You wonder when you travel out-of-town for a week or so, if you will return to the same life. Will my house still be here? Will someone have broken in? (That’s really happened to me before, and it’s a strange feeling.) Will we all come home alive, uninjured? Will something or someone be forever changed because we took this trip?
As humans, we crawl all over the planet, and we do dangerous things like jump out of airplanes or ski fast through a stand of trees. We live on in spite of the risks we take, yet we can also be so fragile and quickly pulled under: a ruptured appendix, a samonella-laced burger, a bump on the head on the ski slope.
But I digress. Our long drive through the rural (read: desolate, lonely) areas of Colorado, Texas and New Mexico proved that God is alive and thriving. Churches are big business no matter how poor or how small the town. There were billboards, posters and church signs that read “God Loves You” and “Anti-God is Anti-American” and God this and God that. My kid, the one who I think never pays attention, was a veritable spout of religious sayings by the time we got home. Jesus didn’t tap out. He loves you, my son said. I saw that sign, too. In Clarendon.
And I started thinking about it. You know, across the board, just about every parent will tell you that they have a parental instinct. Hurt their child, and they’ll put a hurting on you. What kind of father would watch a group of men beat the living sh*t out of his son and nail him to a cross? What kind of father doesn’t step in and tap his son out? And since when did an MMA saying come to represent a man who promoted peace, not fighting?
Of course, you and I know the answers, but I’m only wondering why the folks who put these signs up don’t take pause.