fender bender.

On Saturday, I took the kids for a quick car ride to a nearby park.  Julie has been suffering from severe headaches and fatigue and we were hoping to create a quiet house with our absence.

Traffic in South Asia looks like Mario Kart meets Tetris – a highly fluid chaos, confined by tight spaces, pedestrians, and cattle.  I pull up to a jam and wait to move.  Meanwhile, a three-wheeled auto-rickshaw, sensing an inch between my car and the one in front of me, zips into oncoming traffic and cuts into my lane.  With a clawing screech his back bumper catches my front bumper and begins to bend it forward away from my car.

I am furious.  I jump out and tell him to come and look.  Sure enough, our vehicles are interlocked.  We work to pull his auto out from my wheel well, leaving a large bend and scratched paint in its wake.  Speaking no English, he hardly acknowledges my demand for restitution.  Instead he jumps in his auto and speeds away.

I jump in my car and race after him.  Rounding a corner, I flag a traffic cop, point to the auto and motion, “He hit me!”  He hops in the passenger seat and tells me, “Chase him!”  So, kids in the back seat waiting for time at the park turns into high-speed car-auto chase in back alleys.  When the auto turns onto a main road, I catch and corner him.  The cop gets in his auto and guides us back to a police booth.

We park our respective vehicles and commence arguing again – the auto driver, the cop, and I – in three different languages I’m pretty sure.  After other officers and a small crowd gather, an English-speaking cop emerges.  He says the auto driver says it is my fault.  I say he’s lying and I want him to fix my car.

The officer agrees.  “There are two ways to settle this,” he tells me.  “You two can figure it out here, or you can drive to the police station, lodge a complaint, and they will keep your car for three days to process it.”  What?!  I’m livid.  I’ve been hit, my car is damaged, and I am not getting anywhere with this driver.

In the midst of my self-absorbed fury, the Lord breaks in.  I see the situation for what it is.  The auto driver is terrified.  He has hit a rich man’s car that he can’t possibly pay for.  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a hundred rupees ($2) and holds it out to me, hands shaking.  It’s all he has.

My anger melts away.  I ask the officer to translate for me.  I tell the driver, “I’m a Christian.  That means that Jesus has taken all the wrong I have done in my life and forgiven me.  I forgive you for hitting my car.  But Jesus also gives me all the good he has done.  So in turn, I want to pay you for the damages you did.”  I pull out my wallet and hand him a five hundred-rupee note.

The auto driver begins crying.  The officer says, “What is your name?  I’ve never seen anything like this!”  The small crowd pushes forward to shake my hand.

I marvel at the Holy Spirit’s power to trump my own agitated self-righteousness and bring the gospel to bear on a fender bender.  Left to my own devices I would have taken his hundred rupees and felt terrible.  I would have been like the servant forgiven of a massive debt only to strangle a fellow servant for a small one.

But the Lord won’t leave me as I am.  And Jesus, laying down his rights at the cross and giving me the privilege of sonship, frees me from the frenzy of chasing down my rights from others.

I deserve every dollar it takes to fix my car.  I also deserve to pay in full for every wrong I’ve done.  The gospel turns my accounting on its head, making credits of debits, and transforming justified anger into humbling forgiveness.