I went to college in the late 70’s at what was then known as Southern Missionary College, in Tennessee. There’s nothing unusual about that. My parents lived in Arizona. Here’s where the problem lay. If you know anything about United States geography, you know that there was no quick route home. As a matter of fact, during the days of the 55 mph speed limit, it took about 36 hours by car to go between the two. That’s a long way to drive by oneself. So I didn’t.
My cousin, Paul, who also attended Southern, but lived six hours further away, in Southern California, purchased the coolest truck from the California Highway Department roads crew. It was a 1972 Dodge step-side pickup. Oh, it didn’t look like much when he bought it. Road-crew yellow. Plain. Ugly. Not the sort of vehicle college guys try attracting women with. The only ones that would have been attracted to it would be ones that naturally wear safety vests around the house—which weren’t exactly the types that we were interested in. We at least wanted ones with a full set of teeth.
Anyway, back to the truck. After he and his dad did a makeover, this thing was one cool ride! Metallic-blue paint job. Mag Wheels. A topper on the back with a full carpeted deck to stretch out a sleeping bag or two and plenty of room underneath to pack all of our luggage. Along with all of that, in keeping with the rage of the late 70’s, it had a nice Cobra CB Radio to communicate with all the truckers across country. And for internal communication, there were windows in between the cab and the back for shouting through or even crawling between when we were tired of one or the other.
Once my cousin had completed the makeover, and knowing that my ’69 Ambassador Rambler was on it’s last leg, he called to offer to share the truck with me at college if I would help him drive it across each time. I was game. Three days later he pulled into my driveway driving what he had now dubbed “The Blue Burrito”, ready to head east. What a setup! One could stretch out in the back and one could drive. We could drive it straight through and feel good when we got there. It turned out to be a great way to go.
By Christmas, there were many more “westerners” wanting to ride with us back across. We quickly calculated that with 6 of us in the truck at 14 miles per gallon, if we split the gas cost among everyone, we could get by on about $20 each cross-country. (This is back when gas was at an unbelievable high of $.88 per gallon. Hard to fathom, I know. We were outraged.)
We crammed four in the back in sleeping bags and put two in the cab. Since there was no heat in the back, we figured that four across would add the extra warmth, with the warmest sleeping bags on the outsides. In the cab, one would, of course, be the driver, while the other rode “shotgun”. The person riding “shotgun” would be responsible for navigating through the cities to make sure we stayed on Interstate 40 and didn’t end up heading north or south. We would rotate teams every two hours for safety and to let someone in the back sit up for a while as well as warm up, and let the driver and navigator lay down in the back for some shut-eye. In this manner, we figured that we would always have an alert driver and navigator. Besides, after four hours in the back you were ready to get out and do anything but lay down.
We divided into three teams of two. Since each person would only drive every other time their team came around, we figured that each person would only have to drive 9 of the 36 hours to Phoenix. Paul would have to drive the additional 6 hours to Southern California himself.
It was 4 a.m. The back of the topper door was abruptly jerked open and cold air blasted in to awaken us. “Keele, Jansen—your turn to drive.” Paul was already scrambling for his shoes, knowing that he was the next driver, and as such, he had to pump the gas so that he would be fully awake to drive. I slid out of the back and just slipped my feet far enough into my shoes to allow me to step on the heels and tiptoe around to the cab. I was seat-belted into the “shot-gun” position in the warm cab in no time, and with my head on a pillow against the door, was quickly back in dream land.
Abruptly Paul jerked open the driver's door, slid in behind the wheel, and slammed the door shut. I sat up, eyes half-open. “Well, navigator,” Paul said, “Which way?”
“Wha?” I half-responded.
“Which way?”
“West, you dufus!” I leaned my head back against the door and started back to slumber city.
“Yeah, that’s what I mean? Where’s the freeway, and which way is west?”
I sat up and looked around. The station that the last team had selected was out in the middle of nowhere. Looking all around us, I couldn’t see the freeway either north or south of us.
“So do we go left or right?” Paul asked.
“Go left…no right…no—hold on.” I opened the little window from the cab to the back, but they had the topper window shut tight against the cold. I banged. No one moved.
I got out and walked around and jerked open the back window. “Hey, which way is the freeway?” I shouted. One guy looked up and said, “It’s down there,” and pointed toward the roof of the topper. He abruptly broke into a snore and I was sure there would be no more helpful information coming from his direction. The other three never moved.
I closed the topper door and walked back around to the cab.
“Do you think we should ask for directions back in the station?” Paul queried.
“What, and break the man-code?” I gave him a shocked look. “No—we’ll find it! Besides, I got a small clue from the dead-heads in the back. They said, it was ‘down there’, so that means we need to turn South. So go left.” I was proud of my powers of deduction and Paul seemed to be satisfied.
He turned the “Blue Burrito” left and we headed out. After about three miles, he turned to me and asked, “Are you sure this is the right way.”
“Well, no, not exactly.”
“Why don’t you check the map?”
I flipped on the cigarette lighter, flexible-necked map light from K-Mart and opened the glove compartment and started fishing around.
“Will you look at this?” I exclaimed, drawing out a California Highway driver’s manual. I flipped it open and began to read.
“Seat belts are now required of all occupants traveling in a motor vehicle. You got your seat belt on?
“Yes, but are we going the right way?” Paul countered.
“If you’ve got your seatbelt on and I’ve got mine on—looks like we’re doing fine. Oh, look at this. It says you are not supposed to follow any emergency vehicle closer than 500 feet.” I scanned the dark horizon. “Look dude, I can’t even see any emergency vehicles, so we’re doing great!”
“Yeah,” Paul said weakly, “but are we going the right way?”
Point: The Bible is the Word of God—not a rulebook, but a roadmap.
Heb. 4:12 says For the word of God is living and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.
2Pet. 1:21 For prophecy never had its origin in the will of man, but men spoke from God as they were carried along by the Holy Spirit.
The Bible isn’t there to just let you know all of the rules. God gave you the Bible to help you get where you need to go—heaven. Has it ever occurred to you that you could be doing everything right and still miss The Way?
NOTE: For those of you who remain curious. Yes, we did turn around and yes we found the freeway about 4 miles back.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The Nerd Factory
By Don Keele Jr.
Who makes them? Is there a factory somewhere? How come we seem to have so many of them running around? Where do nerds come from?
Everywhere you look, there are nerds (or nerdettes) running around. You know the type: They don’t when to be quiet, they drop their tray in the cafeteria, they wear half-matching clothes, and most of them know the cube root of an airplane propeller (or at least could find it with the help of their trusty, ever-present calculator.)
I befriended a real nerd a few years ago, and as soon as it seemed safe, I asked him that question. “Where did you come from?”
His reply was typically nerdy. “From my parents,” he said.
Seeing that I wasn’t getting anywhere, I began relentlessly interrogating the nerd in search of some clue to answer my question. I asked about his parents, his clothes, and even the cube root of an airplane propeller (he didn’t know). Now, in hopes of helping all of us, I will report my findings. I must let you know that I have found, at least in part, the answer to this perplexing question.
Let me tell you his story.
Alan was born young, as many nerds are. But he didn’t know that he was destined to be a nerd for life, because actually Alan was very normal at birth. He did things like normal kids do. It wasn’t until later that he began developing nerd tendencies.
At first the problem centered in Alan’s parents. They didn’t want him. He was, as they told him many times, an “accident.” A ruining of their lives. At best, he was a major intrusion into their already-rocky relationship.
And he was hard to take care of in their nomadic existence. They had to be up early to get their trailer into the best slot at the flea market of whatever town they happened to be in. And to stop and feed a baby, or to chase him down as a toddler, was a huge bother. Sometimes too much of a bother. Mostly he had to go hungry or put up with being locked in a tiny trailer closet most of the day so he wouldn’t wander off. Sometimes when he cried he got beat severely. I mean, who was he to get hungry at their busiest time? So what if he was only 1 year old? The kid had to learn patience and obedience.
Alan grew, and as state laws dictate, he had to be put in school. His parents couldn’t afford to pay the fines for keeping him out of school. But putting him in school would restrict their travels and their income.
To make matters worse, they had another “accident” about this time and were having to teach this new one the hard facts of life like they had taught Alan. They finally decided to settle in a community close to a large metropolitan area. At least while Alan was in school, they could lock the younger one in the closet and go sell at the flea market.
Life for Alan was getting more complicated. He tried to do well in school, but he had problems understanding everything. It probably had something to do with the time, at age 3, when his dad knocked him unconscious and fractured his skull. But Alan never thought of that. He only knew that he wasn’t as quick as the other kids. He’d heard his teacher tell his mom and dad that he was very slow, and that’s why he needed to repeat the first grade. On the way home his dad cursed him for being stupid.
Learning wasn’t the only area that caused him problems. Some of the other kids said he smelled funny. Some said that he had a bowl haircut (before it was popular). Others simply laughed and pushed him away whenever he asked to play with them. Sometimes he didn’t mind, but sometimes it made him mad, and soon he was labeled a discipline problem for fighting with the other kids. His dad beat him severely for being so violent with other kids.
By the time Alan reached the third grade, the other kids absolutely despised him, and his teacher simply tolerated him. The other parents talked about him, the principal knew him well, and the cafeteria director was totally disgusted with the way he “snarfed down” his food at lunch. “Why, it’s as if he hadn’t eaten in a week!” she exclaimed.
One day Alan’s dad dropped him off at school (it was kind of embarrassing to climb out of their beat-up motor home) and told him he would pick him up at 3:00 p.m. as usual. Alan said good-bye and went on into his third-grade room. At 3:00, he wandered outside and waited for the old “rolling garbage can,” as some of his classmates called the motor home. But it never showed up.
He waited: 4:00 p.m., 5:00 p.m., 6:00 p.m., 7:30 p.m. And he was really getting hungry.
The police caught him digging through the trash dumpster behind a local college cafeteria. They took him to the trailer park where he lived and dropped him off.
His parent’s motor home wasn’t there, so Alan went to the office. “They checked out about 10:00 this morning. Paid their bill up and pulled out. Didn’t say where they were going. They musta left you behind accidental-like.”
Alan crawled underneath another trailer and curled up to sleep. He would look for them in the morning.
Three days and 65 miles later, he found them at a flea market in a neighboring town.
“How did you find us, you little jerk? You were supposed to find somewhere else to go. Don’t you know by now that we don’t want you?” His dad drove him back to school and drove away.
The pattern that had begun three days prior was repeated again and again until Alan’s parent’s finally gave up.
At school it didn’t go without notice that whenever Alan did come, his clothes were dirty, his hair was uncombed, his face and hands were filthy, and he took unusually large portions in the cafeteria at lunch. Alan learned that society is cruel and vicious to people who don’t look just right. The more his classmates teased and taunted him, the more Alan lashed out at them. Yet he wanted their acceptance more than anything.
By eighth grade, Alan was considered a real nerd. He tried to fit in, but his vile mouth and nerd-like ways won him more rejection, more lunch hours by himself, and no friends. If anyone did feel sorry for him and show him the least bit of attention, Alan would dog the person’s steps like a puppy gone mad with affection. Of course, this would inevitably end in rejection, because he would drive the person right up the wall.
Upon Alan’s graduation, his dad heard about a school that boarded kids—an academy, they called it. And his dad found out that a kid could word off most of his bill. So he dropped Alan off at the academy in midsummer. That’s where I met him.
Alan was always grinning stupidly or fighting, either loudmouthed or foulmouthed, always dressed wrong, and always so insanely dumb that he could be nothing but a real-life nerd. A case study in the making, I thought. At least that’s what I thought until our conversation.
As we talked I suddenly began to realize that Alan was the way he was because of the people around him: his parent, his elementary classmates, and people like me, who are so incredibly blind and insensitive that we heap more rejection on someone who needs so badly the acceptance we could offer. I mean, what would you or I be like if we’d been treated like Alan all of our lives?
My conclusion? There really is a “nerd factory”. And its workers are those of us who constantly dole out large or small doses of rejection. Those of us who make fun of or play jokes on the nerds in our life. When we try to make ourselves look better by climbing high on the broken pieces of those we destroy daily, we are worse off than any nerd.
Is it possible that Jesus could have been referring in part to nerds as “the least of these brothers of mine”? (Matthew 25:40, NIV) Or might Paul have had nerds in mind when he wrote “Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought,” “but in humility consider others better than [yourself]”? (Romans 12:3 and Philippians 2:3, NIV)
I don’t know about you, but I’ve decided to quit the “nerd factory” and begin working at the “De-Nerding Center for Socially Deprived Children of God.” It’s going to be a hard and dirty job, but the way I see it, someone’s got to do it. And from what I hear, they have lots of positions available. Need an application?
Who makes them? Is there a factory somewhere? How come we seem to have so many of them running around? Where do nerds come from?
Everywhere you look, there are nerds (or nerdettes) running around. You know the type: They don’t when to be quiet, they drop their tray in the cafeteria, they wear half-matching clothes, and most of them know the cube root of an airplane propeller (or at least could find it with the help of their trusty, ever-present calculator.)
I befriended a real nerd a few years ago, and as soon as it seemed safe, I asked him that question. “Where did you come from?”
His reply was typically nerdy. “From my parents,” he said.
Seeing that I wasn’t getting anywhere, I began relentlessly interrogating the nerd in search of some clue to answer my question. I asked about his parents, his clothes, and even the cube root of an airplane propeller (he didn’t know). Now, in hopes of helping all of us, I will report my findings. I must let you know that I have found, at least in part, the answer to this perplexing question.
Let me tell you his story.
Alan was born young, as many nerds are. But he didn’t know that he was destined to be a nerd for life, because actually Alan was very normal at birth. He did things like normal kids do. It wasn’t until later that he began developing nerd tendencies.
At first the problem centered in Alan’s parents. They didn’t want him. He was, as they told him many times, an “accident.” A ruining of their lives. At best, he was a major intrusion into their already-rocky relationship.
And he was hard to take care of in their nomadic existence. They had to be up early to get their trailer into the best slot at the flea market of whatever town they happened to be in. And to stop and feed a baby, or to chase him down as a toddler, was a huge bother. Sometimes too much of a bother. Mostly he had to go hungry or put up with being locked in a tiny trailer closet most of the day so he wouldn’t wander off. Sometimes when he cried he got beat severely. I mean, who was he to get hungry at their busiest time? So what if he was only 1 year old? The kid had to learn patience and obedience.
Alan grew, and as state laws dictate, he had to be put in school. His parents couldn’t afford to pay the fines for keeping him out of school. But putting him in school would restrict their travels and their income.
To make matters worse, they had another “accident” about this time and were having to teach this new one the hard facts of life like they had taught Alan. They finally decided to settle in a community close to a large metropolitan area. At least while Alan was in school, they could lock the younger one in the closet and go sell at the flea market.
Life for Alan was getting more complicated. He tried to do well in school, but he had problems understanding everything. It probably had something to do with the time, at age 3, when his dad knocked him unconscious and fractured his skull. But Alan never thought of that. He only knew that he wasn’t as quick as the other kids. He’d heard his teacher tell his mom and dad that he was very slow, and that’s why he needed to repeat the first grade. On the way home his dad cursed him for being stupid.
Learning wasn’t the only area that caused him problems. Some of the other kids said he smelled funny. Some said that he had a bowl haircut (before it was popular). Others simply laughed and pushed him away whenever he asked to play with them. Sometimes he didn’t mind, but sometimes it made him mad, and soon he was labeled a discipline problem for fighting with the other kids. His dad beat him severely for being so violent with other kids.
By the time Alan reached the third grade, the other kids absolutely despised him, and his teacher simply tolerated him. The other parents talked about him, the principal knew him well, and the cafeteria director was totally disgusted with the way he “snarfed down” his food at lunch. “Why, it’s as if he hadn’t eaten in a week!” she exclaimed.
One day Alan’s dad dropped him off at school (it was kind of embarrassing to climb out of their beat-up motor home) and told him he would pick him up at 3:00 p.m. as usual. Alan said good-bye and went on into his third-grade room. At 3:00, he wandered outside and waited for the old “rolling garbage can,” as some of his classmates called the motor home. But it never showed up.
He waited: 4:00 p.m., 5:00 p.m., 6:00 p.m., 7:30 p.m. And he was really getting hungry.
The police caught him digging through the trash dumpster behind a local college cafeteria. They took him to the trailer park where he lived and dropped him off.
His parent’s motor home wasn’t there, so Alan went to the office. “They checked out about 10:00 this morning. Paid their bill up and pulled out. Didn’t say where they were going. They musta left you behind accidental-like.”
Alan crawled underneath another trailer and curled up to sleep. He would look for them in the morning.
Three days and 65 miles later, he found them at a flea market in a neighboring town.
“How did you find us, you little jerk? You were supposed to find somewhere else to go. Don’t you know by now that we don’t want you?” His dad drove him back to school and drove away.
The pattern that had begun three days prior was repeated again and again until Alan’s parent’s finally gave up.
At school it didn’t go without notice that whenever Alan did come, his clothes were dirty, his hair was uncombed, his face and hands were filthy, and he took unusually large portions in the cafeteria at lunch. Alan learned that society is cruel and vicious to people who don’t look just right. The more his classmates teased and taunted him, the more Alan lashed out at them. Yet he wanted their acceptance more than anything.
By eighth grade, Alan was considered a real nerd. He tried to fit in, but his vile mouth and nerd-like ways won him more rejection, more lunch hours by himself, and no friends. If anyone did feel sorry for him and show him the least bit of attention, Alan would dog the person’s steps like a puppy gone mad with affection. Of course, this would inevitably end in rejection, because he would drive the person right up the wall.
Upon Alan’s graduation, his dad heard about a school that boarded kids—an academy, they called it. And his dad found out that a kid could word off most of his bill. So he dropped Alan off at the academy in midsummer. That’s where I met him.
Alan was always grinning stupidly or fighting, either loudmouthed or foulmouthed, always dressed wrong, and always so insanely dumb that he could be nothing but a real-life nerd. A case study in the making, I thought. At least that’s what I thought until our conversation.
As we talked I suddenly began to realize that Alan was the way he was because of the people around him: his parent, his elementary classmates, and people like me, who are so incredibly blind and insensitive that we heap more rejection on someone who needs so badly the acceptance we could offer. I mean, what would you or I be like if we’d been treated like Alan all of our lives?
My conclusion? There really is a “nerd factory”. And its workers are those of us who constantly dole out large or small doses of rejection. Those of us who make fun of or play jokes on the nerds in our life. When we try to make ourselves look better by climbing high on the broken pieces of those we destroy daily, we are worse off than any nerd.
Is it possible that Jesus could have been referring in part to nerds as “the least of these brothers of mine”? (Matthew 25:40, NIV) Or might Paul have had nerds in mind when he wrote “Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought,” “but in humility consider others better than [yourself]”? (Romans 12:3 and Philippians 2:3, NIV)
I don’t know about you, but I’ve decided to quit the “nerd factory” and begin working at the “De-Nerding Center for Socially Deprived Children of God.” It’s going to be a hard and dirty job, but the way I see it, someone’s got to do it. And from what I hear, they have lots of positions available. Need an application?
Saturday, September 4, 2010
COPS
By Don Keele Jr.
The mall had just closed and I had barely left the mall parking lot, heading down a street lined with condo’s, when suddenly I found myself in a scene reminiscent of a special episode of COPS. A police car just ahead of me had pulled in behind a white Suzuki wagon, and a second police car had stopped just behind the first, but partly blocking my lane. A blue Chevy pickup facing the same direction sat angled across the left side of the road with enough room between it and the police car for my car to ease through. Thinking it was a minor fender bender, I started to ease between the two cars when a man in a brown leather jacket brandishing a drawn revolver leaped from in front of the truck and banged on my hood.
“Stop!!” he cried. “Back up...NOW!”
No argument here. I slammed the car into reverse and started to back up when two more cruisers, lights flashing, pulled beside and behind me. Another cruiser came screaming down the road in front of me and parked in between the blue pickup and the other police car. I was trapped. For the next 20 minutes I sat there trying to stare past the flashing lights and watch the unfolding drama in the beam of the strong searchlight mounted on the first patrol car.
“Driver, get out of the car with your hands on your head!” A voice sounded from the grill of the patrol car. Around the scene, about 9 officers, both male and female, stood with guns drawn, aimed at the car. A tall, large-boned, heavy-set teen struggled to get out of the tiny car without using his hands that he had placed on his head.
“Everyone else put your hands on the inside ceiling of the vehicle.” Through the spinning whir of lights, I could see other hands being slowly raised to the roof.
I looked back to the driver who was now standing with his hands behind his head. He looked to be a young man of about 18 or 19 years of age. He was imposing in stature, and the whirling lights revealed a face that did not seem overly concerned with his current predicament.
The commands through the loudspeaker continued. “Kneel down—keep your hands on your head.” He struggled to kneel in his baggy denim shorts, while keeping his hands on his head.
“He’s still too close,” shouted one of the other officers.
Again the voice through the loudspeaker, “Stand up!” He struggled again, trying to keep his hands on his head as he rose to his feet. “Walk backwards.” He complied. “Kneel down.” Once back down on his knees, five officers rushed in and quickly handcuffed him. They pulled him to his feet and steered him to one of the waiting patrol cars right next to where I was trapped. Placing a hand on top of his head to keep him from bumping it, one of the officers guided his descent into the back seat. Still, he did not seem overly concerned. A cool, arrogance seemed to pervade his gaze as he looked over at me. I turned my attention back to the on-going drama.
“Passenger in the front seat,” called the loudspeaker voice, “come out slowly with your hands up.”
The passenger from the front seat was a girl who looked to be about 16 or 17. She was tall, slender and very attractive with long, dark hair. She had no look of arrogance or cool. She was visibly shaken by the experience she now found herself in the middle of. Tears streamed down her face as she cried out, “don’t shoot me, please.”
“Back up and kneel down,” said the voice. She did and two officers quickly had her handcuffed and led her to another waiting car. She sobbed uncontrollably as she passed between my car and the one where the driver sat watching coolly. She saw him in the back of the car next to mine and screamed at him through her tears. He just stared straight ahead, unwilling to meet her gaze. She was deposited in the car behind mine.
“Passenger in the back seat, come out slowly with your hands on your head.”
The heavy-set girl in the back seat bent down as if to pick something up. Nine officers with guns all aimed at her started screaming, “Get your hands up where we can see them.” She looked back over her shoulder into the glaring spotlight. A look of defiance clearly marked her features.
“Come out of the car with your hands on your head!” the voice repeated more sternly.
“Come and get me,” she mouthed into the light at no one in particular.
The loudspeaker voice intoned, “You have 10 seconds to come out of the car or we will come in. These officers have been authorized to shoot.”
Was I going to watch someone get shot right in front of me? “Please, girl, come out with your hands up,” I pleaded silently.
Suddenly the back door burst open and the girl started to make a break. The guy in the car next to me laughed and cheered her on. Instantly there were 5 cops on her. She struggled and kicked and even tried to bite one of the officers, but they soon had her subdued in handcuffs. As they pulled her to her feet, a defiant sneer crossed her face.
When they led her past my headlights, to put her in the car to my left, she was almost laughing at them. She saw me watching her from my car and she shot me a look of searing scorn. I held her gaze but inwardly flinched. I had seen that look before.
Defiance, hatred and a determination were there. How does one get to this state? It is in the daily decisions; the decisions that come to each of us from moment to moment. It is in the decisions to serve self rather than God. With each decision we begin to look more like whichever side we choose. And the more choices toward Satan, the more the look begins to be fixed.
It is the look of one who has beheld and idolized the dark side one day at a time until, little by little, they become so controlled by the enemy of our souls that they fail to realize the extent of his control. It is the look of one who, thinking they are being their own person and making their own decisions, are unable to recognize how deep they have moved into Satan’s territory. Even as the noose tightens around their neck, they continue to insist that they are free and nothing can touch them; they are above the law. It is the look of one who has taken on the appearance of a greater master.
It was apparent that, though she was young, Satan had left his mark on this one. I could almost see him laughing through her. She jerked her head away from the guiding hand of the officer and banged her head on the top of the door. “Don’t touch my #@$*# head,” she screamed as she fell backwards into the car.
Once they put her in the car, they moved the pickup truck aside and let me go through.
As I drove on home, I couldn’t help thinking about that look. It haunted me. And then I began thinking about me. And my church. What are we doing to help ones with “the look”? What responsibility do we have for those going to hell? Not just those who come to our youth groups, but ones that inhabit our neighborhoods. What is our responsibility to our community?
Have we taken our call to “come out of her, My people” so seriously, that we refuse to engage any but those who show up to our evangelism series or send in a Bible study card? Are we unwilling to take Jesus back into the world?
Has it ever occurred to any of us that Jesus called us to love even those with “the look”? To pursue them in love and let them know that they aren’t stuck with that sneer, that hatred and scorn.
Jesus said, “By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” John 13:35 NIV Do they see it in you?
The mall had just closed and I had barely left the mall parking lot, heading down a street lined with condo’s, when suddenly I found myself in a scene reminiscent of a special episode of COPS. A police car just ahead of me had pulled in behind a white Suzuki wagon, and a second police car had stopped just behind the first, but partly blocking my lane. A blue Chevy pickup facing the same direction sat angled across the left side of the road with enough room between it and the police car for my car to ease through. Thinking it was a minor fender bender, I started to ease between the two cars when a man in a brown leather jacket brandishing a drawn revolver leaped from in front of the truck and banged on my hood.
“Stop!!” he cried. “Back up...NOW!”
No argument here. I slammed the car into reverse and started to back up when two more cruisers, lights flashing, pulled beside and behind me. Another cruiser came screaming down the road in front of me and parked in between the blue pickup and the other police car. I was trapped. For the next 20 minutes I sat there trying to stare past the flashing lights and watch the unfolding drama in the beam of the strong searchlight mounted on the first patrol car.
“Driver, get out of the car with your hands on your head!” A voice sounded from the grill of the patrol car. Around the scene, about 9 officers, both male and female, stood with guns drawn, aimed at the car. A tall, large-boned, heavy-set teen struggled to get out of the tiny car without using his hands that he had placed on his head.
“Everyone else put your hands on the inside ceiling of the vehicle.” Through the spinning whir of lights, I could see other hands being slowly raised to the roof.
I looked back to the driver who was now standing with his hands behind his head. He looked to be a young man of about 18 or 19 years of age. He was imposing in stature, and the whirling lights revealed a face that did not seem overly concerned with his current predicament.
The commands through the loudspeaker continued. “Kneel down—keep your hands on your head.” He struggled to kneel in his baggy denim shorts, while keeping his hands on his head.
“He’s still too close,” shouted one of the other officers.
Again the voice through the loudspeaker, “Stand up!” He struggled again, trying to keep his hands on his head as he rose to his feet. “Walk backwards.” He complied. “Kneel down.” Once back down on his knees, five officers rushed in and quickly handcuffed him. They pulled him to his feet and steered him to one of the waiting patrol cars right next to where I was trapped. Placing a hand on top of his head to keep him from bumping it, one of the officers guided his descent into the back seat. Still, he did not seem overly concerned. A cool, arrogance seemed to pervade his gaze as he looked over at me. I turned my attention back to the on-going drama.
“Passenger in the front seat,” called the loudspeaker voice, “come out slowly with your hands up.”
The passenger from the front seat was a girl who looked to be about 16 or 17. She was tall, slender and very attractive with long, dark hair. She had no look of arrogance or cool. She was visibly shaken by the experience she now found herself in the middle of. Tears streamed down her face as she cried out, “don’t shoot me, please.”
“Back up and kneel down,” said the voice. She did and two officers quickly had her handcuffed and led her to another waiting car. She sobbed uncontrollably as she passed between my car and the one where the driver sat watching coolly. She saw him in the back of the car next to mine and screamed at him through her tears. He just stared straight ahead, unwilling to meet her gaze. She was deposited in the car behind mine.
“Passenger in the back seat, come out slowly with your hands on your head.”
The heavy-set girl in the back seat bent down as if to pick something up. Nine officers with guns all aimed at her started screaming, “Get your hands up where we can see them.” She looked back over her shoulder into the glaring spotlight. A look of defiance clearly marked her features.
“Come out of the car with your hands on your head!” the voice repeated more sternly.
“Come and get me,” she mouthed into the light at no one in particular.
The loudspeaker voice intoned, “You have 10 seconds to come out of the car or we will come in. These officers have been authorized to shoot.”
Was I going to watch someone get shot right in front of me? “Please, girl, come out with your hands up,” I pleaded silently.
Suddenly the back door burst open and the girl started to make a break. The guy in the car next to me laughed and cheered her on. Instantly there were 5 cops on her. She struggled and kicked and even tried to bite one of the officers, but they soon had her subdued in handcuffs. As they pulled her to her feet, a defiant sneer crossed her face.
When they led her past my headlights, to put her in the car to my left, she was almost laughing at them. She saw me watching her from my car and she shot me a look of searing scorn. I held her gaze but inwardly flinched. I had seen that look before.
Defiance, hatred and a determination were there. How does one get to this state? It is in the daily decisions; the decisions that come to each of us from moment to moment. It is in the decisions to serve self rather than God. With each decision we begin to look more like whichever side we choose. And the more choices toward Satan, the more the look begins to be fixed.
It is the look of one who has beheld and idolized the dark side one day at a time until, little by little, they become so controlled by the enemy of our souls that they fail to realize the extent of his control. It is the look of one who, thinking they are being their own person and making their own decisions, are unable to recognize how deep they have moved into Satan’s territory. Even as the noose tightens around their neck, they continue to insist that they are free and nothing can touch them; they are above the law. It is the look of one who has taken on the appearance of a greater master.
It was apparent that, though she was young, Satan had left his mark on this one. I could almost see him laughing through her. She jerked her head away from the guiding hand of the officer and banged her head on the top of the door. “Don’t touch my #@$*# head,” she screamed as she fell backwards into the car.
Once they put her in the car, they moved the pickup truck aside and let me go through.
As I drove on home, I couldn’t help thinking about that look. It haunted me. And then I began thinking about me. And my church. What are we doing to help ones with “the look”? What responsibility do we have for those going to hell? Not just those who come to our youth groups, but ones that inhabit our neighborhoods. What is our responsibility to our community?
Have we taken our call to “come out of her, My people” so seriously, that we refuse to engage any but those who show up to our evangelism series or send in a Bible study card? Are we unwilling to take Jesus back into the world?
Has it ever occurred to any of us that Jesus called us to love even those with “the look”? To pursue them in love and let them know that they aren’t stuck with that sneer, that hatred and scorn.
Jesus said, “By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” John 13:35 NIV Do they see it in you?
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