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    How did Jesus pull that off, I wonder? I think I know, but the answer condemns me. It was because He was totally without pride. That is why his life was sinless and mine is not. What follows is not an extraordinary event — I wish it were — but God knows — it is far too common.

    What started the whole thing was that I forgot something I needed. I had fine-tuned my schedule to the point that the slightest hitch would begin a late cycle. I drove in Sam’s parking lot. (I do not mean “drove” in the sense of calm, vehicular motion — I mean “drove” in the sense of “he drove a nail” or “the halfback drove between two opposing linemen.”) Like I said, I drove into Sam’s parking lot — scattering people in every direction — ran inside, located the item I needed in seconds, and headed for the checkout. I measured each line carefully — appraising not just the length, but the individuals — which ones would pay by check, who would question prices, who wouldn’t be able to find their driver’s license.

    Suddenly, just to my left, they opened a new checkout line. Like the above-mentioned halfback, I reacted immediately — but I made physical contact with a rather bullish, forty-fivish, linebacker type, who rocked me back on my heels and filled the hole in front of me. He only had three or four small items, so I stepped in behind him with only a minimal protest.

    As the girl rang up his purchases, he took out his checkbook. My heart sank a little. Being so close, I could see that his check was one of those temporary types, the kind they give you when you first open an account and your real checks haven’t been printed yet — you know, the ones with your name, address, phone number, social security number, fingerprints, hair sample, and dental impression — which, by the way, is all totally useless unless you have at least three major credit cards, can prove you are in debt for a minimum of $250,000 and are on a first name basis with the bank president.

    The checkout girl took one look at this guy’s check and nearly had a coronary. “We can’t accept checks like this,” she said rather indignantly.

    “I’d like to know why the (bleep) not?” You could tell by his reply that this guy wasn’t going to take any stuff from anybody — this was a personal offense. I looked at my watch; I was in deep trouble.

    “The check doesn’t have proper ID on it,” she said firmly.

    “I have all kinds of ID.” He opened the wallet, and plastic cards tumbled out in profusion. I also noticed that he had a rather large amount of cash. His purchases were less than thirty dollars.

    “Your personal ID doesn't matter — it’s this check. There is no ID on this check.” Now she was efficient, businesslike.

    “I’d like to see your boss, right now! I buy lots of things here, and I'm sure they don't want to lose me as a customer.”

    Personally, I thought they would love to lose him as a customer. The boss came, he verified what the checkout girl had said. The customer wanted to see his boss — he wanted a personal interview with Sam Walton, his state senator, and Rush Limbaugh — the process was repeated — and I waited. This idiot wouldn’t give it up. He was in the limelight, everybody was looking at him, and people who had checked out were standing and waiting to see the outcome.

    My resentment, my indignation, my sense of personal injustice grew to the bursting point. The other lines moved steadily. People who were still shopping when I got in line were now headed for the parking lot while I stood behind this --

Why didn’t I just change lines?

    You are probably wondering why I didn’t just change lines? I hope you are wondering that — it is my reason for writing. There are two reasons: The first, simply stated, is that I was too proud. I didn’t want to lose face. People who had seen me jump in this line ahead of those who waited in other lines would sneer and see some kind of providential justice administered against me.