Confessions of a Christian Snob
I don’t even remember her name. She lived in an old, run-down house out on the highway, next door to the 7-Eleven. It was the kind of house that had been there long before the road was a highway. Long before progress came through with yellow stripes down the center of the road, bringing people to buy gas and Slurpees where cows had once grazed. The house needed paint, at the very least. And the weeds were so high they nearly hid the old couch in the front yard, separated from the 7-Eleven parking lot by a weary chain-link fence.
She had long, greasy hair that would have hung straight down her back if it weren’t for the mess of tangles. I’m not sure if her face was dotted with freckles or with pimples. I never looked at her long enough to decide. I only noticed that her jeans were too short, and her coat was way out of style.
When the middle-school bus stopped in front of her house, I put my book bag up on the bus seat next to me, like I had seen other middle-schoolers do, as if I was saving that spot for a friend. Even if I wasn’t. And when she climbed up into the bus and walked past my seat, I stared out the window or down at my book to avoid eye contact. I didn’t know where she was going to sit, but it wasn’t going to be next to me.
So, when my mother informed me on the way to church youth group that we were picking her up to bring her with us, I was mortified. I didn’t know how this horrifying arrangement had been organized; I didn’t even know that my mother knew her mother. I only knew that I did not want to be seen getting out of the same car in the church parking lot as her.
I had to sit in the backseat of our car next to her, but I didn’t have to speak to her. And I’m sure I didn’t speak to her at church. I had my own friends to hang out with during youth group. And afterwards, I desperately hoped nobody saw her get into our car so that we could take her home.
If I remembered her name today, I could try to look her up on Facebook. Maybe I could send her a friend request and apologize to her. But I am ashamed to say that I have no idea what her name was. Honestly, I have not even thought about her in thirty-something years. But this morning, as I read these words in James 2, the whole dreadful story came back to me:
“My brothers and sisters, believers in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ must not show favoritism. Suppose a man comes into your meeting wearing a gold ring and fine clothes, and a poor man in filthy old clothes also comes in. If you show special attention to the man wearing fine clothes and say, “Here’s a good seat for you,” but say to the poor man, “You stand there,” or “Sit on the floor by my feet,” have you not discriminated among yourselves and become judges with evil thoughts?”
And then there’s this verse in Romans 12:
“Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position. Do not be conceited.”
The whole narrative played back in my mind, complete with the same awkward feeling that had pricked my middle-school heart. I knew better. I knew how a follower of Jesus was supposed to act. And my mother sharply reminded me of all this on our way home after pulling out of that girl’s crumbling, weed-infested driveway. I should have spoken to her, welcomed her, included her, befriended her. Isn’t that what Jesus taught?
But I knew all that. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.
In our frustrated and chaotic world, it’s all too easy to point the finger at someone else’s socially discriminatory behavior, whether it involves race, social status, disability, or whatever. In our piety we think, “How could they be so unkind?” But we’ve all been there. We’ve all done it.
And ashamedly, I’ll be the first to admit it.
Suzanne Rood is the author of A LIMP OF FAITH (Credo House Publishers, 2019), her story of daily life with CMT, a hereditary neuropathy that challenges her walking, her music, and her faith. Here’s a link to purchase the book on Amazon.