Saturday I found out that my back tire was slashed.

Nothing says “good morning” like a neighbor telling you the day’s plans are derailed for you and maybe 30 other people.

That’s how many others were in the same boat.

All afternoon, I saw others scoping us out. It felt like a “You too?” or maybe a “that sucks.”

It was messed up. It even made it into the sermon the next day. Not because broadcasting my frustration is what I wanted. Far from it. If I could’ve pretended it never happened, that would’ve been fine with me.

I literally went to complain on Facebook or Twitter no less than 10 times. And each time I held back. It just wasn’t something I really wanted to talk about.

Not like that. As an excuse to not leave the house. Or as a “can you believe some people?” Some sick need to complain about the quality of humanity around me. I really didn’t want to do that. I didn’t really want to make a thing about it at all.

Then a reporter asked if I’d talk about it.

Damn.

I had to. Of course. I mean, she needs a quote for a story. I don’t mind too much.

Let’s talk.

But as we get ready to start, I become aware of this moment. This standing in front of my car, near my home, talking about this nasty, obnoxious thing that would cost me money we don’t really have for this, at least not yet. Late spring was the plan to look at new tires. Not today. A Saturday.

I was frustrated, but I wasn’t angry. Not like that. The punishing, smoke ’em out of their holes angry. I felt pity for the jerk. I mean, how screwed up is his life that he thinks this is good? That this is how we treat each other.

Break their stuff.
Make them pay hundreds they may or may not have.
For what? To feel like a badass?

Ooh. Wow. Totally impressed.

Pity. I felt pity for them.

Like the pity I feel for everyone who ever thought tearing down another person made them cool.

The girl in eighth grade who teased me for a year because I sat in bubble gum one day in journalism class.

Anyone who drunk-tweets after midnight.

My 4th grade self who picked on a girl to cope with my getting picked on.

I pity that.

And I thought of my friends who got drunk and flung produce at another house in college. Or the ones who may or may not have looked through mailboxes.

The things which really never sound good in the light of day. They only sound terrible. Unless…
there’s alcohol,
drugs,
peer pressure involved.

Or we have such low self-esteem that we can’t handle it. We’d rather destroy than build up. Be part of the problem rather than the solution. The dark inside becomes the dark outside.

All this ran through my mind and I thought of myself not only as a victim but as a priest, who better look halfway decent on TV. Seriously. I can’t let the congregation down. But that was only a fleeting thought. It got replaced by a more important one.

I’m a Christian.

And the idea that someone would slash my tire indiscriminately does bother me. It unnerved me. It made me think about the community and the future. About a return visit the next night (there wasn’t).

I thought about all that Jesus pushes us away from in the midst of adversity. Not just what he invites us to do, but also not do.

To not retaliate. Attack. Turn violence against violence.

And more specifically, not to persecute, but to deal with the very humanity of the abuser. To send the aggression and the hate packing.

And I knew I couldn’t respond with anger or vindictiveness. Not only will it do no good, but it is precisely what perpetuates abuse.

She asked me just a few questions, starting with my name, spell it. Then tell me what happened. Then the real questions, the ones we had just been talking about:
How does it make you feel?
As you said, they’ll probably get away with it, so what do you think this means?

I shared that I was frustrated, but this is the very problem of the seemingly meaningless crime: we’re likely to get pissed and then what? Where’s that anger going to go? Better to deal with it.

This is what they ran with:

“Well, that’s the trouble with this sort of like ‘meaningless crime’ idea for me, it’s like someone comes in, they can just do it, under the cover of darkness, right? And it just makes it frustrating for the rest of us.”

Of course, they cut off the second half. The part where I turn the other cheek and dare them to keep it up.

Not because I’ll resort to violence. But because all they’ve done is take the coward’s route out of their own pain. All they’ve done is caused more dysfunction. More petty. Violence. Hatred.

Better to take the other road. The one that leads to honesty. Under the cover of daylight.