A car with passengers, young and old, is stopped on the train tracks.
Onlookers draw near, wondering if the vehicle has broken down. As the distant sound of a train is heard, observers freeze, flee, or run toward the car.
A few of the viewers shield their eyes and those of their children, pressing their bodies against one another. Others take out their cell phones and press the red button to record.
The people inside the car on the tracks look at the onlookers with aversion or indifference — everyone, that is, except the driver, whose face cannot be seen as the breath of his laughter fogs his window.
The crowd increases, shouting at the passengers in the vehicle, “Get out!” Others scream to the crowd, “Someone, help them!”
Someone? Who is someone? you think as you approach.
Your hands carry grocery bags, heavy with items that took up the bulk of your paycheck. Your body is sore, and your mind is distracted by worries and fatigue. Nothing in you feels compelled to engage with anyone, yet you find yourself walking through the crowd to see what has captured their attention.
You see the vehicle upon the tracks. You see the faces of the passengers. You tell yourself they could be anyone… someone’s daughter, son, father, or mother…. You tell yourself that someone loves them. They belong to someone or once believed that they did.
Horror makes your palms sweat as the train’s roar startles you. Why didn’t you notice it earlier? The grocery bags slip from your grip as you run to the vehicle.
You command yourself to run, even though you know you are far from in shape.
“Run, dammit!” you shout, unsure if you’re speaking aloud or in your head.
In the space between here and there, you see the driver exit the vehicle. His exit had no struggle, and no pain was indicated in his walk. His back is toward you, and he walks with purpose and confidence in the opposite direction from you and the crowd.
He left the door open, yet the passengers remained.
You make it to the car upon the tracks only to see a woman inside leaning over, frantically trying to close the driver’s door. She succeeds, locking the door. You hear her say, “Get away from me!”
You yell at her to get out of the vehicle, bang on the windows, and yell at everyone inside the car, “Open the door! Open the door!”
Someone inside the vehicle lays on the horn. You can no longer hear the train.
To no avail, you try to push the vehicle off the tracks. You cry out to the crowd, “Someone, help me! Help me!”
Most remain frozen, either holding up their cellphones or covering their eyes and mouths in disbelief.
Finally, a few break from the crowd. They run toward you.
“Run, dammit! Run!” you shout at them.
Together, you and these few miraculously lift the vehicle just shy from the tracks before the train passes.
***
We are in grave danger.
Reread this story.
This is occurring in society right before our eyes. More and more frequently.
The devil is the driver, taking people to their spiritual death, leaving them to be recovered either by hell or heaven. He knows that he has created enough chaos, pageantry, and hatred to make heaven appear as a small-minded concept and God-believers as bigots.
Too many Christ-followers have become spectators, too fearful to approach the reality of what is happening out of fear of being ostracized, labeled a hypocrite, or prejudiced.
Believers close their eyes to the devil’s theatrics, silencing themselves in disbelief or rationalizing that they have too much to lose to engage… they cannot afford to be labeled, even if they know the labels to be lies.
Believers become deaf to the sound of the train and vanquished by the hum of the horn.
Some Believers even stand on the sidelines and record the events, only to later question why no one did more to help.
Together begins with just a few.
“Jesus said to them, ‘Because of your unbelief. For truly I say to you, if you have faith as a grain of mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. And nothing will be impossible for you” Matthew 17:20.
This column was initially published by CherryRoad Media. ©Tiffany Kaye Chartier.