The Least of These

I remember her slipping outside, waddling back and forth ever so slightly in a tight, grey t-shirt that over-accentuated her pregnant belly. Small metal tables and chairs lined the restaurant window for those who earned peace or tranquility by eating near the warm and busy parking lot. She was breaking from a long morning of work and demanding people, most of whom were churchgoers since this particular day was Sunday. And she seemed tired. Not necessarily from mixing milkshakes or carrying heavy trays to tables, but from the extensive uncertainty and exhaustive thoughts of the production, the show, and the higher calibration of sociability her life required.

A white car, years un-tuned, pulled into the spot directly in front of her. I watched from my peripherals as a young man with short brown hair quickly pulled himself from the car. He was holding a large red Sonic drink in his right hand. From behind the car door, he began pointing, and from the motion of his fingers, I could tell he was saying, “How dare you.” As though she had stepped outside the boundary of whom he expected her to be.

I swallowed more sweet tea.

He continued pointing his finger and yelling, his body still half hidden behind the dented car door.

I poured the ketchup and ranch for my fries.

My mind, though consumed with the thought of devouring food and creating light conversation, kept glancing at the scene through the windows cluttered with ice cream advertisements.

He stormed from behind the door and placed himself directly in front of her. She did not move. I saw no reaction to his quick steps and boiling features. When he bent down toward her, yelling in her face, his forehead turned red and a vein became visible. He would start to walk away after an in-the-face outburst, but he came back multiple times to yell and point.

I knew this to be certain; after an over exertion of deep, uncontrolled emotions that had little to no affect on the mate in her current relationship, she was expressionless, a state at which I found to be the saddest and possibly the lowest position of one’s life. Having feelings, thoughts, and kindling desires with only a deaf ear to listen is completely wrenching on a soul. And he indeed was so careless in his speech, so controlling of her reality, that no social normality was enough to keep his actions contained.

And he mocked her. With his fingers and eyes and his flailing arms. He screamed louder than the screeching cars even though I heard no sound through the window. I sat at my table with my hands wrapped around a sandwich in awe of the emotional scene. Waiting for it to escalate, expecting it to intensify, I resumed my meal, trying to prove to my boxed-in world that security was present and that feelings of uneasiness were meant to be ignored.

This is where I want to say I did something to stop or distract his untamed anger. This story needs a hero. And as easy as it would be to simply analyze the horrific display this young man put on, I cannot. Though I’m astonished at his approach and the carrying out of his selfish feelings, I cannot speak any more of his certain mistake without revealing my failure to act against his illicit freedom.

He walked quickly back to his car, and this time he stepped most of the way inside. Just before he grabbed the door to shut it, he jumped back out, hiding behind his shield once again. With a smile, and one last attempt to destroy her dignity, he glanced at his drink, tore off the lid, and threw the red slushy with all of his strength toward her. I saw the cup fall to the ground and red liquid slowly make its way down the large window. She flicked the ashes from her cigarette, causing more of the red slushy to drip from her arm.

Though I sat and did nothing, I find myself searching for some instance of neutral ground in which I can justify my passiveness. But I find no peace in the excuses that thrust me on the imaginary side of this neutrality. In fact, I plainly ask, “Was I for her, or against her?” My heart screamed at my head, feet, and arms to get up. All my body could reply with was a frozen stare, and my inability to resurrect the Christ within me and respond to her cry proved I was no better than the irate and irrational man she once considered worthy of her love.

I did not think about the scorners or mockers that spat on Jesus. I did not dwell on the overwhelming sadness that consumed his family and closest friends. I thought of those who simply stood there and watched it all take place. I am like them more than I know. Praise God for his forgiveness.

Matthew 27:27-31

27Then the governor's soldiers took Jesus into the Praetorium and gathered the whole company of soldiers around him. 28They stripped him and put a scarlet robe on him, 29and then twisted together a crown of thorns and set it on his head. They put a staff in his right hand and knelt in front of him and mocked him. "Hail, king of the Jews!" they said. 30They spit on him, and took the staff and struck him on the head again and again. 31After they had mocked him, they took off the robe and put his own clothes on him. Then they led him away to crucify him.

Matthew 25:40

40"The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.'

Ben Van Scyoc