Dear Friends,

What does it mean to be an outgoing, white (that is, noticeable) so-called man of God in this neighborhood? Well, for starters it means hearing more than your share of trumped up religious nonsense. Honestly, if I didn’t swear too much and drink a little beer, I’d really be in trouble. In a place that combines so much bad behavior with so much bad religion, even my ever-so-faint appearance of holiness already invites the bizarre theological musings of a wide array of street people inexplicably looking for my spiritual stamp of approval.

A corner guy named Robert, for example, recently pulled me aside to assure me that despite all appearances to the contrary, he too lives by faith. By way of example he regaled me with the story of how just last week, all alone after drinking up his last dollar, he had been visited by a long lost female friend of his, who had been led by the Holy Spirit to appear on the fire escape outside his window, armed with a bottle of whiskey, a bag of marijuana, and an appetite easy love. “I told her I had no money and just a few hours before I had to be back on my job,” he said, “but she just laughed and told me that was plenty of time for what she had in mind.” He paused for a moment, thoughtful. “You see, Bart, these other fools don’t understand it, but God takes care of me. He knew just what I needed that night…and He brought it to me right on time!”

Ah yes, sweet Providence…I had no idea. Seriously, how do you even begin to respond to that sort of ‘testimony’? I remember saying something sarcastic about Jesus’ parable of the Good One Night Stand, but the rest is kind of fuzzy. With Robert, the conversation is often kind of fuzzy. That man knows just enough Bible to be dangerous, and he loves to talk.

My friend Freemont, on the other hand, wastes few words. Big and burly, he was deep in the drug game until a few years ago, when a car accident injured his head. Now he lives with his mother and watches television most of the time, too slowed by anti-seizure medication to handle the pace of his former criminal life. He’s been part of our fellowship for nearly two years, but only recently have I figured out how to get him to open up; I ask him to tell me stories about ‘The Game’ and explain how it works. Then, and only then, does his tongue loosen and his eyes light up.

Even as he waxes eloquent about his bar fights, armed robberies, and cocaine-fueled escapades with women, however, Freemont never forgets who I am. Frankly, sometimes I wish he would. Like the other day, when he and I were hanging out in his cousin’s apartment, and he was telling about the last time he shot somebody. My goal in asking was to get to the place where I could openly acknowledge that, no matter how beautiful or fulfilling it might become, the good life I’ve been trying to sell Freemont will never compete with his old life in terms of raw excitement. Freemont’s goal in answering was to entertain me, at least until the very end.

“So I got dropped behind this little apartment building and walked around it to where these two guys I was after were standing out front. I shot at the one guy, and then the other one started running, so I shot at him too. Somebody must have called the police right then, or maybe they heard the shots, because they were there so fast I couldn’t get back to the car. So I ran into that building, and ran upstairs, looking for someplace to hide. Some lady was looking out her door, so I broke in that apartment and told her to keep quiet. The police were looking around the building, and then I heard them coming inside, so I jumped out of that lady’s window and climbed into the dumpster. Nobody saw me. I couldn’t believe it. I hurt my leg, but it didn’t break. I waited in the dumpster for two hours, until I was sure they were all gone, and then I climbed out and called my friend to pick me up”.

“What happened then,” I asked. “Did you actually shoot those guys? Did they die? Did the police – or those guys’ people – ever find out it was you?”

“Nah,” he said dismissively, “nothing happened. Later on I found out I hit them both, but nobody died, and I never caught any charges on that one.” I thought he was finished, but he wasn’t. “God was really with me that day”.

What does it mean to be an outgoing, white so-called man of God in this (or any) neighborhood? Well, for starters it means learning not to laugh out loud.

Keep (and try not to twist) the faith,

Bart