Chapter 6 I Like Writing About It

Back when Clinton was preparing his pardon list, I started praying with a group of friends. We committed to meet every Tuesday, at 6:45 in the blessed a.m. -- you know, for that play about Jesus.

The play that never was.

Regardless, by now, we've been at it for five years or so. On some occasions, we've had a group as large as ten. Sometimes, as small as two.

But I’ve never been alone.

Ever.

Well, until this past Tuesday, that is, when I walked into the Rialto, like I've done countless times before, and sat down, waiting for someone -- anyone -- to show up.

But, apparently, no one was coming.

It was just me, and so I got up. I walked around and prayed, stumbling through that concrete behemoth with construction debris and strange noises everywhere. It was dark, but that didn't matter because I like to imagine, and so, I started to see everything lit up, with walls and ceilings made new, and people coming in, laughing and finding refuge, and maybe even worshiping.

A new kind of church, sort of, in an old porn theater.

Before too long, off in the distance, there was a rumbling, and it was great to hear. After all this time, I still get the intensifying pitch and reverberating roar of it all confused with actual thunder.

Things started rattling around me. Then, I looked out and there he was, probably breaking some noise ordinance at this hour. He was waiting at a red light on this early Tuesday, at Calhoun and Pontiac and he turned to look at the Rialto's large windowed doors of the front lobby, but all he could see was his reflection, because they’re all mirrored. A few years back, it was against the law for you to look into the Rialto from the street, if you catch my drift.

But He’s God, so he probably saw right through the door, and could see me standing there.

He turned right, and then I heard that engine without much of a muffler go behind the theater, by the alleyway, onto Woodland and back around. He was circling, like he always does, to get a lay of the land.

I went on walking through, into dark corners, praying, moving. I knew he’d be in pretty soon.

And then, there he was, coming in through the alleyway door.

“You thought you’d be alone today,” he said, just like that.

“Yes, but here you are.”

I hugged him, close, and of course, he smelled like the outdoors; the summer season, mixed in with little grime and earth and oil.

He pulled away from the hug, gently, and held me at arms length with his hands on my shoulders -- a masculine expression I find acceptable.

“What do you think of this new kind of church idea I’ve been tossing around?” I asked, breaking the silence, not as humbly as I would have liked.

He looked at me deeply, then up at the beautiful blue dome above old theater. Perhaps the only thing of beauty left in the Rialto. We both stared at it for a moment.

“Who is it that you think I am?” he asked, after a long pause, out of another blue, like I’d just met him for the first time.

I just stood there, stunted and numb tongued from a question like that. I was a little offended, and obviously unprepared.

He walked over to the old broken down stairs that wander up to the balcony. He motioned for me to sit next to him, but, well, I had dark pants on, and didn’t want to get them dusty.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“It’s not a difficult question, Jeff.”

“Well, you’re ... you're ...”

I stuttered a little and too much time went by. Before I could finish the sentence, he cut me off.

“While you’re thinking about your answer, I’m going to leave for a few moments, and then I’ll be back. When I return, I'll ask you again.”

I thought that maybe it’s better when other people show up to pray, because I’m not really ready for this at 6:45.

So, he left, and before his riding boots even turned the corner, there was a homeless man. I have no idea where Jesus took off to, and I have no clue as to how this guy got in, but he smelled not so good as he approached me. Maybe he was the one who lived in the alley, the man I never did find, and he decided to come around to the front door.

We stared at each other for a brief moment. And then, there is this thing I do in these situations, more like a reflex, and I’m not proud of it. There’s always a smile, don't get me wrong, but it’s a dismissing kind, where my lips are closed tight and I slightly turn up the corners of my mouth. I look for exits, even when I’m outside.

Anything to make my escape.

So, obviously not prone to overt compassion, this is what I did, like a knee jerk reaction. And then he was gone.

I was alone again.

Then, coming around another corner, was a man, quite large, with tattoos, gang apparel and dark sunglasses. He could have been a convict for all I knew. He walked past me, right through me, actually. The front door and some of the side doors must have swung open all the way because the traffic was very loud from the street.

Then a widow walked in, I think. Or at least she looked like one.

Then a pregnant refugee came in with bare feet and small children were hanging on to her tattered dress.

This was becoming a fashion show of the most bizarre. On and on it continued, and I was overwhelmed as they shuffled in from all corners. Quite frankly, I don’t remember leaving any of these doors open, but I guess I did.

And then he was back, right there in the midst of it all.

“Who do you say I am?”

This is not rocket science, I thought. Of course he sees me doing this awkward body language thing with my pursed lip smile, and he knows what I will do before I even do it, which frustrates me to no end. I’m rejecting him. But to accentuate his point, one by one they walked near me, or rolled their wheelchair over, yet I was the one who was paralyzed, as usual.

He knows better than I do, that pity without action, is merely pity, and we might as well just call it indifference. But, come on, they’re all dirty and maybe even sick and they’re right here in the Rialto on a Tuesday morning, and how could I be prepared for that?

He walked back in and looked at me with those eyes. Everyone was gone now and it was deathly quiet, all of a sudden, as if the traffic stopped outside, which would be impossible.

"And how about you, Jeff? Who do you say I am?"

“That’s not fair,” I argued. “Think about the disease. Even health professionals wear rubber gloves.”

He moved over to the steps, again. And as he passed, I heard him whisper, “Or maybe what’s inside of you is the disease.”

Ouch, that hurt, I thought to myself.

So we sat on the steps for a while, and inside I was smugly proud that I was getting my pants dirty for him.

"What do you think it will take?" he asked.

He always asks such simple questions like that, the obvious kind that I should know the answer to.

“I don’t know. Practice, maybe. I like writing about it more than I like doing it.”

“You don’t need practice. You need perspective.”

More silence. More looking at my shoes.

And then, out of nowhere, Chloe came running around the corner and she was crying and bending over with her hand on her knee. Blood was running down her leg and she was calling my name. What’s she doing in a place like this?

“Daddy!”

I rushed to her, but as soon as I got there, she was gone. I turned around, confused and a little angry with him for these mind tricks, but Levi was standing over in a dusty corner, head in his hands, and he was sobbing. All I could hear was:

“They were teasing me again. I don’t understand why I’m so much smaller than everyone else.”

I walked cautiously and tenderly up to my son and I went to put my arm around his shoulder, but, then, he too disappeared.

I reared back, and of course, I knew that this was some kind of test, like all of the rest of them on this surreal morning. If he wanted to do it this way, that's fine. Two can play this game.

All of a sudden, sitting next to him, was Tate, Levi’s much larger twin, and he was bending over, holding his stomach. He’s had a lot of pain there recently, and it’s caused his mother and me a lot of worry.

I hesitated, holding my breath. I won’t go to him this time, I thought. I'm good at being callous.

But, well, damn it, I couldn’t help it. I rushed to him quickly, knowing full well that he had me, yes, right there where he wanted me.

Then, he too, was gone, like something out of a movie. Or a bad dream.

Lastly, Gabe was standing in the shadow of the doorway. He was looking down, both hands in his pockets, dejected. Too old to cry, of course, at the age of 11, but I could tell he was holding it off. Something must have happened today, his very first day of Junior High. My heart broke for him, because I remember those days, all too vividly. Before I could make it to him, though, he stopped me.

He, being Jesus.

“Why do you go? Why does your heart break? Why do you want to hold them and comfort them?”

Defensively, I argued, "That's not fair. You can't compare this with that."

I looked down. That was the wrong thing to say. I had no answers. How could I, really? I knew what he was driving at, as I stood there in that old concrete grave with my brand new perspective.

All of sudden, the doors slammed shut and it hurt my ears.

“This is the rock on which I will put together my church, a church so expansive with energy that not even the gates of hell will be able to keep it out,” he said, quite emphatically, in the echo of it all.

I know that’s in the Bible. But it sounded incredible from him then, right there in the Rialto.

And then, he was gone.

So, it was just me, all over again, wanting more. I wasn't really sure if he meant the Rialto as the rock, or my new perspective, but I had a hunch.

I walked through and heard that rumble turning down Pontiac. He was off to other adventures and so I just kept praying.

Alone, for now.