General Jordan Wicks, a respected war hero, never expected that the most dangerous battle he’d face wouldn’t be on foreign soil but on a quiet street in his own country. On a bright sunny afternoon, General Jordan Wicks, a tall black man, was driving down the main road in his shiny black SUV.

He was dressed in his full military uniform, a sign of his service and dedication to his country. His chest bore Medals of Honor from years of serving in the U.S. Army. Today, he was on his way to visit his mother who lived in the next town over.

As Jordan drove, he felt a sense of pride. He had worked hard all his life to reach where he was—a general in the U.S. Army, a position of great respect and responsibility. His mind wandered to his family, thinking of the surprise visit to his mom and the joy he would feel seeing her smile when he arrived. Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by the flashing of blue and red lights in his rearview mirror. Startled, Jordan glanced back and saw a police car following him closely. The siren wailed as the car’s lights flashed, signaling for him to pull over.

Confused, Jordan slowly guided his SUV to the side of the road, wondering why he had been stopped. He hadn’t been speeding, and everything with his vehicle was in order. As he parked and rolled down his window, Jordan took a deep breath. His heart began to beat a little faster, but he reminded himself to stay calm. He knew the drill: hands on the wheel, polite, and cooperative. He had always believed in following the law and doing the right thing.

Officer Clay, a white police officer, stepped out of his patrol car and approached Jordan’s vehicle. The officer was tall and broad, his face set in a hard, unreadable expression. At first, Jordan thought this might just be a routine check, but as soon as Clay glanced inside and saw Jordan’s face, his attitude shifted. Jordan could feel it immediately. The officer’s posture stiffened, his jaw clenched, and a frown appeared. Without greeting or explanation, Clay barked, “Step out of the vehicle now.” His voice was sharp and filled with unnecessary aggression.

Jordan blinked, taken aback. “Officer, may I ask what the problem is?” he asked, his voice calm and respectful, hoping to de-escalate whatever this was.

“I said step out of the car,” Clay repeated, this time louder, his hand hovering near his holster as if he was ready to draw his gun at any moment. There was a tension in the air that Jordan could feel deep in his bones.

Jordan stayed calm, though his heart was now pounding. He had faced danger on the battlefield, but this was different. This was his own country, his own people. Slowly, he unbuckled his seat belt and opened the door. As he stepped out of the car, he stood tall, his uniform gleaming under the afternoon sun. He made no sudden movements, wanting to keep the situation as peaceful as possible.

Officer Clay’s eyes narrowed as he looked Jordan up and down, his gaze lingering on Jordan’s uniform. There was a moment of pause as if Clay recognized the military attire, but instead of respecting it, his face twisted into a sneer. “What are you doing driving around here?” Clay demanded, his tone filled with suspicion. He hadn’t even asked for Jordan’s license or registration, standard procedure. Instead, he seemed focused on one thing: Jordan’s skin color.

“I’m on my way to visit my mother,” Jordan replied, his voice steady, though inside he could feel the anger beginning to rise. Why was he being treated this way? He had done nothing wrong. He was a general in the U.S. Army, for goodness’ sake. Shouldn’t that command some respect? But Clay wasn’t listening. He stepped closer, his face inches from Jordan’s. “You’re lying,” Clay hissed. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Jordan clenched his jaw but didn’t respond. He knew better than to engage with someone so full of hostility. Instead, he glanced around, noticing a few cars slowing down as they passed by, their drivers staring curiously at the scene. Some people even stopped on the sidewalk, watching the interaction with growing concern.

“What do you have in the car?” Clay asked suddenly, his voice dripping with accusation. “Drugs? Weapons? Step back,” he ordered, reaching for his gun.

Jordan’s heart skipped a beat. Was this really happening? He had fought for his country, risked his life in battle, only to be treated like a criminal in his own hometown. His thoughts raced to his family. What would they think if something went wrong? What would happen to his career? He raised his hand slightly to show he wasn’t a threat, his mind racing. “Officer, I’m not armed. I’m not a criminal. I’m a general in the U.S. Army,” he said firmly but politely. His words were calm, though the knot of anxiety in his chest grew tighter with each passing second.

But Clay wasn’t listening. His hand gripped his gun tightly, his eyes locked onto Jordan as if he were an enemy, not a fellow citizen. The tension was thick, the suspense unbearable. Jordan felt trapped, unsure of what would happen next. His mind flashed through the worst possibilities, and fear crept into his chest. Would Clay pull the trigger? Would this be the end of his life, his story, in a situation he had never imagined could happen?

As Clay’s hand inched toward his holster, the moment seemed to stretch forever. Jordan’s breath caught in his throat. What would the officer do next? As Jordan stood outside his car, hands raised slightly in the air, he tried once again to explain himself. “Officer, I am General Jordan Wicks. I serve in the U.S. Army,” he said firmly but politely. His words were calm, though the knot of anxiety in his chest grew tighter with each passing second.

Officer Clay, however, wasn’t listening. His face was red with anger, and his eyes were cold and accusing. “You expect me to believe that?” Clay spat. “A general? You’re lying. Get down on the ground now.”

Jordan’s stomach dropped. How had this escalated so quickly? He could feel the eyes of people around him—drivers passing by, pedestrians slowing down, some even stopping to watch. A few people had pulled out their phones, recording the scene. The murmur from the crowd grew louder as more onlookers gathered. Some seemed concerned, while others stood frozen, unsure of how to help.

Jordan took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady. “Officer, please, if you’ll just let me show you my identification, we can clear this up.” But before he could finish, Clay shoved him hard on the ground. “Now!” Clay shouted, his voice booming across the street.

With no choice, Jordan lowered himself to his knees, feeling the heat of the asphalt through his uniform pants. His heart pounded in his chest as Clay grabbed his arm roughly and pushed him flat onto the ground. Jordan felt the sharp pain of the rough pavement beneath him as Clay placed his knee firmly on Jordan’s back, pressing down hard. Jordan winced but tried to remain calm, keeping his face pressed against the hot ground. The weight of Clay’s knee made it difficult to breathe. Every breath felt like a struggle, his chest burning with the effort.

The crowd began to stir more visibly now. Several voices rose from the onlookers. “Hey, man, stop! He didn’t do anything wrong,” someone shouted. “Let him up,” another voice called out. Others stood in shocked silence, afraid to intervene but clearly uncomfortable with what was happening. Phones were held high, capturing every second. Jordan could hear the clicks and beeps of cameras and recorders all around him. He was no longer just a man on his way to visit his mother; he was now the center of a public spectacle.

Despite everything, he forced himself to remain still, his mind racing. His military training had taught him how to keep his composure under extreme pressure, but this was unlike anything he had faced before. Clay, however, seemed unaffected by the crowd or the cameras. He leaned down closer to Jordan’s ear. “I know your type,” he hissed. “You think you’re above the law, but not today.”

Jordan’s mind swirled with a mixture of disbelief, anger, and fear. This was wrong, all of it. He had served his country with honor, putting his life on the line for the very freedoms that this officer was supposed to protect. And yet here he was, face down on the pavement, being treated like a criminal for no reason other than the color of his skin. Tears threatened to well up in Jordan’s eyes, but he fought them back. He couldn’t let Clay see him break. He thought about the battles he had fought overseas, the men and women he had led, and the sacrifices he had made. He had never imagined that this would be one of the hardest battles of his life, right here on a peaceful afternoon in his own country.

The crowd continued to grow, their voices becoming louder. “This isn’t right,” a woman cried out, her voice trembling. “Somebody stop him.” Jordan closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself to stay calm. What would his family think if they saw this? His mother, waiting for him at home, had always been so proud of him. And now, would she see this on the news? Would this be the image that people remembered of General Jordan Wicks, a man who had dedicated his life to service?

The pressure on his back increased as Clay shifted his weight, and for a brief moment, Jordan wondered if this was it. If he would become another name in the long list of victims of injustice. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, but still, he held on, praying that someone would step in before things got worse. But what could he do? He had no weapon, no way to defend himself. Even his uniform, the one that should have symbolized honor and bravery, seemed powerless in this moment. His mind raced with strategies, ways to de-escalate, ways to talk the officer down, but Clay seemed beyond reason, consumed by his own anger and prejudice.

As Jordan lay there, his mind raced. Would anyone step in to help? Could he trust the people around him to stand up for what was right, or would they continue to watch in silence? The uncertainty gnawed at him as every second stretched painfully on, with the weight of Clay’s knee pressing down on his back. Jordan fought to stay calm, but the fear, the helplessness, was unlike anything he had ever felt before. And as the crowd’s voices grew louder, the suspense hung in the air, thick and heavy, leaving everyone wondering what would happen next.

Just when it seemed like the situation couldn’t get any worse, the blaring sound of another police siren echoed through the street. A second patrol car pulled up quickly to the scene. The crowd, still growing and buzzing with whispers, turned to see what would happen next. Out stepped a higher-ranking officer, Lieutenant Daniels, his uniform crisp and his expression stern as he marched toward the chaotic scene unfolding before him.

The moment Daniels stepped out of his car, his eyes locked onto the sight of Officer Clay’s knee pressed into Jordan’s back, with a crowd watching in shock. Daniels’ face tightened as he recognized Jordan immediately, despite the uniform now dusty from being shoved to the ground. Memories flashed through Daniels’ mind; they had served together overseas during a high-risk rescue mission.

“Clay, what on Earth are you doing?” Lieutenant Daniels shouted, his voice booming with authority as he strode toward them. The crowd hushed, tension thick in the air. Clay, taken aback by the sudden presence of his superior, hesitated, his face pale. He quickly stood up, stepping back from Jordan, who lay still on the ground, bruised but holding on to his dignity.

Daniels looked down at Jordan, his face a mix of shock and fury. “General Wicks,” he asked, his voice softer now, filled with disbelief. He quickly helped Jordan to his feet. “Are you okay, sir?”

Jordan, dusting himself off, nodded but didn’t speak right away. His body ached from the rough treatment, but more than that, a deep sadness weighed on him. His heart was heavy with the realization that his uniform, his rank—none of it had mattered in that moment. He had still been seen as just another suspect because of the color of his skin.

Lieutenant Daniels turned back to Clay, his face flushed with anger. “Do you have any idea who this man is?” he demanded, his voice rising. “This is General Jordan Wicks, a decorated officer of the United States Army. He’s a hero. What were you thinking?”

Clay, now visibly shaken, tried to defend himself. His hands trembled as he stammered, “He… he looked suspicious. I thought… suspicious.”

Daniels cut him off, his eyes blazing with disbelief. “You pulled him over for no reason, treated him like a criminal, and pinned him to the ground for what? Because of how he looked?”

The crowd listened in silence, the weight of the situation sinking in. Many had been recording the incident on their phones, but now the shock of what they were witnessing had silenced them all. Eyes were on Clay, who was now fumbling for words.

Clay’s face drained of color as he realized the enormity of his mistake. His gaze flickered nervously between Daniels, the crowd, and Jordan. His voice cracked as he tried to explain, “I… I didn’t know. I… didn’t realize. He… he…”

Daniels interrupted, his voice full of disgust. “You didn’t take the time to ask. You didn’t take the time to listen. Instead, you assumed the worst.”

The tension in the air was thick, the crowd hanging on every word. Clay’s breath came in shallow, panicked gasps as he stood there frozen. Jordan, now standing tall despite the pain, looked at Clay, his eyes filled with a mix of disappointment and sadness. For a moment, everything felt quiet, the world slowing down as Jordan processed the weight of the moment. Would this have happened if he weren’t a general? Would Clay have treated him the same if he wasn’t in uniform, if his medals hadn’t been shining on his chest? The unfairness of it all gnawed at him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

Lieutenant Daniels turned to Jordan, his expression softening. “General, I am so sorry for this,” he said, his voice filled with regret. “This should never have happened. Not to you, not to anyone.”

The crowd, still holding their breath, seemed to shift. Some people murmured softly to each other, others simply stared at the scene, trying to absorb the gravity of what they had witnessed. The tension, once filled with fear and anger, had now morphed into something else: shame and disbelief.

Jordan, though bruised and exhausted, remained silent for a moment. He had been through so much in his life, faced unimaginable challenges on the battlefield, but this—this senseless act of racism in his own country—had left him feeling wounded in a way he couldn’t describe. Finally, he spoke, his voice calm but full of meaning. “Lieutenant, thank you, but this isn’t just about me. It’s about what’s wrong here. This could have been anyone.” His words hung in the air, heavy with the truth.

Clay, now fully realizing the gravity of his actions, stared at the ground, his hands trembling. His mistake, the prejudice that had clouded his judgment, was now painfully clear. The crowd remained still, waiting to see what would happen next.

Daniels placed a hand on Jordan’s shoulder as if trying to convey a silent apology for what had happened. The air around them felt charged, but the worst had passed. However, the emotional scars left behind would not be so easily erased.

Jordan stood tall, but inside, a storm of emotion swirled. Would Clay truly learn from this? Would anything change, or would history repeat itself over and over again, just in different faces, in different towns? Lieutenant Daniels stood firm, his face a mix of fury and determination. “Officer Clay, you owe General Wicks an apology,” he said, his voice cold and firm.

The crowd had grown silent, watching the scene intently, waiting for Clay to act. Clay, visibly shaken, nodded but hesitated. His hands trembled, and beads of sweat gathered on his forehead. “I’m sorry,” Clay mumbled, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes focused on the ground. He couldn’t bring himself to look Jordan in the eyes.

“That’s not good enough,” Daniels snapped. “Speak up, Clay. Everyone needs to hear you.”

Clay swallowed hard, lifting his head slightly. His voice was louder this time but still shaky. “I’m sorry, General Wicks. I made a mistake.”

The crowd, once full of fear and anger, watched in stunned silence. Some of the onlookers began whispering to each other, unsure of how to react. A few people had stopped recording, but others still held their phones up, capturing the moment. Jordan, standing tall in his uniform, bruised but unbroken, looked directly at Clay. He didn’t say a word, but the intensity of his gaze spoke volumes.

Lieutenant Daniels turned to Jordan, his expression one of deep respect and apology. “General, I’ve already reported Clay’s actions. He will be suspended immediately and will face an investigation,” Daniels said, his voice steady. “This is unacceptable, and I promise it won’t be ignored.”

Clay’s face turned pale, realizing the consequences of his actions were finally catching up with him. He opened his mouth as if to say something but then closed it, his shame weighing him down like a heavy burden. For the first time, he seemed to truly grasp the enormity of what he had done.

Jordan stood quietly, processing everything. He had every right to demand justice, to see Clay face severe consequences for his actions. But as he looked at the officer before him—shaking, humiliated, and consumed by regret—Jordan found himself conflicted. His mind raced, thinking of all the people who had suffered similar situations without anyone to step in. He knew he had been fortunate that Lieutenant Daniels arrived, but the bitter truth was that many weren’t so lucky. A part of him wanted to see Clay face the full force of the law, but another part believed in change, in giving people a chance to learn from their mistakes. His mind swirled with emotions: anger, sadness, frustration, and above all, the desire for something better.

After a moment of silence, Jordan finally spoke, his voice calm but filled with authority. “Lieutenant, thank you for your swift action,” he paused, the crowd leaning in, hanging on his every word. “I don’t want to press charges.”

A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. Clay looked up, stunned, his eyes wide with disbelief. He had expected the worst, to be thrown into a legal nightmare for what he had done.

Daniels raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “Sir, are you sure?” he asked, his voice soft but respectful.

Jordan nodded, his expression firm. “This has been a lesson for him,” he said, his gaze fixed on Clay. “I believe in justice, but I also believe in the power of change. If Clay learns from this, if he becomes better because of it, then that’s the outcome I want.”

Clay stood frozen, still processing what had just happened. The weight of Jordan’s decision settled over him like a heavy cloud. For a moment, the crowd was silent, and then slowly, they began to clap. The applause started softly but grew louder, filled with a mix of relief and admiration. Some people even cheered, their voices ringing out in support of Jordan.

Jordan remained still, his face calm but his heart filled with a complex mix of emotions. He felt proud that he had taken the higher road, but a sadness lingered in his chest. This incident wasn’t unique; it was a reflection of a larger problem that didn’t have an easy solution. He thought of the many others who had been in his shoes, people who hadn’t been able to walk away, people who had suffered in silence.

He reached his car and opened the door. Before getting in, he glanced back at Clay, who was still standing in the same spot, his face pale and his shoulders slumped. Clay watched Jordan, his expression unreadable, as if he was trying to understand the mercy that had just been shown to him. The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswered: Would Clay truly change? Would this be a turning point for him, or would he return to the same patterns once the heat of the moment faded?

Jordan didn’t know, and that uncertainty lingered in his mind. “Don’t miss out on more gripping stories and powerful narratives that challenge the way we see the world. Subscribe now to stay updated on our latest content, where every story brings you closer to the truth and every moment keeps you on the edge of your seat.”

SEE MORE: God Redeems Even as Wildfires Spread

Afew days ago, the world around me exploded into flames. Sparked by an unprecedented wind event with 100-mile-per-hour gusts, six wildfires engulfed huge swaths of the greater Los Angeles region. I live just south of where the Eaton fire erupted, which has damaged or destroyed more than 7,000 buildings and left at least 16 people dead. Even now, the fires continue to rage, with the forecast predicting a new round of wind events that threaten to expand and extend the unprecedented destruction.

For the past 14 years, I have taught at Fuller Theological Seminary, located in Pasadena near the epicenter of the catastrophe. Although my family’s home remains intact with only minor damage, the same cannot be said for so many others connected to Fuller or in my broader community. I know of at least eight faculty, staff, and students at Fuller whose homes went up in flames.

But we’re not alone. Fuller is but a microcosm of all that has been lost in our area. Entire neighborhoods—homes, businesses, churches, schools, parks, and libraries—now sit in smoldering ash.

It’s as overwhelming as it is surreal. Some have said that these once-quaint residential areas now look like the set of a postapocalyptic movie. But the images I’ve seen of my daughters’ burned schools remind me less of postapocalyptic Earth than of an alien landscape.

Of course, given that we live in Southern California, this isn’t the first time our community has been affected by raging wildfires. In the fall of 2020, my family and I had to evacuate from our home in Monrovia along with thousands of others, much like many residents there had to do again this past week. In fact, for many members of our local community, their entire life has been defined by this exact kind of instability and disruption.

But this event has been something altogether different. We’ve had windstorms before. We’ve had fires before. But the pace, scale, and extent of this particular trauma is something new—some even have called it the “new normal.”

Many of these same dynamics were in play for the people of Israel during the time God spoke through the prophet as recorded in Isaiah 43. The Exile was a catastrophic disruption. Some were forcibly removed from the land, and some were privileged enough to remain. Any sense of togetherness or commonality or unity that might have grown from this shared experience was threatened by their separate traumas. It is into this conflicted space and to this traumatized people that God speaks:

Now, this is what the Lord says,

the one who created you, O Jacob,

and formed you, O Israel:

“Don’t be afraid, for I will protect you.

I call you by name, you are mine.

When you pass through the waters, I am with you;

when you pass through the streams, they will not overwhelm you.

When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned;

the flames will not harm you. (Isa. 43:1–2, NET)

In a time of instability and uncertainty, what does God say to his people? I created you (bara), formed you (yatsar), and called you (qara). This is the very same language we read in Genesis when, in the beginning, God creates (bara) the heavens and the earth (1:1), forms (yatsar) the human from the dust of the ground (2:7), and calls (qara) the light “day” and the darkness “night” (1:5). In other words, God reminds Israel that they have quite literally been made for such a time as this.

And what kind of time is this exactly? According to Isaiah 43, it’s a time in which the people of Israel will be passing through flood waters and traversing rising rivers and navigating uncontrolled fires—each of which threatens to overwhelm them at every turn. One would think that the prophet would bring a more reassuring message, especially to a people who longed for nothing more than to go back to the stability and security they knew prior to the Exile.

But that’s not what they get. Instead, God speaks through the prophet Isaiah with this message: There is no going back to a time of stability or security or certainty. There are only cataclysmic waters and catastrophic fires ahead. In fact, for Israel, it is not a matter of if they will encounter these scenarios. It is only a matter of when.

It is therefore all the more significant that, having painted this harrowing picture of what’s to come, God still has the audacity to say, “Don’t be afraid.” And the rationale for why the people need not fear is pretty much the same as the one God always gives: I have redeemed you, and I will be with you. As the waters rise. As the fires bear down upon you. As the land beneath your feet begins to crumble. You are mine. And I am here.

Even though that kind of message pulls on all my evangelical heartstrings, in my more transparent moments, I have to admit that God’s presence sure doesn’t seem like enough to justify all the chaos and uncertainty and loss that are now permanent fixtures in our lives. I will be the first to confess that, more times than not, if given the choice between a stable existence without God or an unstable existence with God, I’d choose stability.

But that is a false binary. The actual, concrete choice we have before us is not returning to a more stable past or suffering through an increasingly unstable present. The real choice is whether we commit ourselves to a paralyzing nostalgia for a past that never was or dare to leap into the unstable and unpredictable future that is to come—diving headlong into a world that does not yet exist.

God makes it clear to Israel that they have been redeemed not from something but for something. God has created them and formed them and called them by name not to save them from instability but to prepare them for it.

Look, I am about to do something new.

Now it begins to happen! Do you not recognize it?

Yes, I will make a road in the wilderness

and paths in the wastelands.

The wild animals honor me,

the jackals and ostriches,

because I put water in the wilderness

and streams in the wastelands,

to quench the thirst of my chosen people,

the people whom I formed for myself,

so they might praise me. (Isa. 43:19–21, NET)

I am about to do a new thing, says God. Rivers in the desert. Water in the wilderness. Drinks for my thirsty people. It all sounds so lovely and refreshing and peaceful, unless you have ever experienced what actually happens to a desert or fire-scorched earth when water suddenly appears: flash floods, toxic runoff, and reshaping of the land on a fundamental level.

Rivers in the desert present an opportunity for much-needed refreshment, but they are also radically destabilizing. New things are always destabilizing. That’s what makes them new. The old is upended, transformed, reconstituted.

When God moves in the world, nothing is ever the same. And when we participate in that newness, not only is there no going back to normal, but also none of us are left unscathed. Just ask Jacob, whose reward for encountering God was a lifetime of instability in the form of a chronic injury—a limp that would forever remind him of how God had created, shaped, and called him (Gen. 32:28).

So as we reflect theologically about wildfires in Los Angeles (or earthquakes in China, or brutal wars in Ukraine and Israel), the question Christians today must ask is this: If we too are being redeemed—not from instability but for instability—what does it look like to participate in God’s ongoing work of destabilizing newness? Especially when we ourselves are constantly in a state of disruption?

It’s surely not the only answer, but as I think about the ways in which God not only shaped Jacob’s life and formed the people of Israel but also calls us today, it strikes me that one way of participating with God’s work in a time of permanent instability is to disrupt the disruption. And given the cascade of overlapping crises we are all facing, I cannot think of anything more disruptive, more scandalous, or maybe even more offensive to contemporary sensibilities than joy.

I’m not talking about some kind of Pollyannish version of happiness that ignores or overlooks the various traumas we have all endured and continue to endure. I’m talking about something deeper and far more hard-won—a wide-eyed acknowledgment that the only thing of which we can be certain is that all of life’s joys are “in spite of” something. Or as Proverbs reminds us, “Even in laughter the heart may ache, and rejoicing may end in grief” (14:13).

In the midst of chaos and loss and disorientation, joy is a rebellious act. It is defiant. It is a willful protest against the world as it has been handed to us. It is neither to pretend as if the rampant fires that surround us don’t exist nor to accept that they will have the final say. Joy, if it is in any sense Christian, is both a fierce commitment to disrupting those destabilizing forces and, at the very same time, a declaration of praise to the God who is always and forever about to do something new.

I would never dare to suggest that this most recent natural disaster should be seen as good because it is somehow preparing us for more chaos. God can and does exchange beauty for ashes for those who are grieving (Isa. 61:3). But it’s still too soon to skip to this part of the story—personally or theologically. The wounds are still too fresh.

At the present moment, all we can do is mourn with those who mourn, open our homes to those who have lost everything, and hold on to the hope that God will be with us as we walk through these fires and prepare for whatever uncertainties are still to come.

As the next few days, weeks, and months unfold here in Southern California, there is no going back to whatever came before. There is no “normalcy” on the horizon. But that’s just as it should be. Fear not, the prophet reminds us. We have been created to witness and collaborate with the work of a God who is always doing something new. And at least in my mind, that’s reason enough to embrace a defiant joy.