Out of nowhere, the lunch seating changed.
At my elementary school, where you sat at lunch—with whom you sat at lunch—meant everything. Seats were a map of social capital: the people who sat together were friends, the people who sat alone had no friends, and the movement of people from one side of the room to the other meant friendships broken and renewed.
Perhaps that is why, to this day, I remember Monica.
Monica and Katie and I were friends. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say: I was friends with Katie, and Monica was friends with Katie. Monica often made it clear to me that she was Katie’s best friend, a fact I did not argue but found confusing since Katie called me her best friend too.
We all sat together at lunch.
Until the day we didn’t. Katie was absent, and although Monica and I normally ate together, on this particular day she stopped at the lunch table, looked at me, and then walked away. I stewed over it the entire day and then, at recess, screwed up my courage to ask: “Why didn’t you sit with me at lunch?”
“Because,” Monica said with a shrug, “I don’t like you.”
Oh.
I remember that I was hurt and that although I pretended it did not matter, I went home and immediately cried on my mom. I remember that when I told Katie what happened, she made Monica apologize to me even though I could tell Monica didn’t mean it. I remember that even though Monica was never mean to me again after that, I never trusted her.
But what I remember most is the question I kept asking my Mom: “Why doesn’t she like me? Why doesn’t she like me? I’ve been really nice to her!”
Those memories resurfaced for me again this week when, in pure school-cafeteria mode, someone I considered a friend made a snarky comment about me in a text…and then accidentally sent the text to me directly.
I am older now and wiser. I didn’t cry. I didn’t stew over it. I did type back a single, terse text: wow. And then, until I could manage a calm and kind response, I stayed away from the flood of apologies and excuses and text messages I received immediately thereafter.
But the same question lingered. I have only been nice to this person; have in fact gone of out of my way to help her, advocate for her, encourage her. That she would dislike me for being cheerful—the bulk of her complaint in the text—boggled me. Why doesn’t she like me? I’ve been really nice to her!
Ah, but behaving well doesn’t obligate others to like us. Behaving like Christ doesn’t, either.
In fairness, I do think being a Christian can generally increase likeability. People who are peaceful, kind, merciful, gentle, loving, and grace-giving often have a charisma and a warmth about them. I think it’s fair to say that a lot of people enjoy being around those qualities, or might enjoy someone who displays them.
But that’s not always the case.
That’s because, as I’ve learned to my surprise, some people don’t like kindness, mercifulness, gentleness, or loving behavior. (The friend whose text I received has often, in less painful ways, gently teased me about being too forgiving, too hopeful, too merciful). Or even if they do like those behaviors, they just might not like you: the way you breathe or chew or look or sound.
It happens.
And sometimes we ought to pay attention. My grandfather had a saying: if someone tells you that you’re drunk, ignore them. If four people tell you that you’re drunk, go home and take a nap. In other words, sometimes critiques that sound like dislike can contain a grain of meaningful truth.
If everybody you meet is a jerk, maybe you’re the jerk. If everyone doesn’t seem to like your “truth-telling” nature, maybe reexamine what you real motives and manner are in your truth-telling: are you being cruel? Selective in the truths you share? Are you weaponizing your honesty? If family and friends you respect seem to shy away from something about you, maybe it’s worth interrogating.
But we must not confuse likeability with Christlikeness.
This is something I have struggled with much of my life, because I am a people-pleaser raised by a people-pleaser who was herself raised by a people-pleaser. When I’m disliked, or when someone is unhappy with me, I often fall into the behavior my mother modeled and immediately assume there is a fault in me because my default mode is to try to make sure everyone around me is happy at all times.
Foolish, because here is a truth: we can’t control other people’s feelings. We can only control our behavior through the assistance of the Holy Spirit.
Of course, as Scripture instructs, to the extent possible we should try to live peaceably with everyone. But you can do everything right and still be disliked. Jesus was disliked! And I don’t think He concerned Himself much one way or another with whether he was liked or not. No one who did what He did could have. Jesus was able to act in accordance with what He knew to be true, and that was all He needed as a guide.
About six months ago, a very wise mentor of mine sat me down.
“Look,” he told me. “I’ve gotten to know you. You care a lot about people and you attract people. And I want to warn you about what is coming. You are about to get very, very lonely.”
“What?”
“Lonely,” he repeated, and then paused and softened. “As you grow, as you have opportunities, as you try new things, you will sometimes lose people. Friends you thought were friends won’t be. People might not like some choices you make while they will like others, and you won’t always be able to predict which is which. Anybody who tries hard at anything ends up with a target on their back, no matter how good or kind or sweet they are. It’s going to hit you hard.”
I laughed a little. “Aren’t you supposed to be encouraging me?”
He laughed too. “Yes. And the encouraging part is this: if you’re clear with yourself about your values and what is right and wrong and what you are obligated to, then none of the rest will matter. Just make sure you set yourself straight in advance.”
He was right.
In the end, as it turns out, the key value—love God, love others—really does make everything fade away. And whether or not I get snarky texts, or I find out someone doesn’t like something I did or said, going back to that metric makes a world of difference.
Have I been loving? Have I put God first? Have I treated others with kindness, gentleness, grace, and love and tried to put them first? Have I behaved honestly and with integrity? Have I given my all and made the best choice with the information I have?
If the answer is yes, and I’m disliked, well… I’m always willing to listen and learn if there’s something I need to change. But being disliked in itself isn’t a sin. And recognizing that has freed me from some of the generational chains of people-pleasing that made my walk with God harder.
Remind yourself of what is critical. Seek to embody God’s character to others and pursue God relentlessly yourself.
And then let the chips fall where they may.
Samaritan's Song 