The yellow and black motorcycle buzzed by my car like a bumblebee. I caught a lucky glimpse of his back tire in my side mirror and aborted my merge, saving us both from certain collision. This was not the way to start a busy Monday morning. After several deep breaths, a short prayer and a quick glance at my phone’s map app, my adrenaline-saturated nerves began to settle back into normal rhythm. That is, until I noticed Mr. Speed-Biker slowing down to present me with his personal, and profane, opinion of our near mishap.
Presented on full, bold display was the middle finger of his leather-gloved right hand in a gesture all too familiar to motorists on America’s highways. No wonder which driver he intended as target. But just in case I appeared confused, the cyclist decelerated until his extended one-finger salute filled the entirety of my driver’s side window. I couldn’t escape his unspoken syllables. No misinterpretation possible. That moment, only two words buzzed from the biker’s anger and flew out his finger to sting me.
The phrase wasn't, “Thank you!”
Often in episodes like this encounter, my first instinct is to react. Let loose my own barrage of profanity to match the attacker’s in some tit-for-tat, back-and-forth display of creative cursing that leaves me angrier and frustrated with each utterance.
The oversized middle digit occupying the driver’s side glass on my morning commute, and the urge to respond-in-kind, confirms the worst of my, and man’s, condition. But despite this confrontation and our obvious modern affection for a variety of expletives, the “f-bomb” serves as only a symptom.
There is something far worse underway.
Humanity’s heart is fatally infected with curse words.
Words much deeper than the ones we utter.
Curses raging in our souls from nearly the beginning of time.
Long ago, before speeding motorcycles and Monday morning commutes raised blood pressures across the concrete and iron landscape, another pair of travelers found themselves locked in a war of words. This time, the exchange echoed in a garden paradise which had never known the anxiety and pressure of a world buzzing by at death-defying speeds. Hanging in the balance was the whole of humanity, caught between the promises of its Creator and the questions of its Adversary.
No swear words were spoken; no simple turns-of-the-tongue reduced the severity of the choice to mere crass novelty. The world’s future hung between two Voices, each speaking the same two words.
Trust me.
In response, the first man and his wife faced but one question: Which words held the truth and which ones held the curse?
Thousands of years later, another man clarified the primeval choice made, if there still existed any doubt. “For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of.” This Sage knew we swear with our lips because we’ve chosen to trust the words of our ancient Adversary which hide his horrible sting. We curse outside because we’re subject to the Curse inside.
As I sat brooding at the biker now flying away at breakneck speed, off to share his special brand of communication to another unfortunate commuter, a choice floated in the air. A choice we must all face.
Whose words will I trust?
My answer determines which words will flow out of me. The future will be created from the choice I make. But I do have a choice because one man already bore the Curse for me, for us. Instead we’re called to be part of the fix, the remedy... the Cure.
In that moment, thankfully, somehow clarity rushed into my head and my heart, soothing the urge to react with my mouth (or my hand).
I took a deep breath of truth, invoked uncomfortable words of favor for the middle-finger-man and drove on my way—one less curse heaped on a world already deeply wounded from its sting.
