Chapter 21 A Stranger in a Car

There's a stranger in a car
Driving down your street
Acts like he knows who you are
Slaps his hand on the empty seat and says
"Are you gonna get in,
Or are you gonna stay out?"
Just a stranger in a car
Might be the one they told you about.

Well you never were one for cautiousness
You open the door
He gives you a tender kiss
And you can't even hear them no more
All the voices of choices
Now only one road remains

And strangers in a car
Two hearts
Two souls
Tonight
Two lanes

You don't know where you're goin'
You don't know what you're doin'
Hell it might be the highway to heaven
And it might be the road to ruin
But this is a song
For strangers in a car
Baby maybe that's all
We really are

Strangers in a Car, Marc Cohn


It occurs to me that I never really listen to an entire album from start to finish. I grab onto one song and I listen to it over and over until there's likely some type of groove on the CD, much like the one in my head. The song becomes full of life and imagery and it breathes on its own, really, more so than I think the songwriter ever intended.

Unbeknownst to him, Marc Cohn set out to write one of those groove songs for me, because, well, Strangers in a Car drowns out the other ten songs on the album, though I'm sure they're all very nice.

So, with that said, this particular song obviously has some special meaning to me, so here it is:

You see, I'm altogether haunted by a stranger, this mysterious image of evil; he's a predator of the worst kind, really. And since we toy around with the notion of travelers and roads and a Harley and a particular Savior who rides one, perhaps we should parlay some of the metaphor, you know -- for this stranger is best imagined out there in an unfamiliar car, driving slowly down our mutual streets, very near to where we live. He rolls down the window and he tries to get our attention.

He is very much like the man our parents told us never to talk to, despite his enticements and his tantalizing tricks. And when we were finally old enough and big enough and smart enough to defend ourselves against someone such as him, they exhaled a sigh of relief, and really, can you blame them?

But aside from all of that, imagination causes him to still lurk deep in the recesses of my psyche, and maybe even yours. He acts like he knows who we are, and he actually does; he's done his homework, which is pretty scary when you think about it for he's a swindler of the darkest sort. He slaps his hand on the empty seat, because he desperately wants us to get in the car with him, and sometimes we do, throwing cautiousness to the wind, maybe repeatedly, and before we know it, there's that so called tender kiss on our cheek and we realize that we've been betrayed, again, for the umpteenth time.

Yes, pretty soon, we appreciate that there's a stranger driving us around this town, in a car of his own design.

Of course we know who he is, and we think he's mainly up to some tangible destruction of our health and our wealth and all good things visible to collective others. We think our time is coming, or maybe it's past, where he's going to just steamroll over us and leave us wounded as he moves on to take more victims, but in actuality he wants us to join him for a very long ride. In fact, he is going about a subtle but extended obliteration, of my life and I suppose yours, causing deep loneliness here, rejection there, depression and suffering and self-medicating of the worst kind, and that's just the beginning. Sure, he'll still do his best to destroy the big ticket items, whatever it takes, but he knows that the most effective plan involves a steady and lifelong leaning away from the adventure.

And all of this leads me to his other lies, specifically, how he suggests confirmation of our previously held, but faulty thinking, maybe even now as you read this, and maybe even now as I write this. We're sitting in the car, and instead of patting the seat, he's rubbing our knee and telling us everything is just fine the way it is.

And that's where the church comes into all of this, which you knew I'd get around to, as if I needed to beat a dead horse.

You see, this stranger in a car is responsible for the malaise we feel, that this is as good as it gets -- that this is all there is to church, to this spirituality, to this God we claim to follow. Somehow, he's convinced us that all of the voices of choices are gone, and the only road that remains for who we are, and what we're to be about, is somehow bound and reduced to some ancient tradition, even though we feel dead inside.

It's truly a sinister way to get us into his car, and to keep us there -- to get us to buy into the generational, denominational ennui, but he does it all the same. Pretty soon, we're fraught with conventional, and predictable church thinking, and with it, we're being led down a dark side street, far from breathtaking heights and far from the notion of what this trip is supposed to be about in the first place.

And well, crap, in fact, hell, we think it's the highway to heaven we're on, because that's what we've been led to believe. Or maybe just maybe, it might be the road to ruin.

So, if we're not sure, let's go back to the facts and we'll figure out this new kind of church together. Let's slap the bastard and get out of his car.

For starters, dig down deep with me and ask the God of truth to consistently reveal the strategy of the stranger, because, well, he's getting the better of us and he's driving us with his unfamiliar but all too creepy car to a place called apathy. We need to beg, and beg hard that God will give us clarity as to what the stranger looks like, maybe even a description of the car.

For example, if you've ever felt closed in and constricted and you can't breathe and you keep looking at the clock, and you don't like people staring at your scars, and you don't have much leg room, and you're caught up in some old tradition and set of rules and morals and musty old hymnals and little cards with little pencils for you fill out while your ass becomes numb on a pew that should have been designed better, well, then imagine the stranger in the car sitting next to you, slapping the seat upon which you sit and rubbing your knee.

You're on a road toward nowhere, and he's happy you're coming with him.

OK, so now, since I'm on a roll, let's get this party started as I clarify something else. There's something mentioned over and over again in the Bible, trust me. Don't dare me to start whipping out all of the verses.

The poor are, and should be the center of our concerns, as the Church.

The poor can be the typical people that come into your mind -- the homeless, the prisoner, the widow, the refugee. But don't forget the ones, like you and me, who at times feel unloved, unwanted, ignored, or the ones who suffer physical and emotional abuse. We're all poor in some way, damn it.

Jesus told us one time, and therefore again and again, that the poor will always be with us. He's right, you know, as if I needed to remind you of that. Don't check wallets for the answer, just look around you.

For this to work, all of us, you and me, with our very own poverty issues must realize that when we experience it inside and then learn to share in it with others who are outside and less fortunate or perhaps equally suffering, we form a bond that is the Church. We spill it -- all of our own brokenness, our crap, our crazy demanding issues, our messiness, right onto the floor and then we pick up the pieces together and we learn to forgive each other through it and in it.

God, it's powerful.

And then, this is when the stranger in a car gets really frustrated, because we stop beating each other up. We reach out with all of our scars and all of our brokenness to the margins and we extend grace by taking in more and more of the poor in body, poor in spirit, poor in mind and we spend much less time on disagreements, much less effort on silly rivalries and really, our entire focus shifts.

The way God designed our bodies is a model for understanding our lives together as a church: every part dependent on every other part, the parts we mention and the parts we don't, the parts we see and the parts we don't. If one part hurts, every other part is involved in the hurt, and in the healing. If one part flourishes, every other part enters into the exuberance. (1 Corinthians 12:24-25, The Message).

It really is in the Bible, just like that. And if you think you're not hurt, think again. You've been wounded somewhere, and that makes you hurt and therefore, it makes you poor in some way -- you carry with you a poverty that others can lift you up and out of. And guess what? You're rich in something, too. Find out what it is, because by sharing it, you could buoy someone's spirits -- right now, today, more than you could ever imagine.

Alright, I'm done for now, I promise, but please let this one thought resonate -- really, give it a try. Start off small if you need to, but let this be the groove song that plays over and over in your head as it turns you and other poor people around you into a new kind of church, one that's full of life and imagery; one that breathes on its own as it was always meant to do.

The poor are given to the Church so that the Church as the body of Christ can be and remain a place of mutual concern, love, and peace. Each person in our world deserves a dedicated caregiver as faithful as God himself.

The Church is the people of God called out of slavery to freedom, sin to salvation, despair to hope, darkness to light, an existence centered on death to an existence focused on life. When we think of Church we have to think of a body of people, traveling together. We have to envision women, men, and children of all ages, races, and societies supporting one another on their long and often tiresome journeys to their final home.

Our decisions to act in loving response to others is a channel of God's love for all. Henri Nouwen Society