THE PARKING LOT WASN’T ANGRY

Season 1 | Episode 4: The Parking Lot Wasn’t Angry

While sitting in a gas station parking lot, Pastor Charles Howse noticed something surprising: the people weren’t angry—the narratives were. In this episode of The Tension Where Truth Lives, he explores how easily we reduce people to labels, how those labels shape our perceptions, and why seeing the humanity behind the category may be one of the most important conversations of our time.

Real Conversations. Deeper Perspectives. Timeless Truths.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Hey, it's Pastor Charles Howes, and welcome back to The Tension Where Truth Lives. Man, I'm glad you're here. This is the place where we have honest conversations about the stuff we all feel, but don't always say out loud. And if this is your first time listening, welcome to the family. If you've been here since episode one, man, I appreciate you riding with me. We're building something special here, one conversation at a time, you know? So grab your coffee, turn the radio down if you're driving, maybe take a deep breath if you've had one of those mornings, because today we're diving into season one, episode four, and I'm calling this one The Parking Lot Wasn't Angry. Let me tell you why I'm thinking about this. About 30 minutes ago, I was sitting in a gas station parking lot, just sitting there drinking coffee, and I found myself just watching people. You ever do that? Just people watch? There was a man sitting in an old pickup truck, the kind with the rusted wheel wells and the stories and the dents. He had a dog in the passenger seat, just staring out the window with that loyal, quiet patience dogs have. Then there was a young man sweeping the parking lot, push broom in hand, rhythmic back and forth. He was focused on the task, making sure the concrete was clear of the morning's debris, just doing his job while the world woke up. I saw a couple of men climbing into a work truck. They were wearing those heavy boots and neon vests, getting ready for another day of hard labor, probably talking about the weather or the job site they were heading to. There was a man sitting in an air-conditioned service vehicle, looking at a tablet, probably checking his schedule, and then another man walking across the parking lot. He was carrying what looked like everything he owned in two heavy bags. And y'all, for a few minutes I just sat there and watched. The steam from my coffee was rising up, and the sun was just starting to hit the asphalt, and the strangest thing hit me right then and there. Nobody looked angry. Honestly, nobody was yelling, nobody was fighting, nobody seemed interested in whatever outrage was being sold on the news that day. It was just quiet and regular. Everybody just looked like they were trying to make it, trying to get through another day, trying to carry whatever life had handed them. You feel me? Just the weight of being human in a busy world. And then something else hit me, and this is the part where it gets a little uncomfortable. I wasn't just watching them, I realized I was labeling them. My brain was putting them into little mental folders without me even trying. White man, black man, Hispanic man, homeless man, worker, truck driver. I was checking boxes, and it stopped me cold because I caught myself doing the very thing I've been frustrated with everybody else for doing. I was reducing whole complex human beings to simple categories, and I think we need to talk about that. Because if Pastor Howes is doing it while trying to be mindful, I know we're all struggling with it. Now before you judge me too quickly, let's be honest. You do it too. We all do. Our minds are constantly sorting people into boxes. It's actually how we survive back in the wild, right? Spot the threat, find the tribe, move fast. But can I tell you something? We don't live in the wild anymore. We live in neighborhoods and offices and gas stations. We don't need those survival shortcuts to decide who is worthy of our respect or our attention. And maybe that's where the real problem begins. It's not starting with politics, it's not starting with television, it's not even starting with social media. Those things are just the amplifiers. Those things didn't create the problem. They discovered the problem. And then they figured out how to make a whole lot of money from it. They saw our natural tendency to categorize and they weaponized it. Because division is profitable, fear is profitable, outrage is profitable. Keeping people emotionally stirred up is a business model. The more upset we become, the longer we stay engaged with the screen, right? And the longer we stay engaged, the more valuable our attention becomes to the advertisers. It's a cycle. You with me? We are being fed a diet of anger because it keeps us coming back for more. I used to sell, and I remember my manager had this rule. She'd say, Charles, you gotta create pain on the table. And I didn't get it at first. I thought, why would I want to make people feel pain? But she'd say, Go to the table and find a problem. Then come tell me what the problem is and I'll take it from there. She was right in a business sense. You can't fix what you won't face, and you can't sell a solution to a person who thinks they're fine. So here's the pain on the table today. We are being convinced that we are at war with our neighbors. The people weren't angry in that parking lot. The narratives were angry. The people weren't fighting, the narratives were fighting. The people were carrying real burdens, but the narratives were carrying agendas. Think about the stuff that's been flying around lately. A UFC fighter making wild accusations about the First Lady, the Anthony decision in Texas. It's constant. And before that, it was Michelle and Brock being labeled as monkeys. And before that, it was something else. There's always a reason to be angry. And I'm not saying the anger isn't sometimes justified, but look at the cost. We're living in a culture that has monetized anger. People are being exploited for clicks, for attention, for ratings, and we're left living in a culture that's progressively more hostile because we don't realize we're being played. And somewhere between that parking lot and the television screen, I started asking myself a question: what is all of this doing to us? Not politically, but personally. What are we becoming as individuals? Because listen, eventually we become whatever has our attention. Whatever continually shapes our thinking, eventually shapes our lives. If you stare into a dark room long enough, you start to see shadows everywhere. If all we consume is outrage, we become outraged. If all we consume is fear, we become fearful. If all we consume is suspicion, we become suspicious of everyone who doesn't look like us or think like us. And if all we ever see are labels, eventually we stop seeing people, we stop seeing the soul, we stop seeing the struggle, we just see the category. And that, my friends, is the real pain. The pain isn't disagreement, it's not diversity, it's not even having different opinions. The pain is losing our ability to see the humanity sitting right in front of us. Did you hear that? We're losing our sight, so what do we do about it? How do we break the cycle? I don't think the answer is joining another tribe. I don't think the answer is winning another argument on the internet. That's just more of the same. I don't think the answer is finding better people to hate. I think it starts with something much simpler and much harder. It starts with curiosity, with slowing down long enough to actually ask questions. It means staying in the moment long enough to hear somebody's story, long enough to remember that every person we meet is carrying something we know absolutely nothing about. Everyone has a hidden battle. Think about it. The man in the truck, he might be on his way to chemo, or he might be skipping it because he had to choose between gas and medicine. We look at the truck, but we don't see the diagnosis. The man with the broom, he might be paying for his little girl's birthday cake with the extra shift, or he might be working his third job and hasn't slept in 24 hours. We see the broom, but not the sacrifice. The man carrying everything he owned, he might be drunk, or he might have just been evicted after burying his wife of forty years. We see the bags, but we don't see the grief that weighs more than the luggage, and the man sitting in the air-conditioned cab, he might be entitled, or he might be calling his son to say he's proud of him for the first time in ten years. We see the comfort, but not the courage it took to make that call. We don't know, and that's the point. Every one of them had a story, every one of them had struggles, every one of them had people they loved, every one of them had disappointments, every one of them had hopes, just like me, just like you, we are more alike in our humanity than we are different in our labels. But the noise of the world wants us to forget that. It wants us to stay in our corners, ready to swing. And maybe that's where the conversation should begin, not with who is right, not with who is wrong, not with who is winning or losing the daily news cycle, but with the simple recognition of the person. Before we're tribes, before we're categories, before we're labels, we're people, we are flesh and blood, bone and spirit, we are all just trying to find our way home in the dark, aren't we? So here's what I want you to do this week. And I'm talking to you, yeah, you driving right now, you on your lunch break, you walk in the dog. I want you to try something different, okay? I want you to put down your phone when you're in the parking lot or the grocery store or the lobby, and actually look. Not to label, not to judge, but to learn, to observe the humanity around you. Ask one question if you get the chance. Just a simple man, how's your day going? And then do the hardest part. Shut up and listen. Really listen. Because rules tell us how to behave, but curiosity shows people they belong. You can't legislate empathy. You can't pass a law that makes people care about each other, but you can practice it. You can make it a habit. You can choose to be the person who sees beyond the surface. You can't demand unity, but you can model it. You can't force love, but you can choose to see. And seeing is the first step toward loving, isn't it? You can't love what you refuse to acknowledge. And maybe if we can learn to see people again, we'll start seeing ourselves more clearly too. We'll realize that our own labels have been suffocating us just as much as they've been hurting others. So let me ask you, if this hits you today, if you've been living on a diet of outrage and you're just tired, I want to hear from you. I know I'm not the only one who feels the exhaustion of the noise. Send me a message, leave a comment. Tell me about a time you caught yourself labeling someone, and what happened when you actually saw them, when the label fell away and the person appeared. Your story might be the one that breaks somebody else's label. Your honesty might be the permission someone else needs to put down their guard, and who knows, maybe we'll share it in a future episode. Hey, thank you. Seriously, thank you for spending these minutes with me. I don't take your time for granted. I know there are a million things competing for your ears right now, but you chose to sit in the tension with me. So share this with somebody who needs it. Somebody who's tired of the constant fighting, somebody who needs to remember that the parking lot wasn't angry, that the world is bigger than the screen. I'm Pastor Charles Howes, and this has been The Tension Where Truth Lives, Season 1, Episode 4. It's been a journey today, and I'm glad we took it together. I really am. Until next time, keep listening and keep learning, and most importantly, keep looking for the place where truth lives. Because truth has a way of showing up right there in the tension, and I'll talk to you soon. Just remember the next time you're at the gas station, take a look around. You might just see something beautiful that the news missed. God bless you, and I'll catch you on the next one.