Chapter 32 The Cold, Uneasy Comfort of Privilege

Of course I need to be masculine about this, but it just so happens that I have a fabulous pair of shoes, or at least you’d think so as a casual observer. But unbeknownst to anyone but me, and now you, they actually have cracks -- right there in their soles, under each shoe, in the same exact spot.

These shoes aren't that old, so I suppose it's a manufacturer’s defect of some kind, or maybe I just got ripped off by Shoe Carnival. But whatever the reason, I'm always jolted to my senses about the cracks when it's too late, or more specifically, when I feel the wet and grimy cold for the first time on my skin, through my socks, which subsequently become the soggy reminders that will walk with me throughout the day.

Nevertheless, as it should happen, I forgot about this whole crack thing again and wore my fabulous shoes today, and trudged out for yet another cold Tuesday morning on the grittier side of town, to hear and perhaps even feel a different beat; to pray and shiver and imagine in the darkness of an old porn theater.

On my way, I turned south down Calhoun, as I do every Tuesday, and slightly off the subject, I observed, for the umpteenth time, the marquee in front of Poor John’s, which displays quite simply: Exotic Dancers. Now, you should know that other strip clubs in town go to great lengths to dress their facades and mix up their marquee messages; they announce their latest act, draw the men in, keep 'em guessing and whet their appetites with electric images and scrolling enticements. At least that's what I hear, anyway. But not Poor John’s. I think it's safe to say that he misplaced the rest of the letters from his marquee collection some time back in the 70’s. Or, maybe, he's just given up.

I’ve been inside Poor John’s, you know, back when I had to if I wanted to purchase the Rialto, and let me say, for the record, that while I didn’t observe their exotic dancers, I have a feeling there’s some false advertising going on there.

Anyhow, I drove a bit further south, about a mile, and parked in front of the Rialto and right away I noticed some big, imposing icicles hanging from our marquee, which I obviously needed to knock down before we impaled a passerby. I made a mental note to take care of those.

Pretty soon after walking in, as you can imagine, I started to feel something creeping in through the bottom of my shoes, and so I was reminded all at once of my altogether improper choice of footwear for the day. The incredible build up of filth and muck and wet, moldy plaster gunk from the Rialto’s floor slowly attached itself to my clean, warm socks. I knew instantly that I would walk with my very own sludge souvenir throughout the day.

I should really throw these shoes away.

Despite it all, inside, we prayed in the cold, and laughed, and looked at all of the work that college students recently completed in the upstairs. I’m always left amazed by these kids because when I was a college student, the last thing I was thinking about was giving up my Saturday to volunteer at a rotted old theater.

After praying, and after the others had left, I went outside and started swinging and hacking away like an idiot at the marquee icicles with a metal pole that I had found. I got a little angry with myself because I also hit an old light bulb, maybe even an historic one, and it shattered on the ground below. As a side note, I guess it doesn’t matter how old light bulbs are, because they still pop really loud when they break, so that was pretty cool. I cleaned up all of the glass and the ice from the icicles and I couldn't tell which was which after a while. God only knows what I’ve imbedded in my shoe cracks.

Across the street, the man I wave to every Tuesday morning was waiting for his bus and observing my icicle antics. He doesn’t just wave back to me in a casual gesture, this guy; actually, he lifts his whole arm and he leans into it. It’s really more like he’s hailing me as if I drive an imaginary cab. I’ve been over to talk to him before, a couple months ago, when I gave him one of those big golf umbrellas from the trunk of my car, because, well, he was just standing there in a downpour and he was soaking wet.

I decided to go over and talk to him because it was so damn cold and it looked like he was wearing next to nothing.

“I wave to you every Tuesday, but I’ve never introduced myself.” I took my gloves off and shook his hand. “I'm Jeff.”

“I’m Teddy.” There was a bit of an awkward pause. He was shivering, as he held onto his lunch box, or at least I thought it was a lunch box.

“It's cold, isn’t it Jeff?”

“Yes, it certainly is.” I replied. “I'm grateful that we’re almost half way through the winter.”

I didn't quite understand what he said next. So, I asked, “what time does your bus come, Teddy?”

He told me again that it was cold, and then he repeated my name, quite a few times actually. By this point, I wasn't sure what I'd gotten myself into, but I've always been drawn to him, so it didn’t matter. I asked him what he packed for his lunch, which, I know was stupid, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

The question just hung there, like maybe that wasn't a lunch box after all. I never did get an answer, but he repeated my name a few more times and I realized pretty quickly that our conversation probably wouldn't reach normal rhythms, with curiosity and crescendos and such, so I agreed with him again about the cold, and I that I could feel it in my feet, for obvious reasons, but I didn't tell him why.

We stood for a few moments in the early morning darkness, Teddy and I, and then I shook his hand again, this time with my gloves on, and I told him it was nice to meet him.

He looked down at my gloves, because he didn't have any, and this time, even with his teeth chattering, I understood as he said:

“It’s really nice to meet you too, Jeff.”

A man rode by on a Harley right then, I kid you not, but I didn't catch his face. And so, I wondered about a certain Rider who is never too far from the suffering.

I made a mental note to come better prepared next time, with new gloves, maybe, because simply stated, Teddy is a man I see every Tuesday and he’s kind, and he hails me, and well, he’s cold -- not just Tuesday, but probably every day in this Midwestern winter while he waits for a bus in front of the Rialto.

I ran across the street to my car and got in, turned around and headed to work. I passed Teddy again, and as usual, he waved big and wide, maybe even more so than before. My feet were frozen solid, but, as you can imagine, I have nothing to complain about.

I drove north on Calhoun, past some others who were huddled in frozen groups, either waiting a bus or for the health clinic to open; I continued onward, past Poor John's Exotic Dancers marquee and then turned in a westerly direction toward my pleasant side of town, the sun rising behind me. My feet were starting to warm up a bit, a reminder to me that I’m never too far from a reversal of my discomfort.

But the imbedded grit from the Rialto’s floor would obviously last, and my time with Teddy, as simple as it was, would endure in more ways than one; because, you see, I wondered, in a Tuesday morning whirlwind that spanned from an improper choice of footwear to strip club marquees; from icicles to hailing waves -- if perhaps, while we’re attempting to beautify and prim and perfect ourselves as this stunning Bride we're meant to be, that maybe it would be helpful for all of us to get fabulous shoes with cracks in the soles?

We can wear them, unbeknownst to anyone, under this stunning gown of ours.

It’s just that I think as a church we always forget about these transgressions of ours. We need reminders to creep in and jolt us. We need to feel the cold, uneasy comfort of privilege and pride and position coagulating with the gunk of our sin. We need to suffer, if only to recognize the grace which reverses our fortune, time and time again; if only to see how that very grace reveals the true measure of the less fortunate in our midst.

Maybe we need to wear them often to experience the stark reality of this earth we trod; to realize that the true Rider we choose to worship and follow after is never far from those who suffer the most; to remember that while we may go to great lengths as a church to mix up our marquee messages, announce our latest act, draw in casual observers and collective others while we keep 'em guessing and whet their appetites -- truth be told, perhaps more often than we’d like to admit, there’s some false advertising going on there.

So, all of that to say -- maybe I won't throw away my fabulous shoes.