All He wanted was a Little Prayer

An experience at a soup kitchen

     In the basement fellowship hall where Harvest Church meets, a ministry called Soul Food serves meals to anyone who needs one. On the first Monday of the month, the people of Harvest prepare and serve the dinner. Tagged for speaking duty, I led a few songs on my guitar and shared a Christmas message for those who came to eat.

     Among the group of thirtyish, varied versions of humanity endured my ramblings to get what they came for. Bearded and unbathed, every day-ers and common folk who aren’t sure their government check will last until the end of the month.

One couple still haunts me. He, with a tattooed cross between his eyes, reminded me of a more serene Charlie Manson. Both, “Charlie” and his stringy-haired lady had that drug worn look I know too well. I was a bit over the top for them. Way too cherry and preachy. Thinking back, I hate that now. I wish I had another chance to love them rather than glare at them as I sang and yacked on about Christ and Christmas. One thing I’ve learned about these kinds of folk, you only get one shot at them. So you better make it a good one. Last night, for them, I missed it. They gobbled their soup, cheese sandwich, and brownie, then scurried on their way probably looking for another bump.

     At the end of the meal, a server pointed toward a young man standing at the door. Maybe in his late twenties or early thirties, he said he wanted to talk to “the preacher.” Head shaved on the sides—a floppy man-bun on top, his stringiness fit right in.

     I wasn’t “the preacher” he expected. He had been here before when another pastor was serving. I assume he talked to him the last time he visited. I wasn’t him, so he didn’t think I was a pastor. I was kind of flattered by not having the look of one. But it didn’t matter. I finally convinced him I was a bona fide pastor. 

Since I know the end of the story, I’m ashamed to say I braced myself expecting him to ask for money. Most times, they need twenty dollars. A twenty is the magic bullet that’ll buy you a rock of crack, a hit of heroin, or a snort of meth. Addicts twenty-dollar themselves into poverty. Over a few years, many spend (literally) a hundred thousand dollars on their habit, twenty-dollars at a whack. That’s 5000 hits! 

“So, what’s up?” 

It was already after 7 o'clock, and since I’m an early riser, I wanted to get home and get to bed. The quicker he got to the point and told me what he wanted, the better. I even tried to deter him, pass him off to someone else in the group by inviting him to eat. It didn’t work. Said he didn’t come for food. Bummer.

Of all times, earlier in the day I had squeezed a rare twenty-dollar bill among a few ones in my wallet. Surely, God won’t mind me lying should he ask to borrow twenty-dollars. It would be a righteous lie, I reasoned.

     “Man, I don’t need food or anything, I just came to get a little prayer.” 

     Prayer? Did he just say he wanted a little prayer? 

I felt the anxious Andrew Jackson in my wallet calm and settle down beside the Washington’s.

“So, what can I pray with you about?” 

God, help me! I hate how, when put in uncomfortable situations, I ask questions so typical of a pastor. I wanted specifics. Give me a target. Make it plain and easy. What he was about to tell me was neither. So, hold on. 

“Man…they found my girlfriend in our house dead. Overdosed on heroin.”

I looked the part. So pathetically pastoral. Inside, however, his words slay me. I think I heard my heart thumping as I gawked in a pool of silence.

Then, he zinged another gut-twisting comment. 

“And we just had a baby—a two-month-old baby girl who will never see her mother.” 

“When did this happen?”

My question set me up for another ambush, which, by now, I was getting used to.

“About two hours ago.” 

A few tears seeped out of the corner of his eyes. He had not cried. Not yet. Numbness can’t weep. He hadn’t had time to grieve. This morning, somewhere, I’m sure he’s weeping. Maybe, probably, in the house where his loved one died.

Mr. Preacher, that would be me, looked akin to Lot’s wife—a solidified salted statue. How do you gracefully respond to something like this? 

“Dang…that sucks.”

I really meant, “Damn!”

It’s all I had. Spiritual mumbo jumbo just didn’t fit. “Damn” is what my mind shouted, but my preacheryness filtered it. I played the role and, “Dang,” came out instead. I wish I’d said it as I felt it. He’d understood with no judgment. 

I prayed. I prayed for God to give him peace, love, anything. The boy needed something, Someone, beyond himself. Surely, he needed something, Someone beyond me. I was no match for his need. 

     His girlfriend had been a heroin addict since she was nineteen. Last night, at twenty-six, she died at the hands of her addiction. The drug she used to medicate her pain and issues, whatever they were, took her. It happens too often in this little town of ours.

I offered to do anything I could.

“When’s the funeral?” 

“Don’t know yet. Haven’t got that far.” 

Oh, yeah. I forgot. It’s only been two hours. 

Church folk like us forget. Actually, we don’t forget; we don’t know. Don’t have a clue. We do life with a plan. They do it by the day. Some, by the hour. 

Again, I offered him a meal. Still, he turned me down. Food was not why he came. He wanted God—a God with skin—One bigger than his crazy mixed-up world. Only that kind of God could help at the most desperate moment of his life.

I don’t know if I helped him, but I know I needed to be there. Not for him, but for me. I’m reminded how God has used these dear souls to reshape me. Years ago, He sent me to the projects in my city and did it—He’s still doing it. Obviously, I still don’t fit God’s mold. So, He throws me into another furnace of discomfort to make me flexible—moldable.

I need to feel the dirtiness of this world’s pain. Their touch and sight must invade my privacy, my schedules, my life. Their smell needs to saturate my nose hairs so their memory lingers. I dare not forget! 

When I’m tired and want to quit, that’s when I know it’s getting real. The heroism has worn off and all that matters is that I love and serve the ones I’m sent to. Sometimes, people who aren’t like me—who don’t look like me—will never be like me—and not expected to.

Society pays no attention to the standing ovation of stringy-haired, confused humans who struggle to make it another day. Those who serve people whose problems render them speechless are the ones who get heaven’s greatest rewards. People with complicated lives demand something, Someone, I am not. God’s not looking for heroes, just people who don’t mind admitting they don’t know what to do when so much needs to be done.

Someone once accused me of liking non-churched people more than church people. GUILTY! Jesus didn’t send us to insiders, but outsiders. “Go into the world.” Remember that line? It’s where stringy-haired people who overdose on drugs live. 

     I’ve found these people much safer to be around. Church folk killed Jesus. Unreligious folk who never darkened the door of a church fed Him. They’re the ones who waited outside His grave to mourn His death. They were also the first ones to see Him when He resurrected from the dead. Church folk were in church—singing and praying and listening to another sermon about God. But God wasn’t in there. He was outside cooking fish, talking to women and fishermen and tax collectors and prostitutes and…stringy-haired heroin addicts who needed to be raised from the dead too.

I needed this young man last night. 

Jason is his name. Kelly was hers. *

I wonder if Kelly will be in heaven. 

I hope so.

Just to mess up us church folk. 

* Names have been changed