling with Jeff’s mom. At the unveiling, we met the painter’s wife and two daughters. One daughter, a freshman in high school, has some birth defect which has misshapen one side of her face. However, when I met her, she just beamed, welcoming me and oohing and ahing over Dutch, teasing that she wanted to be the president of his fan club, and wondering if she could marry him when he grew up. She stood tall and looked me in the eye, a glowing, beautiful, utterly confident girl. She obviously knew this principle. There was truly no appropriate reason for her to feel shame, and so she did not. But how many times I feel shame, not over the things I should (!) but over things that dishonor me rather than God. I’m thankful that I met this girl who was an example to me of this correct understanding of shame.
STAY POSTED, because I’m currently working on my next piece, Eva, which is based on a true story:
Eva Marie Van Zandt, named “Ey Ve” after the prize fighting boxer Joey Velez, was born in 1946 to Lois and William Van Zandt. At eighteen she married her thirty-year-old lover, only to be abandoned with three small children. Left penniless and alone, she determines to give her sons the best life possible. Follow Eva’s journey as she battles poverty, cancer, and unbelief, and watch as the faithfulness of God breathes hope into her soul.
Pruned
1 “I am the true vine, and My Father is the vinedresser. 2 Every branch in Me that does not bear fruit He takes away;[a] and every branch that bears fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit. John 15. 1-2.
While we lived in San Jose (ok, secret’s out–the story took place in San Jose rather than Santa Clara–don’t tell!), I painted a picture (I’m not a painter, so it was purely for the sake of self-expression, not creating art) entitled “Pruned”. It was of a grove of trees, beautiful and lush, with blossoms and branches and green growth. Then, in the middle stood an ugly stick of a tree, cut and hacked up so it just stood and looked bare. That was how I felt. I felt as if all the beautiful, fruitful, lovely things in my life had been stripped away. Even my personality. I felt like my personality had changed. Instead of always feeling upbeat and optimistic, I had to constantly battle feeling depressed, discouraged, and defeated. A part of me was scared that I would never come back to be the “real Kari” again. AMazingly, when we moved back to Oregon, I felt like I came back to life. Once again I felt the joy and energy and enthusiasm for life that I’d lost. I’m not saying that I was being ruled by circumstances (although of course we all are to some degree), I’m saying that I feel that God pruned me while we were there. He, if you will, hacked me to pieces and took away all the things that I thought were fruitful and beautiful. But He did it for a purpose, just as His word says in John 15–that I would bear more fruit. His logic and method certainly is baffling to me because at the time it certainly doesn’t seem like fruit will come from a stick of an ugly tree. But He knows. Any vinedresser would know that that is how it works. And what amazed me was that it was true. When we moved to McMinnville I could see fruit in my life, my walk with Jesus, my marriage, and now in my relationship with my son.
I once again feel pruned. The circumstances are different (and much much better!), but the inward feeling of stripping away is the same. This time it’s smaller things–things like having my own place to call home, that I long for with every ounce of me no matter how wonderful my parents are (and they are!). I long for a “normal” life again, even though I know that’s not what we’re called to live. I long for some clue about what the future holds for us, but God asks me to trust Him. Sometimes I just want to be normal, just live a normal life with jobs and cars and a house and kids and I’d even say a dog if I didn’t dislike them so much. But that’s not the life we signed up for, we signed up for more. As much as I’d like that life right now, I want God most. I want more of Him. I want more of Him even if it means that He’s hacking me to pieces and cutting off all my beautiful foliage so that I can produce more fruit and know Him more. And I don’t say this is a dreary, dutiful, martyr sort of way. I say this knowing full well that knowing more of Him will be the most joyful and satisyfing experience on earth because He is the more joyous and satisfying Person on earth! Like Jim Elliot said, He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose.
I’m not a very strong, brave, and courageous person. Christians around the world are risking their necks, giving all their worldly goods, and sacrificing their very lives, for the sake of Christ. I’m sacrificing very little. But the altar sactifies the gift–my life is given to Him. Help me to be brave, God, when You prune me. Help me to see the unseen future, when my season to blossom comes again.
A Hike to Hardy Creek
A Hike to Hardy Creek
This morning Jeff and I took a hike to Hardy Creek, up the Molalla River corridor. Little did we know what wilderness beauty awaited us when we decided to move out here. During Dutch’s morning nap, after a sweaty Tae Bo session with Billy Blanks, we took our water bottles and drove the short, several mile drive up the river, just up from my parents’ house in Molalla. We parked at the Hardy Creek trailhead and did our short hike up to Hardy Creek. It was so beautiful, the mid-morning sun bursting through the tree leaves, the air crisp and cool still, the only sounds that of our feet crunching on the path and the slight rustling of the breeze in the leaves. When we reached the creek, we stood on the footbridge, in silence, just savoring the sound of the water, sounding so crisp – and somehow sounding icy cold, as if coldness could have a sound.
I don’t know why it is that two people can sit down to talk and find nothing particularly pressing to discuss, and yet put those same two people on a hike, and they have no trouble finding fascinating topics to discuss. Perhaps it’s because on a hike you can enjoy those familiar and comfortable silences, and your senses are awakened because of the fresh air, beauty, and distance from all that distracts and demands our attention. Here, relishing the intoxicating stillness of nature, we’re reminded that we have souls and thoughts and senses. We don’t just move about numbly in busy circles of tedious tasks, we engage with our thoughts and can take the time to glimpse into our souls. Times like these are catalysts for spiritual renewal. Stillness. He leads me beside still waters and restores my soul. Today He led me besides Hardy Creek and restored my soul.
Loving Rebecca
Loving Rebecca
This I command you, that you love one another. John 15:17
The look is hard to describe. It’s such a combination of expressions I’ve seen before, in movies or on the faces of people in the street. At times you’d think she was trying to discern whether you were telling the truth, or looking hard to recognize something she’d seen before, like an eyewitness identifying the culprit from a line of suspects. Her eyes narrowed as if suspicious, but the tinge of pain and hurt in them made it more likely that she was meeting a long lost father, perhaps one who’d abandoned her, and she was left searching for words to confront and express. The frown on her face and the squinting of her eyes expressed deep, harbored bitterness, the kind I’m scared of, that boils and stews, steeps and threatens to, at any moment, erupt in a flurry of hatred. But perhaps all that is assigning too much to a face. I don’t know. I’m trying to understand Rebecca.
I met Rebecca during my first year as a campus missionary. Living on donations and Top Ramen, Goodwill became my department store of choice, and I made an inward commitment to God and myself, to love the unlovable and to demonstrate the “one another” imperatives I’d studied in Scripture. I met Rebecca that Fall.
I did what any normal human who is decent and has some trace of compassion would do. Rebecca was slumped over next to the pay phone in the hallway outside the dining hall, sobbing uncontrollably. Her awkwardly thick, stick straight, pageboy cut hair hung over her eyes, and her oversized Starter jacket sat in a poofy pouch over her body. Below her ankle-tapered jeans were thick, faded, navy blue socks and brown summer sandals. Her backpack sat beside her. I stopped to ask what was wrong. As I squatted next to her chair, she looked up and gave me that look. A moment later, her arms were thrown around me and her head fell on my shoulder, nuzzling her wet face and running nose into my neck, clinging to me as if through fear. She stayed there a long time. I remember feeling awkward, and when it seemed the natural time to by minute degrees pull away, her grip held tight and the loud sobs remained. Looking back, three years later, I don’t even remember what caused her tears. But it began our relationship.
As was my normal custom, after she finished crying I offered to meet with her sometime, to talk, pray, offer some counsel. She said she didn’t have a job but also didn’t drive, so she could only meet me somewhere within walking distance of the apartment she and her mom shared. Though I scheduled all my other meetings at Roni Jo’s, a quaint little coffee shop downtown that specialized in exotic blended coffee drinks, the only available coffee shop within walking distance of Rebecca was an unmarked building with a neon espresso sign lit in the window. That would work. I walked away, questioning for the first time why I always met the girls I counseled in coffee shops.
“Hey Jess! You’re looking lovely as usual today.” Nine a.m., the owner of Roni Jo’s looked up from banging the espresso scooper, and greeted me as the bell above the door announced my entrance. I beamed.
“Morning John! I’ll have my usual.”
“Twelve ounce blended number nine mocha frio in a sixteen ounce cup.” He recites the order to Robin, who has cut and dyed her hair again. I compliment to show I notice.
“Jess!” Kelly jumps up from her seat in the front corner and hurries over to hug me. I marvel to myself how cute she is and I think she’s been doing Tae Bo and I notice she’s only drinking water. Those must be Seven jeans. I think she’s a four. I’m a six. Maybe I should try Tae Bo.
“How are you?!” We settle in, picking up where we left off. “How is the roommate situation? Oh, and how are you doing with the whole David thing?” Kelly updates me on how things are with her life’s issues. The roommate’s boyfriend has stopped sleeping over, which is good, but he still stays until two in the morning and never puts the seat down. It seems doubtful that David, seated at her table in BIO 101 lab, is a Christian, since he jokes about his weekend shenanigans, so that crosses him off the list of possibilities.
“Well, at least you know.”
At ten till ten we pray for each other and thank God. I feel drained, but taking a moment to pray turns everything right side up again. I’m ready to go again. We exchange I love yous, I wave goodbye to John, and in a flash I’m back in my Honda, headed for the neon espresso sign and my first meeting with Rebecca.
The next day Rebecca’s number showed up on my caller ID. I answered, unsure of what to expect. “Hello? . . . I’m so sorry. . . yeah, I did go but all that was there was a Laundromat and I didn’t think that was where we meant, and I didn’t see you, I even walked inside . . . no, I did walk inside and I didn’t see you…yeah, I was there exactly at ten, well, maybe a couple minutes late. . . no, well I saw the espresso sign like we said but I figured a Laundromat couldn’t be where we’d meet.” I’d disappointed her, and she didn’t pretend like I hadn’t.
Be devoted to one another in brotherly love. Romans 12:10
Several days later, I pulled up outside Amber Rose Apartment #4 and looked around: heavily dead-bolted front doors, old cars, dreary, peeling brown siding, and dead grass. I thought of the workout facility and new carpets in my classy apartment complex in Southtown, and slowly knocked on the door. I waited. If it had been anyone else, I would have left and gone home, or called her on her cell phone after several minutes of no answer. But this was Rebecca. She deserved a wait. Finally, several deadbolts clicked from inside and Rebecca slowly opened the door. Her hair was soaking wet, as in still dripping, and combed with a fine-toothed comb slick down on both sides. She stood for a moment and stared at me. “You still wanna meet?” She gave me the look, probably half expecting me to change my mind and drive away. I put on my biggest smile and most enthusiastic voice.
“Of course! How does breakfast sound?”
“I don’t have any money.” She replied matter-of-factly, as if obviously implying that that was the end of that plan. The bitterness oozed from her words. I knew she was testing me.
“Oh, no worries! My treat.” I gave her my sweetest smile and offered my hand for her bag. “How about Shari’s?”
Accept one another. Romans 15:7
“Two. Non-smoking, please.”
We slid into the brown vinyl seats, and sat across from each other. I wished I hadn’t worn lipstick that day. Rebecca slumped down into the poof of her jacket and narrowed her eyes into that look, glaring into my soul with almost frightening perseverance. I figured the “wading into water” technique was the best for getting our conversation heading in the right direction—starting with shallow and working my way deeper. Unfortunately, the shallow was antagonizing to Rebecca. My nauseatingly cheery questions about life and family brought responses of resentment, bitterness, and pain. She was in no mood for small talk.
“I live with my mom and she’s gone all the time at work and school—she goes to school—and she says I need to keep the house clean and make the meals and I need to find a job because I need money and God wants me to give to the tithe but I don’t have any money to give to the tithe and I can’t work because I don’t drive and I can’t drive and so I can only walk and my discipler says I just need to trust God but I can’t f—-ing trust God in the middle of this G—d— mess!” Out of breath, she raised her hands above her head, signaling her complete and utter hopelessness then let her elbows fall heavily onto the table dropping her chin heavily onto her palm, pushing up her bottom lip to an exaggerated frown, turning towards the window and narrowing her eyes at the traffic outside. Her voice had risen to an embarrassing level and I quickly glanced around the restaurant. The waitress had approached to offer us coffee, but veered to the right as she overheard Rebecca’s voice.
As the morning stretched on, I saw in Rebecca what a lifetime of physical, sexual, and substance abuse, coupled with mental illness and years dabbling in sexual perversion and witchcraft can do to a child of God. None of my pat answers worked, and reciting scripture was patronizing. For the first time in all of my discipleship and counseling meetings, I was at a total loss—and my spirit cried out to God. As I prayed silently in my heart, a flood of love engulfed my heart and I began to cry as I looked at Rebecca, and as my eyes filled with tears, I began to see the woman she could be, the woman God created her to be. She saw that I was moved, and for once her face seemed to soften.
“Rebecca?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t have any answers, but I am committing to being your friend. If you will let me in, I promise to walk with you and as much as is in my power, to see you become the beautiful woman God created you to be. I know that I will fail you, disappoint you, and maybe even hurt you because I am a fallible human, but I promise to love you and help you and pray for you, if you will let me.”
I was terrified of my own words. Although she didn’t look convinced, and though she still gave me that look, she didn’t say a word, but as I drove her home, she finally said, “So when d’ya’wanna meet next?” I knew then that she said yes.
I knew that with Rebecca, no neat little discipleship book would do, and further, God had not called me to fix her, He’d called me to love her. I hoped that in the meantime I could teach her by example. Little did I know who would learn the most.
Be kind to one another. Ephesians 4:32
For Christmas, I thought it would be fun to take Rebecca shopping. I didn’t have much money, but I certainly had more than her, so I took her to Fashion Bug, and told her to pick out anything she wanted. After looking through the entire store, she concluded that she didn’t need any clothes. What? I could take one look at her and tell that she needed clothes, but she insisted that she didn’t need any clothes. However, as we went back and looked at accessories, she found numerous things that she wanted me to try on—headbands, hats, hairclips with fake hair in bright colors. As I tried on each thing she gave me, peals of genuine laughter flowed out of her mouth like I had never heard. She squealed loudly as I made funny faces and put on ridiculous sunglasses and large floppy hats. Part of me worried about what the salesgirls must have been thinking, but every time I looked at the sheer delight on Rebecca’s face, it didn’t matter. She finally talked me in to purchasing a little hair clip with long strands of pink hair in them. I clipped them in, and we drove toward her home, but she insisted that we stop by the church office and show everyone my new hair. As she took me around and showed all the church staff, she continued her unabashed laughter of delight. As I dropped her off this time, she stopped for a second before getting out of the car.
“Thanks.”
Bear with one another, and forgive each other. Colossians 3:13
Soon came spring and I was in ministry frenzy—along with attending a one-year Bible school, I was leading two Bible study discipleship groups and writing, producing, choreographing, co-directing, and acting in a full-scale theatrical performance to be performed Easter weekend at a local university. My days were filled from 5am until 10pm and my cell phone rang incessantly. Through this blur of ministry activities, I missed several of Rebecca’s phone calls, with no return. One afternoon as I pulled in to the church office, I saw Rebecca sitting on the sidewalk, with her knees pulled tight up against her chest, her poofy Starter jacket pushed up around her face with the hood pulled over head.
“I’m waiting for a ride home.” She could hear the sound of my heels as I approached her.
“Hop in—I’ll take you home,” I patted her on the shoulder to get her to look up. She pulled on her backpack and climbed into the car. Once I got inside, I pulled my seatbelt over my chest and leaned forward to start the car. “Rebecca, I’m sorry I haven’t returned your. . .” To my horror, she went ballistic.
“Nobody has time for me!! No f—ing people in this whole G— d— f—-ing place have any time for me!!! You’re too busy doing all your stupid things to call me back!! I hate you!!” I sat there shocked as the continued hurtling insults and uncontrolled profanity. After her eruption she swung open the door and shouted that she would walk home, and slammed the door. The sound of the slamming door echoed in my quiet car. The emotional exhaustion of my incessant schedule overwhelmed me and I lay my head on the steering wheel, crying. I was already failing at what I promised her I’d do.
I let her walk away, knowing the best thing to do was let her calm down. I went into the church office and found my friend and boss, Pastor Mark. He’d seen the whole thing and offered an understanding smile. “Just keep loving her. You’re in this for the long haul. Just keep loving her.” I knew he was right.
I waited a day to let her calm down, but then called her one evening. She answered.
“Hey, it’s me.” I held my breath waiting for a response.
“Hey.” She was quiet and subdued. Her voice was soft.
“I just wanted to apologize and ask you to forgive me for not returning your phone call. And I wanted to tell you that I love you and forgive you.”
“You forgive me?”
“Of course. I love you and nothing you can do will ever change that.” Long silence.
“When d’ya’wanna meet again?”
I knew she’d forgiven me, too.
Greet one another. 1 Peter 5:14
It didn’t take long for the Spirit-rush of compassion toward Rebecca to wear off. The honeymoon was soon over, and I was left with the cold reality that Rebecca was hard to love. Because I was her only friend, whenever I arrived at an event, she made a bee-line for me. I was bombarded, in a wonderful sense, with young college women, girls from my Bible studies, friends, etc. and since it was my usual custom to be enthusiastic about greeting everyone, it posed a bit of a problem when there were many people around and Rebecca got lost in the crowd. Eventually, I found myself, without knowing it, showing preference to the girls who I had a natural liking to–the fun, joyful, non-needy girls who blessed me every time I saw them. Then there was Rebecca. Every time I saw Rebecca, she had a sad story, was complaining about every thing that had happened that day, and was usually whining that her feet and back hurt. It was exhausting. One day, she pinpointed my sin:
“Why don’t you greet me like you greet everyone else?” My face turned white. I knew that I’d failed her again.
“I do!” I insisted, though I knew I didn’t.
“You get so happy to see everyone else, except for me.” There was nothing for me to say. She knew it and I knew it.
Confess you sins to one another. James 5:16
“Rebecca, I’m sorry. You are right.” My heart finally softened. There was no use denying what we both knew. I hugged her, and to my surprise, she hugged me back. Without saying a word, I knew that she’d forgiven me. As I looked back on my greeting of people and my interaction with people, it became easy to see the way that with some people I was genuinely excited to see them, and it showed. With Rebecca, I had begun to dread seeing her, and it showed. I knew that only God could change my heart—no amount of fake, conjured up enthusiasm could take the place of genuine love and concern. Rebecca taught me this.
Admonish one another. Romans 15:14
There did come a time, however, after several years of close contact, that God began to give me some freedom with Rebecca. We sat in my car after spending several hours together, and Rebecca began. “I think the Spirit wants me to go to Mexico but I think the Spirit also wants me to go to Latvia, and the trip to Latvia is $3,000 and the trip to Mexico is $500 and I can’t afford to do both, and Pete says that I can’t go to Latvia because I’ve never been on a mission trip before, but if God wants me to go then why won’t He make it so I can go and if I go I won’t have money for laundry, and God always tells me to do stuff but never tells me how to do it or He wants me to do stuff that I can’t do because I can’t do it and if I pay to go to Latvia then I can’t pay to the tithe, but I have to pay to the tithe. I wish God would just figure it out.” This time, I knew it was time.
“Rebecca. I am glad that you can be honest. However, God is just, holy, and perfect. And, most importantly, He is God. Whenever we grumble or complain about a person or a circumstance, we are essentially complaining against God because He is sovereignly in control over all of these circumstances. Anything that God truly calls you to do, He will provide the means for it. But, we have to acknowledge that grumbling is sin against God.”
I could tell that she began to get angry, but she didn’t say anything. She didn’t speak the rest of the drive back to her house, but she called me later that night and asked, “When d’ya’wanna meet again?” I knew she’d received it.
After three years of friendship with Rebecca, my husband and I were leaving the state to serve God in California. I knew this was a significant move—I had been with Rebecca for three years solid, meeting almost weekly. She was now moved out on her own with a full-time job (living on-site at the adult care center where she worked). She joined a church within walking distance, and even sang on the worship team for a special service that the church provided for the handicapped. Outwardly, Rebecca looked the same, but inwardly, she was soft. As I said goodbye to her after our last Sunday there, I realized that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d even seen that look. I could hardly even remember what it looked like.
A year later, we visited that church one Sunday morning. After church, a long line of dear friends and fellow brothers and sisters in Christ stood waiting to hug us (we’d been through a difficult year). As I hugged my friend Selena, I looked up and saw Rebecca, waiting patiently in line, grinning, holding a folder to her chest. I asked Selena to wait a moment, and this time I made a bee-line to Rebecca. She beamed. A moment later, her arms were thrown around me and her head fell on my shoulder, just as at the first, except instead of nuzzling her wet face and running nose into my neck, she laid her head on my shoulder and rested her face against my neck. I started to cry.
“I have to show you this!” She finally let go, and still beaming, shoved a piece of paper into my hands. I began to read.
She’d written her story. She’d written about her past and how God gave her courage to forgive. She’d written about me. She’d written about how the purity of my husband’s and my courtship had inspired her to remain pure. She wrote about her changed heart. She wrote how she’d learned to love others. She was so excited to show me all that she’d learned. I assured her that I had learned more.
Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another. 1 John 4:11