The man at the gas station across the street shouts at me. He is asking for some change.
I am in a hurry. I pat my pockets and shake my head no. Then I get in my car and drive out of the church parking lot so fast, I almost get hit by an oncoming car.
In this tapestry of life, he is a man on the fringe, and I am not, especially when I miss another call to be.
What would it cost me to simply cross the street and have a conversation, whether I have money to give or not?
It seems every shooter in the news is someone on the fringe, an outsider, striking back at society for slights, real or perceived.
“See me!” (Blam!)
“Hear me!” (Blam!)
“I am not invisible!” (Blam! Blam!)
Those of us who claim allegiance to the One who supped with publicans and sinners, who chose his closest compatriots, not from the political or religious establishment, but rather from the ranks of fishermen, whores, and cheats, we, who bear the Name, cannot relate to the outsiders because we increasingly live, quite comfortably mind you, on the inside.
The stranger shouting at me from across the street is not the only One asking for some change.