Pardon Me, But You’re Sitting In My Chair

Mocking is definitely in my repertoire.

Growing up around bullies will, often times, produce a mocker. We are usually passive aggressive people with an above average command of language. Most of us were relentlessly picked on by others who were bigger or smarter than we were. We were called names. We were smacked around a little. Instead of hitting back which was usually out of the question, we chose to mock.

Woody Allen is one of the great mockers. Can you imagine what his childhood was like? Here he was, a skinny little runt, Jewish, glasses, red hair, oi. Oh, the bullying. In the movie, ‘Antz’, Woody’s character, Z, responds to the General’s praise that he looked death in the face and laughed. Z responds,” Actually, I generally just make belittling comments and snicker behind death’s back.” And there it is. We’ve learned that open warfare rarely solves anything so we make cruel but humorous observations about our tormentor’s personal flaws or social situation.

We also mock ourselves. We’ve learned to get the jab in before anyone else does. And who better to mock me, than me? We insulate ourselves with laughter and hide behind our one-liners and, ta-da! Everybody likes us. Mockers are painfully insecure. You see, all that bullying that went on in the formative years didn’t just go away when we started making jokes. We like to tack a timely ‘jk’ at the end of our ‘funny’ remarks to each other, but we all know the truth, don’t we? Just kidding, but not really. Sticks and stones may break our bones, but words destroy us completely.

Abba has a lot to say about mockers. Go to BibleGateway.com and type the word, ‘mock’, and see what you get. I knew of a few references, but wow. No, God is not happily anticipating visiting wrath upon the mockers of the world, but He knows that mockers harbor a prideful heart. Pride is a very dangerous thing. Pride separates us from the One who loves us. It causes us to hurt others in a deeply personal way. It is very, very destructive.

Knowing these things makes me realize that I could become that which wounded me so intimately as a child. Where does it end? At the cross.

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