ABANDONED

"They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away… ”

It's hard to believe
That there's nobody out there
It's hard to believe
That I'm all alone

"Under the Bridge"
Red Hot Chili Peppers

Scorn has broken my heart
And has left me helpless:
I looked for sympathy, but there was none,
For comforters, but I found none.

Ps 69:20, NIV

I am forgotten by them
As though I were dead:
I have become like broken pottery.

Ps 31:12, NIV

heard her during the practice set in the cavernous hall. Her raspy voice would leave a mark on my generation. More than her voice it was the sense of attack in her performance that immortalized her. I guess my musical taste or lack thereof resulted in my lack of awe over her presence.

It turned out that we both had a part on the stage that night at the Fillmore Auditorium in San Francisco. She would be center stage and later on the bill. I was there at the invitation of a well-known Bay Area band who had invited me for one night of experimentation. I would accompany them on my “invention” a light organ, a miniature keyboard that was wired to a series of lights. Each note connected to a corresponding spotlight. These projected across the platform and created multi-colored shadows of the musician’s bodies, dancing across the screen in rhythm behind them. It was a primitive forerunner of the modern lightshow.

Much of what happened that night is lost in the swirl of memory and drug-inspired dreams that linger somewhere in my own personal X-files. But one thing is clear. I remember sitting across from her in the overstuffed chairs and couches of the green-room backstage. She was as bold and brash off stage as on. And, of course, close at hand was her seemingly ever-present flasks of Southern Comfort. Here was someone at the launch point of stardom. Janice Joplin's fame and glory were growing stronger every day. But it was clear to the observing eye that she was quenching more than thirst with her little jug. Many friends and lovers would come and go yet that bottle of amber liquid was probably closer to her in some ways than any of them.

I can't recall much of the conversation that night. She wasn't that famous yet, so I wasn't impressed. But I do remember one anecdote about her life that I came across later. It was reported that one night after a performance she made the comment that she wanted to write a song about making love to ten thousand people but going home all alone.

Loneliness. It happens, even to the famous. There's a world of celebrity and publicity all around them. They seem to be the center of attention. But they can be some of the loneliest people on planet earth.

Alone. That's where the wounded traveler found himself at the end of the assault. Such attacks are like that. Not only are you wounded and insulted but when it's over you’re all alone. I've met a lot of people like that. In fact many times they're alone because of the attack. They're so hurt that no one wants to be around them. Janice, I'm sure, had a lot of "friends" but enough has been said about her both in fact and legend to establish that this lady was a lonely soul.

One of her contemporary's echoed these sentiments. "All the lonely people…. where do they all come from."? * I think I have an answer. You'll find them on the Jericho road. Beaten, broken and stripped. They rarely get up. Few help them up and if they do get up they're in such bad shape no one wants them.

Then there's guys like Sam (not his real name). He's fallen among thieves—the kind that rob you of normal passion. He's fed his soul on porn. At first such activity doesn't seem to be an assault at all. But the blows go deep and, when it’s over, he's not only bruised but also pierced so deep it's hard to find the scars, let alone get medicine to them. Since his addiction to sexual fantasy, Sam’s become an angry man who almost always has to have it his way. I don't think I can name one friend in his life. He's bright and talented but very hard to be around. I'm sure if I went back far enough in his life I would find lots of rejection. He's out there on the Jericho road. He's bleeding, naked and alone. There are a growing number of such victims.

Many more join them every day. Many have never tasted drugs or illicit sex. But someone or something has left them broken. They bleed silently sometimes but still the tracks of their dissipating life dribble through the edgy and stilted atmosphere of our 21st century world.

When you look at the final condition of the victim on the Jericho road there appears to be little one can do to help. We're quick to blame the Levite and Priest who passed by without helping but perhaps they were bewildered. Maybe their problem was not just lack of compassion but also lack of skill. How can I help this shattered person? Where do I start to put him back together? Is he still alive?

In the end, though, it all boils down to caring. There was a way to put the man back together again. Simple tools for a big problem. Simple tools but powerful medicine. This is what God has left us. It's all found in the Good Samaritan's kit.

This book is all about using it to restore hurting people. Not every attempt will result in perfect health but we each have an opportunity to be part the healing process. The medicine God supplies is real. Don’t be afraid to try it out. And as I heard a physician say one time, " I practice medicine." So if you need practice, there's a world of hurting people out there and God's commands are clear: "Heal the sick."

But before we open God’s medicine chest we need to examine one final element of the assault: its result.