Liars Go to Hell

Just this week, standing on the corner of Auburn and Rochester Road, was a middle-aged white male. Some of you know who I am talking about.

Normally, this would not draw the attention of onlookers as Rochester is predominantly white. This person was doing something unusual for he wore a large sign that read:

Revelation 21:8
LIARS GO TO HELL!

Kara first sited this man and reported to me via cell phone. This happened about a week ago. I responded to her journalistic reporting by stating, “Can you get a picture?” She was driving at the time, and thus, could not get a discernible picture.

As if the story could not get any stranger . . . my “liars-go-to-hell-sign-wearing-friend” held, in the hand not supporting the large sign under discussion, a miniature Santa Clause holding a camera.

“I suppose it is Christmas,” I muttered the first time I noticed, as I drove through Rochester, the figurine of the man from the North Pole.

I’ve heard several people comment on the new Rochester messenger throughout this week.

On Friday, I met a friend for lunch in Troy, the town right next to Rochester. I was early, for once, and noticed the “liars-go-to-hell-sign-wearing-friend” standing at a main intersection.

Santa was also with him, I should add. In his hand. With the previously mentioned photograph device.

I looked at my watch. “He won’t be here for another few minutes,” I thought remembering that my lunch partner had to stop at an ATM machine before meeting me for some Mexican food.

I’ve been thinking, reading, and writing a lot about reconciliation lately. The one constant in all of my reading is “going to the other.” Whether it’s the Tutsi going to the Hutu (Rwanda), the uptight urban-city-slicker going to the rural simpleton (work) or the victim approaching the perpetrator (countless scenario’s)— there’s something profound about one person, despite tension or awkwardness, going to another in genuine respect, searching for authentic understanding.

While some think it's the passive/weak/idealistic way . . . I think it is the harder way. What's easier: to avoid confrontation and tension or to embrace it? Nine times out of ten we choose the former while the latter offers the greatest potential for insight and, on the rare occasion, healing.

So I walked. Carefully. And slowly. Towards the man wearing the loud sign.

“Sir, can I talk to you?” I asked. No response.
“I’m not here to argue. I just want to talk. My name is Josh. I’m a minister.”

Apparently, the “minister angle” didn’t bring me anymore credibility. He only stared beyond me.

“Will you talk to me? . . . You won’t talk to me?” I was getting a bit agitated. I mean, I came all the way out here to . . . well, this story isn’t about me.

Then our eyes met. And I knew it when I saw it. It’s almost impossible to explain what “it” is. It’s like the innate ability of a point guard to find the open man in a critical juncture of the game. Or the negotiator, in the moment of intense drama, who knows the precise words that need to be spoken.

I did not find anger in his eyes.

I did not stumble upon arrogance.

I did not even locate confusion.

Instead I found the most dangerous thing in the world when mixed with religion.

I found fear.

So, I walked away knowing what is so true in all of us. Deep down, all of us wrestle fear. Fear of rejection. Fear of failure. Fear of mediocrity. Fear of . . .

Tonight, before I sleep, I’ll pray for this man, whoever he is. Because, ironically enough, he’s not afraid of me or you or Rochester. He’s afraid of God. I know plenty of people in that boat. Just because he’s rather transparent about it, doesn’t mean I should love him any less than I love my wife, or you.