Chapter 11 Redemption in Their Hands

It’s early fall, and the days are drawing to an end much more quickly now, somehow like a curtain for a play that has worn out its welcome.

And here we are, deep within the second term of the second Bush. I think it's safe to say that he's having a rough go of it; mostly because of a natural disaster, but partly because of a man-made one.

On a lighter note, the Rialto’s new roof is about to go on and I love the big fat metaphor of it all -- you know -- with its covering and its protection and the whole promise of real transformation that can take place now. Leaking rafters will leak no more, which is nice, because dry wall and plaster can now cover a multitude of sins. Plumbing can bring needed water in and out and electrical can be finalized, and maybe we can even move in, which is what we've wanted to do all along, for obvious reasons. You see, we can finish what we've begun, simply to make an old, vacant porn theater come alive for those who would find their way here; from all over the world, or, perhaps, from right down the street.

And in and out of these moments of endless work days and countless volunteer hours, there are men who have become giants in my eyes. Men like Jim and Larry and Harvey and John and Russell, all of whom simply carry with them the resolve to see something through to the other side; to muscle it and to manage it and to bring an offering on the altar of a sweaty brow, some bruised flesh, and dirty lungs. They quietly spin the combination on our five dollar lock and they willingly enter this concrete leviathan, kick up some dust and work on their own time, often late into the night. They wrestle with metal and wood and plaster from years gone by, because I suppose, they like to feel redemption in their hands, much like the Jesus of my day might.

There are men like Phil and Joe, brothers in arms who get up early and trudge with me to the Rialto every Tuesday morning for prayer. They are as regular as the coming of the seasons, and we always leave better off then we were when we came, because, well, that sort of thing just happens when Jesus shows up (which he told us he would do). We sit in hopelessly dirty chairs, in a circle, and we laugh and dream and imagine a new Rialto and a Rider who gets up early with us.

And then, there's Bob, who has been a pastor since around the time of Kennedy. I have breakfast with him now, from time to time, because I'm hoping that an embrace of greeting will somehow rub a little of him off on me. He's been on the front line for over forty years and sure, he's older now, but the sparkle in his eyes is ever bright as he passes the torch on to new warriors. He's been dreaming of a new kind of church from before I was born, for he is the man who forged an army of saints with his bare hands and fought for decency and the downtrodden, and led marchers around the Rialto back when Reagan was trickling down one thing or another. And now, all of these years later, he understands and appreciates the sacrifice, and he smiles in the warmth of a creative God.

Still, ever so slowly, it seems as if the curtain is closing. Yes, despite the looming largeness of these warriors in my life, it is ever clear to me, and perhaps you, that there is one who will never stop hunting us. His malice is true, and his leaning, ever forward. The attacks are relentless, but they must be visualized in our minds or else they become nothing more than whimsy and fairy tale, which, if allowed to happen, is folly indeed.

And maybe in your town, and certainly in mine, there are questions swirling around about church and what it could look like and maybe feel like. I’m not exactly sure, but I have a hunch, and I hope, by now, that you do too, through the thick and thin of these chapters and wandering ramblings of the perpetual sort.

No doubt there's some sacrifice, some reliance on elders, some brother and sisterhood and some plain old muscling through to the other side. There are long awaited roofs that are needed to bring refuge, to cover a multitude of sins, and beneath it all there's a hope to move in so that redemption can be felt with calloused hands.

And there's an army of saints to be forged; to anticipate and defend against the one who would unseat us and try to strip us of our royalty.

It's messy, for sure, but there's laughing and dreaming and it gets all mixed up with the imagining of a Jesus, seated right next to us in the grittiness of it all.

Which is what we've wanted all along, for obvious reasons.