It’s easy to love the lovable. But can you love those who are different and difficult? That’s a tall order, but Bob Goff thinks it’s vital if we want love to be a concrete reality and not just an abstraction. Everybody, Always is a story-driven manifesto that shows how people loving like Jesus in our everyday lives—with vulnerability and kindness toward all—can truly make a world of difference.

What would happen if you showed up at an airport without any proof of who you are? No matter how earnest or truthful you were in your insistence that you are you, the TSA officer would not let you through. You need something more substantial to prove your identity.

This is true in life more generally: how do we demonstrate who we are? It’s not enough to have the right answers or espouse intentions of doing nice things someday. Jesus understood this pretty clearly, and told his disciples that the best way to identify ourselves is through the way we love each other. More than an abstraction or something that you can fall in and out of, we actually become love.

This isn’t so bad if you only surround yourself with other kind, good-natured people; however, Jesus tells us that the true litmus test for love isn’t loving people who love you back, but rather the people who are different and downright difficult. God’s desire isn’t that we merely receive his love, but that we dump it out on everybody, all the time—starting with the people we find creepy.

This inevitably involves facing fears. We are good at putting walls or distance between us and difficult others. It’s understandable, but it’s definitely not what Jesus did. Consider how Jesus conducted himself right before his crucifixion: He shared his last meal with a group that would betray, deny, and abandon him to die a gruesome, disgraceful death. Even though he knew what they were about to do, he chose to break bread with them. What a demonstration of vulnerable love!

More than the faith traditions we espouse or the social class or groups with which we identify, we will be remembered for our love.

No one likes being told what to do. The grown son chafes at his father’s well-meaning reminder to change his oil. As a display of his autonomy, he may even refuse to change his oil merely because his father suggested it. Well-intentioned or not, we instinctively become unbending and resistant when we sense we are being manipulated or controlled. The impulse to freely choose for ourselves, based on our surroundings, is wired into us.

It is always better to tell people who they are instead of telling them what you think they need. Some people have been bossed around or at least told what they want as long as they can remember: what sport or instrument they should play, what university they should or shouldn’t attend, and so on.

Unfortunately, this is common in the church as well. We are prescribed a narrow range of activities that constitute a genuine life of faith, like consistent “quiet times,” weekly church attendance, and starting conversations about God with the pagans. These aren’t “bad” things in themselves, but the way they’ve been presented has a way of cultivating a culture of compliance instead of genuine faith. Compliance can make us actors rehearsing lines instead of genuinely pursuing faith of our own volition.

This is not how God operates. He is not trying to control our behavior, to burden us with a crushing load of directives. He wants our hearts, and he turns us toward himself by reminding us of who we are. Jesus tells a parable of a son who abandons his father and squanders his father’s wealth. When he reaches rock bottom, he comes back to his father, ashamed and willing to take up a post as a servant. He wants to enter the father’s good graces by following orders. But the father eagerly welcomes his son back and throws him a party. He reminds the runaway who he is: the father’s son.

Shame has a way of driving us from safe places and disrupting rhythms of life and community. Trivial arguments, pride, and burdensome expectations placed on self create this. We hide in isolation, our words and security stolen from us. Don’t stay there. Return to the people whom you love and who have loved you well—not once or twice, but all the time. And, ultimately, return to the Father, who is eager to remind you of who you are.

When you fly all over the world, some of the faces at the airport start to become familiar. Adrian worked for TSA at the San Diego International Airport for decades. Amidst the milieu of businessmen, tourists, and vacationers who are far more likely to be anxious, impatient, and rude than polite and upbeat, he stood out. What made him remarkable was the fact that he was not desperately trying to be seen as remarkable—or even to be seen. He had a humble, kind disposition, and was clearly content to show love to each person whose ID and ticket he verified. Whether the passengers were disgruntled or easy-going, Adrian met each person with a smile.

The author decided to let Adrian know that he had appreciated Adrian’s humble kindness and that it reminded him a lot of the way that Jesus loved. Adrian’s eyes welled up and he got up and gave the author a hug. Thus began a friendship that would last for years. It grew just three minutes at a time, each time the author had a flight out of San Diego. With each exchange, they learned something more about each other’s family and life. They began to get meals or coffee together, talking about life’s challenges and faith.  Eventually, their families would meet for special occasions and Christmases.

Adrian’s wife called the author recently, informing him that Adrian had died of a stroke in the airport parking lot. It was a deep loss. Adrian left behind family, dear friends, and a legacy of becoming love. Adrian didn’t engage in social media, which can offer the enticing opportunity to project an image of who we’d like to be and how we’d like to be seen. Adrian quietly loved his family and God and the next person in line.

Sometimes we put so much pressure on making friends. It’s an all-or-nothing. But friendships don’t happen all at once; they can be built with small, intentional increments of meaningful conversation.

Karl was a kid with a lot going for him: good-looking, smart, charming. In an attempt to win the attention of a pair of girls sitting on a dock, he surprised them by jumping over them, diving head-first into the lake beyond. This light-hearted prank took a grave turn when Karl didn’t resurface. Unbeknownst to Karl, the water around the dock was extremely shallow. His friends pulled him out of the water and called an ambulance.

Karl was devastated to hear that not only was he a quadriplegic, but he had lost his ability to speak. His eyes, one of the few organs still in his control, began to well up with tears. He got around in a custom-made chair that he operated by moving a straw-like joystick with his tongue.

Karl graduated high school and went on to college, and while at college he met a few people who told him how Jesus of Nazareth had changed their lives. Karl found the person of Jesus intriguing, and was amazed at how love was the motivator for all that he did. As he became familiar with the Bible, Karl was struck by the numerous references to the mind, the eyes, and the tongue, and the high importance that was placed on them. He no longer had control of his limbs, but he still had control over his tongue, eyes, and mind. Instead of succumbing to despair over what was lost, Karl decided to make the most of what he still had.

Karl went to law school with the author. He now works in the office of the attorney general. He’s made a career of bringing people to justice. Five of his cases have gone all the way to California’s Supreme Court, and he has won them all. He’s authored scores of legislative pieces that have enhanced the justice system and furthered victim’s rights.

Karl’s example is a poignant and inspiring one. Our limit is not set by what we don’t have, but by what we fail to use. His life reminds us of the boy who brought some bread and a few fish to Jesus. Whatever we have, Jesus is eager to use it in ways we can scarcely imagine, if only we bring it to him.

Uganda’s first case of a witch doctor being put on trial was not too long ago. A shaman from northern Uganda had allegedly kidnapped a young boy, chopped off his privates, and left him for dead. But the boy (let’s call him Charlie) survived the ordeal. This was the first incident in Uganda’s history of a witch doctor suspected of a violent crime and a surviving victim. The case could be brought to trial, and it was the author had been called in to lead the prosecution.

Witch doctors are revered, or at least feared, in Uganda. There was a concern that the courts would not be able to find a judge bold enough to preside over the case. One finally did, however, and he stood his ground even in the face of intimidation. Shamans conducted eerie, animistic rituals outside the door to his home throughout the trial. His house had to be guarded around the clock. Love is sometimes a risky business.

When Charlie took the stand some months after the incident, he identified his would-be killer without hesitation or fear. He stood up, pointed at Kabi, and boldly declared him the man who had tried to murder him. The trial lasted a week longer, and the judge returned a guilty verdict.

Both the judge and young Charlie demonstrated remarkable courage. People are often tempted toward cynicism. How could one person make a demonstrable impact? Young Charlie was barely four feet tall, but he stood a mighty mountain that day: his act of courage made history for his country.

What is that work of kindness and mercy that fear keeps you from pursuing?

Do we actually want to do the hard, vulnerable work of becoming love to others, or are we content to merely agree with Jesus’ teachings? Loving your enemy sounds like a lofty, beautiful exhortation until you actually have an enemy who needs your love.

The moment that Kabi dragged Charlie off into the bush and mutilated him, Kabi became the author’s enemy and the clearest embodiment of evil. The author visited Kabi in Luzira Maximum Security Prison, a grim, dismal place where convicts were brought to die. The conversation began with Kabi on his knees, expressing deep regret for what he’d done to Charlie. The author initially viewed these laments with an aloof suspicion, but as the exchange continued, it became evident that this was hardly a charade. He divulged what it had been like growing up the son of a shaman, and what witchcraft had done to him. He ended his story by saying that he was deeply in need of forgiveness.

“No way. Out of the question!” were the author’s knee-jerk thoughts. But then, what about the thief on the cross next to Jesus? He asked for Jesus to remember him when he entered into his kingdom. Jesus didn’t reward the gasping plea with a quick test about pressing social problems of the day or a regimen for altering behavior: he merely told the thief, “You’re in.” As the conversations about family, faith, and what Jesus taught continued, Kabi decided that he wanted to rest in the kind, loving arms of Christ.

People in some faith cultures refer to moments like these as “coming to Jesus,” but this was a come-to-Jesus moment not just for Kabi but for the author as well. The conversation had moved the author from mere agreement with Jesus about loving an enemy to actually doing it. They were discovering the depths of God’s love and forgiveness together.

The meetings continued over the next weeks and months. Eventually, Kabi was given permission to gather all the prisoners—all men about to die—and tell them about a new life available to them. Kabi explained (and pretty much butchered) the central message of Jesus and what he’s done for us. Here’s the amazing thing though: It didn’t matter that his words were not theologically robust or even accurate. What those men saw was a change that could not be ignored: here was a feared witch doctor, known by many of the prisoners for the horrendous things he’d done to children, holding hands with the man who had put him in prison, standing shoulder to shoulder as brothers and friends instead of bitter enemies. Whatever had been missed in word had been more than compensated for in action, as two unlikely men became love for fellow prisoners in need of new starts.