We had a tragedy recently in our small hometown. During a thick fog, a pedestrian was struck and killed by a motorist.
What shock for the family.
I know the breath-grabbing numbness I felt when my grandma passed away suddenly on April 21st, and she a far cry from healthy. But this was a grandmother, quite healthy, who never came back from a walk around town.
But I think I really feel for that motorist.
Imagine being the cause of such tragedy.
What agonizing heartbreak.
And in such a small town, only a few thousand people, what would it mean to rebuild a life? I don't know the legal repercussions which may yet play out, but wouldn't it be nearly impossible to start again when everyone in town knows that you are that person that hit and killed so-and-so? Even if they weren't angry, even if they viewed you with pity, wouldn't you feel forever defined by that one moment of obscured vision, of inattention?
So would you move away? Would you leave town and try to start again amongst the anonymity of the crowds of a larger city? But then, wouldn't there be that looming thought over every friendship, that once it reached a certain depth, you would need to tell them about that part of your past?
I was walking along our city sidewalks and pondering this shortly after Easter. What if, I thought, the people of this lovely city were able to reach out, not in pity or in sidelong glances, but in a realization of our own sin - both of omission and commission.
What if we all realized that our sin has caused a death, too?
That little white lie? killed someone.
That snide remark? murder.
That vengeful thought? a direct cause of a death.
Whose?
The very Son of God.
