I confess it, like most of cynical American-ized rubberneckers I slowly eased past the car wreck of humanity this last weekend known as Mel Gibson. Like those who infuriate me while I drive in my car on I-75, slowing down in rush hour traffic to see the twisted remains of a previously pristine car, causing massive backups for an ever so brief peak at what amounts to no more than that which can be seen any other day of the week and at a speed greater than 30 mph, I inched past this story relishing in the horrific details of a life skid out of control and totalled in a matter of moments. One action, the looking down at the radio for instance, and a driver finds himself slammed into the back seat of the car stopped ahead of him, and Gibson similarly on account of one action found himself richoteting into the oncoming traffic of tabloids and police blotters, flashing patrol car and paparrazi bulbs, and ultimately left to sit on the side of the road, onlookers gawking as if they have never seen such a thing. I laughed, heartily and wholly, rejoicing over the fall of one so outwardly pious, someone who had placed himself in the spotlight of Christianity, a beacon of light by which other lesser sinners might be judged. Served him right as far as I was concerned; I ate up the juicy details of his downward spiral like it was my last meal. What a wretch.
I nearly wept, not immediately, but as I retold the dirt to my wife, leaving out no inflammatory detail; it was as if I was staring into a mirror, peering into my own soul of filth and bile. One attempting to live a Christian life ravaged by the ever present grapple with his inner darkness. He lost this battle, a very public loss, but a simple defeat all the same. He had not the luxury of hiding behind closed doors or dark rooms, there was no room for deceiving himself or those around him, his was acted out upon the stage of humanity with the spotlight of fame exposing his every shadow.
I have the luxury of anonymity in my falls. When I lie, only a select group are ever privy to the revelation of the truth, nor would/do most care one way or the other. When I over-indulge in the vices of my choosing, there are few if any pointing fingers of condemnation; rather, most of the time there are others no less entrenched than myself.
Sadly, it has become far too easy for those of us mired in our state to view mirrors we are confronted with on a frequent basis, mirrors of our inner selves reflected in the all too public displays of others, to find comfort in the fact that we are not truly the reflection of what we are seeing, as if these reflections are entirely separate beings.
I breathe deeply and exhale cooly, knowing that I am not the adulterous pastor, the child molestor, the thief, the drunk, the slanderer, the ugly. No, I am something less than these because I am hidden and they are not. But, what if I am the adulterer? What if he is no more than the manifestation of what is germinating beneath the surface of my easily excused lesser offenses? Should the fact that the plant of my sin has not surfaced cause me to believe that it never will, thereby freeing me to scoff at the Gibson's of the world, or should it compel me to shudder and weep at the foreshadowing of the potentiality within me?
I choose this night the latter.
Michael, I swell with pride as I read such beautifully written words - what a writer you have become! I believe that comes from reading, and reading, and reading. But, even more, you express your deepest self and speak for most of us less articulate ones. I feel the same way - haven't even read the details of this sad story, but hurt for his public humiliation as I know each and every one of us could be in his place.
Your closing paragraph might just end up in a frame in my office. Good stuff.