There I was, scrolling mindlessly on my phone, when BAM! A stark-naked midget (little person for the PC crowd) struts into the subway car.
No, this ain't a twisted joke. No hidden cameras. Just raw, uncomfortable reality staring us in the face – about 4 feet of it.
Reactions? Priceless.
Phone zombies suddenly found their screens fascinating.
Eye-contact avoiders became Olympic gold medalists.
Window gazers discovered a newfound love for brick walls.
Me? I'm thinking, "Is this a biblical test? Am I hallucinating?"
But nah. Just God's dry sense of humor, serving up a slice of naked truth on my daily commute.
Here's the kicker: That nude little dude? He's all of us.
Strip away the fancy suits, the fake smiles, the "I'm fine" lies.
We're all exposed, vulnerable, and scared as heck.
But can we handle it?
Spoiler alert: Most can't. And that's where this bizarre subway ride turns into a divine wake-up call.
Our naked friend wasn't content just standing there. Nope. He casually strolls over, plops down on an empty seat, and crosses his legs like he's chilling in Central Park.
Cue the intercom: "To the, uh, unclothed individual in car three... This train ain't moving 'til you're off."
Our little buddy? Looks around confused, like, "Who they talking about?"
After a few cringe-worthy minutes, cops show up, escort him out, and we're rolling again. Life goes on, right?
Wrong.
This ain't just a crazy story. It's a God-sized parable slapping us in the face.
Fast forward to "R U OK? Day" at work. Corporate virtue signaling at its finest.
Boss asks, "R U OK?"
I drop the bomb: "Nope. Wife's got stage 4 cancer. I'm drowning."
His response? System crash. Blue screen of death.
Mumbled platitudes, then a hasty retreat.
I got naked. He couldn't deal.
Here's the truth bomb:
We suck at vulnerability.
Ours and everyone else's.
But here's the thing:
Christ didn't call us to comfort.
He called us to love.
Raw, messy, uncomfortable love.
So, next time someone strips bare in front of you (emotionally, please), don't be the awkward subway passenger.
Be different. Be Christ-like.
How?
Shut up and listen.
Not the "waiting for your turn to talk" kind.
The "I'm fully present" kind.
Don't try to fix it.
You're not God. You can't.
Just be there.
Say "I hear you."
Simple. Powerful. True.
Stay in the discomfort.
Don't rush to cover their nakedness.
Or yours.
Remember:
Vulnerability isn't weakness.
It's the raw material of real connection.
Our naked little friend on the subway?
He's teaching us more than we realize.
About authenticity.
About our own fear of being exposed.
About our desperate need for real connection.
In a world of fake smiles and surface-level chit-chat,
Be the one who can handle the naked truth.
Be the one who sees the person behind the pain.
Be the one who listens without flinching.
Be the one who says, "I hear you" and means it.
It's not about having all the answers.
It's about being present in the questions.
So, next time life strips someone bare in front of you,
Don't look away.
Don't offer cheap solutions.
Don't run for the exit.
Instead:
See them.
Hear them.
Stay with them.
That's what Christ would do.
That's what you're called to do.
It won't be comfortable.
But it will be real.
And in a world drowning in fakeness,
Real is the only thing that matters.
Next time you're faced with raw vulnerability – yours or someone else's – remember the naked little person on the subway. Don't avert your eyes. Don't pretend it's not happening. Embrace the awkward. Lean into the discomfort.
That's where real faith lives.
That's where real love happens.
That's where God shows up in all His naked glory.
Joshua Kadison has a great song entitled “Invisible Man” in which the subject of the song feels invisible and yells out the window of his apartment, “Here I am! Here I am!” And people started yelling at him to go back to bed. But he felt better because at least he knew he was seen. It’s actually kind of pathetic for things to get that far. But so many people feel unseen, unheard, and definitely uncared for. That’s what the Church is supposed to be about: caring for the needs, physical, emotional, and spiritual of each other. Thanks for the parable. Good reminder.
I've led a Divorce Care support group for the past 25 years and the personnel joy involved in seeing men and women support one another, sharing like situations, shedding tears, comforting each other, making new friends, saying "I understand" to each other, is worth my time and trouble and my service to my God.