Eclectic Christian

This post is the daily post for March 23rd on my blog: Telling the Stories that Matter.

March 23 – Peter O’Higgins, Martyr, Lifesaver, Thought Criminal

William Pilsworth was the vicar of the Church of Ireland in Donadea and had given room and board to Roman Catholic friars even though they disagreed on some theological matters. In 1641, there was a rebellion on Ireland and many fled the countryside to find refuge in Dublin. William was one of the last to do so and was detained by the rebel army outside of Dublin. When they searched his things they found a letter from a brother-in-law who asked William to kill a rebel and bring the head with him so that their family might purchase security from the powerful by spilling the blood of the hated. Though William had done no such thing and had no plans to do so, he was given a political choice: attend a Roman Catholic mass as an ally or die as an enemy. He refused to be manipulated and so he was marched to the gallows. Before the trapdoor released and William could plunge to his death, a Roman Catholic priest by the name of Peter O’Higgins intervened. Peter had never met William and knew nothing of him but gave a detailed and impassioned speech insisting that this execution would be an unholy and reprehensible act. Having been chastized by Peter O’Higgins, William’s captors released him.

The protestant government soon cracked down on the rebellion and moved into the area with speed and vicious efficiency. Peter remained in his parish even though he had been advised to flee the expected vengeance against Roman Catholics in the area. He was arrested and turned over to the military powers. The commander of the force, a man by the name of Ormonde, handed him on down the line to a lesser officer but expected that the Peter–a Dominican priest–would find mercy from those in whose hands he found himself. Almost twenty protestant clergymen wrote letters begging mercy and leniency for Peter but these appear to be ignored. He was beaten, abused, tortured, and finally marched to the gallows to die. He was accused of trying to convinced protestants to give up their protest but could only be found guilty of simply being Roman Catholic. When he stood on the gallows, he was presented with two pieces of paper: one was a warrant for his execution and the other was a pardon to be given to him on the condition that he recanted his faith. He had requested that the pardon be printed up for him to consider upon the gallows and his accusers had complied.

The assembled crowd looked on as Peter considered both documents. They couldn’t decide what they wanted more: to see the priest die or to see the priest sacrifice his faith for his life. They had long ago left behind devotion to the one who was the Bread of Life. He picked up the pardon and some in the crowd were excited as they imagined he would now recant his position and join with the protestants. Instead, he spoke loudly and for all to hear: “For some time I was in doubt as t the charge on which they would ground my condenmnation; but, thanks to heaven, it is no longer so; and I am about to die for my attachment to the catholic faith. See you here the condition on which I might save my life? Apostasy is all they require; but, before high heaven, I spurn their offers, and with my last breath will glorify God for the honor he has done me, in allowing me thus to suffer for his name.” With these words, he threw the pardon to the dirt below the gallows. The trapdoor was released and he was hung for refusing to give up on his faith–the faith that this accusers claimed but had long ago forgotten. This was not a protestant or Roman Catholic faith alone; it was a faith that transcended political labels and rested solely in devotion to Jesus. As he slowly died at the end of the rope–and even as they were preparing to kill Peter–William Pilsworth stood at his feet repeatedly yelling: “This man is innocent! He saved my life!” Peter O’Higgins died on the 23rd day of March in the year 1642.

This post is the daily post for March 4th on my blog: Telling the Stories that Matter.

Adrian was a loyal soldier in the Herculean legion under emperor Maximian. The Herculean legion was one of the two veteran legions promoted to the role of Imperial Guard as emperors became increasingly uncomfortable with the loyalty of the Praetorian guard. To be a member of this legion was a great honor that came with a significant number of obligations and responsibilities. One particular role that members of the Herculean legion served was that of torturer of those who dared to resist the Empire. In this way, they were soldiers that fought not only for territory and control but also the minds of the people the emperor hoped to rule over. In the early fourth century, Christians were a common target for the emperor’s wrath and members of the Herculean guard were therefore called upon to torture and kill Christians with regularity.

Once when Adrian was torturing a group of Christians he was stunned with their peace of mind in the face of great pain. As the soldiers he was commanding burned the Christians with hot pokers and beat them savagely, he looked on and had time to marvel at the love and forgiveness they offered their torturers. In Adrian’s mind he must have wondered if he could remain so loyal to the Empire if asked to suffer to this degree for it. As they were being tortured he asked them “What kind of reward could you possibly be expecting from your God that makes you so willing to remain loyal even in the face of Rome’s worst tortures?” The Christians looked at each other through their pain and Adrian must have considered that he had finally stumped them or broken their will.

But then they quoted Paul’s first letter to the Church in Corinth and responded, “For those that love God, God has prepared something that no eye has ever seen, no ear has ever heard, and no human has ever even begun to conceive.” The room was filled with a stunned silence that can only rightfully accompany a sudden and unexpected glimpse of profound and hope filled truth. The soldiers turned to see how Adrian would respond–perhaps they were hoping he would dispel the conviction that tickled their hearts and respond with some witty or equally profound statement to support the Imperial lie they were suddenly aware they were a part of. Adrian responded by dropping to his knees and begging the prayers and forgiveness of the Christians. The soldiers were shocked at this but were further amazed when he proclaimed his faith and trust in the Lord of the Christians whom he had just been persecuting. The men he had been commanding arrested him and turned him over to the brutal hands of the Emperor. He was thrown in prison to await the day he would be executed for his crime of faith.

While in prison his wife, Natalia, heard the story of what had happened to him but wanted to hear it for herself. So, she disguised herself and dressed as a young boy so that she might be admitted to see him in prison. When she arrived, she revealed her identity to her husband and asked him to tell her what had happened. He told the story of the birth of faith within him and she was likewise convicted by the words of the Christians and the faith that had gripped her husband whom she trusted. She, too, was converted and asked that he pray for her once he had attained that glorious reward that now loomed before him a little closer every day. The very next day he was paraded before members of the Herculean legion and Natalia and had his limbs first broken on an anvil and then amputated brutally. As he lie bleeding in Natalia’s arms, they decapitated him and took what remained of his body away from Natalia and to a great fire to be burned along with the bodies of the Christians he had been torturing just two days previous. As they cast the bodies into the flames, Natalia let out a great cry and rushed to throw herself onto the pyre but a great storm that had been building suddenly issued both wind and rain and the fire was put out before Natalia or the bodies could be burned.

A little while later–and under the cover of darkness–Christians came out of hiding to take the bodies of the martyrs and give them a Christian burial. Along with the bodies, they took Natalia with them and cared for her for the rest of her life. She was the widow of a martyr and a Christian herself and so she was honored among the Christians for years to come. Though she was not a martyr herself it was clear that she had given up much for her faith. So, when she died she was buried alongside Adrian in the place where martyrs were buried.

by Joshua Hearne

Everybody has had “one of those days.” It must just be part of the human condition. I had one such “long day” a while back. It had started when I woke up an hour after my alarm had been set for. There is something uniquely awful about the feeling of looking at the clock when it is telling you that you’ve woken up late. Of course, you never get ready faster than when you have only ten minutes in which to get ready in.

After getting ready quickly, I headed out to the hospital to do my shift in Pastoral Care. On that day, I didn’t sit down. I didn’t even get to sit down to eat my lunch. Actually, I only got to eat half of my lunch and I had to eat that while going from one emergency to another. I was kicked out of a room at 1:30 because I had interrupted some little old lady’s “stories.” I learned, on that day, that visitation during “Days of our Lives” is a mistake. I responded to two heart attacks and one multiple vehicle crash in the ER. None of the families were what you might call nice. It’s hard to hold that against them since they were in the emergency room because of a relative but I’ve seen nicer folks among people in worse straits. I had visited all 6 families that I had previously visited in the ICU. I was present as two older people died and watched over the family and prayed with them. By the end of 8 hours, I was frazzled and emotionally drained. A chaplain may see many deaths,but they never get used to it. Death may become an acquaintance, but never a friend.

After my shift, I went home to get a shower and grab a bite to eat. As I was eating, I noticed that I was late for another activity that I had committed to attending. When I got to the church to spend time with the people, I discovered that they weren’t in a very good mood. Some of them had been talking about a particular theological position that they were against. I, actually, saw some merit in the position. As I, foolishly, tried to defend it to multiple people who had already decided that it was stupid and so were its supporters, I realized that this wouldn’t end well. Several hours later, my Christianity had been questioned. My faith had been doubted. My character had been accused. My integrity had been assaulted.

I was tired. I was frustrated. I was down. I was angry. I was cynical.

I vented to the empty seat in my car and my shifting knob. As it turns out, they’re excellent listeners but terrible talkers. It was another day that I found myself driving around town and looking for some reason to believe in a faith that was surrounded by dying and angry people. Yet another day to question what kind of faith it was that dwelled among the dead, dying, grieving, and suffering and was lampooned on both sides both for having faith and for not having the right faith. I drove for a while and really wondered why it was that I persisted in a faith like this.

I looked out the window and saw a church and shook my head. People going in and out and lauging and talking. They were happy but, surely, they didn’t dwell with the dead. Would their faith hold when they left that building? How many of them were producing some false outward appearance because it just was the thing you were supposed to do. I scoffed and cynically wondered, aloud to myself, “Why do I do this?”

There was a small red neon sign. It read: “Jesus still saves.”

It hit me that I did all this because my faith included an earnest hope in the redemption of all of us. My faith led me to dwell with death because we are being redeemed from the curse that brings our death. Though the corruption of humanity must stink in our noses daily, I was supposed to be offering hope of real and true redemption. Wasn’t this my message?

Yes, you’re dying but Jesus has overcome death. Yes, you’re sick but Jesus has overcome the decay and corruption of your body. Yes, you’re suffering but Jesus is redeeming the world that causes your suffering. Yes, you’re grieving but Jesus is undoing grief and its causes. Yes, you’re broken but Jesus is fixing us.

Yes, you’re cursed but Jesus still saves.

I turned around and headed home. I had to get ready to walk through the valley of the shadow of Death and proclaim the good news of the Kingdom of God: Our corruption is overcome by God’s goodness. Much is broken but all is being set right. I had another shift next morning.

by Joshua Hearne

There is a certain length that I like to keep my hair. The problem is that, even after all these years, I don’t know what that length is. Sure, I believe that there is a good chance that there is some unknown magical hair-length but I also believe that I will die without knowing what that special length is. I do know, however, that when my hair starts to curl up at the bottom that it’s time for a haircut.

So, a few days ago, my hair was getting curly at the bottom. I deduced, then, that it was time for a haircut. I had felt the curl coming on but I kept putting the haircut off because I had been very busy. I woke up one Wednesday morning and could stand it no longer. I had things to do but I penciled in a little time for a haircut. That day I had been working on a project for the church that I worked at so I was running around town picking up supplies for it. I knew that I needed to go to Kroger and I knew that there was a “Great Clips” by the Kroger. Suddenly, my haircut fit into the schedule.

I like Great Clips. It’s quick. They almost always know what they’re doing. Plus, they don’t make me feel bad when I don’t know what clipper-guard I usually use or how to describe how I like my hair to be cut. Doesn’t that seem unfair, though? A professional asking an amateur to tell them how to do their job? Isn’t this like a cardiologist asking you how you would use a balloon to clean out your arteries? I come to the haircut-place because I have no idea how to cut my hair or, as is often the case, what looks good. But this isn’t the point of my story.

So, I stumble through a poor explanation of how I want my hair cut — “Like this, only shorter…” — and settle in for a quick, fairly-priced, and much-needed haircut. We begin the classic dance of haircutter and haircuttee wherein we make small talk about random things. I like to play with this old routine by asking them questions. So often, the person in the chair answers all the questions but I find that sitting in a chair that can be raised, lowered, and spun around makes me reflective and inquisitive. I could use one for my office.

This time I find out that she has a son named Nathan. Having studied Religion and Philosophy in Undergrad and at Divinity school, I immediately run it through my religion/philosophy filter and determine that I cannot think of any famous philosophers with that name but it is a biblical name and a Hebrew name. I consider that it comes from “Nathaniel” which comes from the hebrew word נתנ (natan) and the hebrew word אל (el). That makes it mean, roughly, “given of God” or “gift of God.” As soon as I’ve deduced this, I ask her why she chose that name.

She replies, “I like the sound of it. It’s pretty…” I’m about to conclude that she hadn’t thought about the meaning of the name and reflect on how nobody considers the meaning of names anymore. But before I could descend into my own little world of spinny-chair-reflection, she continued, “… and it’s biblical. We like the meaning, too. It means ‘Gift of God.’ I think it’s appropriate because all children are gifts from God.” I didn’t know what to say.

“It’s a great name” I responded, wondering why I naturally assumed that because her first comment wasn’t an academic one that she didn’t know what it meant. I guess I assumed that because she worked at Great Clips and because she had told me about her life that I concluded that she didn’t know anything about the meaning of names. It was astonishingly easy to immediately jump the divide of education and secure myself in an ivory tower.

I was more ashamed of my second thought, though. “Of course she knows it, she probably just got it out of a book of names” I thought. This one stung when I realized that I had tried to rationalize away my own insensitivity. Even if she did get the knowledge from a book, that doesn’t make a difference. She picked a beautiful name with a beautiful meaning. Even if she didn’t arrive at it through “proper linguistic analysis” or “thorough Hebrew exegesis,” she did well.

I further realized that I didn’t even know her name. I checked the mirror to read her nametag. It said “Anastasia.” I don’t know if it comes from the greek word αναστασις but that’s the word it makes me think of. What does that word mean? Resurrection. Raised to life. Recovery.

It turns out that there is yet room to change and be raised out of the death of this world and into the life of the Kingdom of God. There is even more room for me to leave the death of insincere words and thoughts in this world for the life of intentional and personal life with others. Even though I might fail to care at times, there is resurrection. I am being raised to life out of a pit of death and corruption.

I told you that the spinny chair makes me reflective.

by Joshua Hearne

This was originally posted on January 3 at my blog: Telling the Stories that Matter.

Many protestants look back upon the reformation gladly and view it as some type of ideological victory. With the passage of many years, those painful times have become a hallowed ground where countless people revel in independence and the power of self-determination. The Pope and the leaders of the Roman Catholic church were slandered and scandalized even beyond what they deserved and lines were drawn in the sand that could not easily be crossed over. Wounds were inflicted that would only be healed by love over time.Some even go so far as to celebrate days in the Church calendar specifically designed to remember the separation and disconnect. Yet, why should the Church celebrate the self-mutilation of the Body of Christ?

Many Roman Catholics look back upon the time and decry the protestant reformation as a time of vile heresy and overreaction. In an attempt to villify those who villified them, some insist that the exodus of protestants from the Roman Catholic church was a purifying and good thing that finally allowed for real and earnest reformation to begin. Martin Luther and the leaders of the reformation were slandered and scandalized even beyond what they deserved and lines were drawn in the sand that could not easily be crossed over. Wounds were inflicted that would only be healed by love over time. Some would celebrate the excommunication of protesting parties–after all, if one removes the protestants then surely those who remain all agree? Yet, why should the Church celebrate the self-mutilation of the Body of Christ?

In 1521, on January 3, Pope Leo X excommunicated Martin Luther in the papal bull Decet Romanum Pontificem. Specifically, it was only one excommunication and only barred one man–a priest of the Church–from the Eucharist because he had refused to fall in line with people he was protesting. Those in power insisted that theological and practical unity were of primary importance to the Church and those who protested should submit themselves to the guidance of the Church. Those who protested insisted that individual faith and commitment to discipleship were of primary importance to the Church and those in power should submit themselves to the guidance of the Church. Through much of it, there was hope to be held out that the Church might come together and show unity even though it was made up of people quick to take and give offense. January 3 was only one day but it was an important day–perhaps it was past the point of no return but hopefully, there is yet still hope for unity among people united by a common bond in the Lordship of Jesus Christ.

Deliver me, O God, and remind me of what is worth delivering about me.
Deliver me from my own crippling insight.

For you are a forgiving God, yet I am crushed under my own accusations.
Why do I remain in my own shadow?

Guide me in your pure and blameless way
Let forgiveness and communion bring me to my feet
to Your feet.

Then I will be free of my oppression
I will rest in the promise of forgiveness
And with my liberation
I will praise you

Knowing I am healed, why do I remain crippled?
Knowing I am alive, why do I continue to dig my own grave?
I must hope in God for God is hope, itself.
God is my forgiveness and my only hope.

~A variation on Psalm 43

by Joshua Hearne

“So he is called man, not only that through his body he may be apprehended by embodied creatures, whereas otherwise this would be impossible because of his incomprehensible nature; but also that by himself he may sanctify humanity, and be as it were a leaven to the whole lump; and by uniting to himself that which was condemned may release it from all condemnation, becoming for all men all things that we are, except sin—body, soul, mind, and all through which death reaches—and thus he became man, who is the combination of all these…”
~Gregory of Nazianzus

I love this idea of Jesus as the leaven for the whole lump of humanity.

So, God became man not just because it gives us a means to understand God and commune with him. Rather, it is so that God can join us in our suffering and sanctify us as if by proximity. He intermingles divinity with humanity.

It reminds me of Psalm 22.

My God, my God, why have you deserted me? Why are you so far away? Won’t you listen to my groans and come to my rescue?
I cry out day and night, but you don’t answer, and I can never rest.
Yet you are the holy God, ruling from your throne and praised by Israel.

But I am merely a worm, far less than human, and I am hated and rejected by people everywhere.
Everyone who sees me makes fun and sneers. They shake their heads,
and say, “Trust the LORD! If you are his favorite, let him protect you and keep you safe.”
You, LORD, brought me safely through birth, and you protected me when I was a baby at my mother’s breast.
From the day I was born, I have been in your care, and from the time of my birth, you have been my God.
Don’t stay far off when I am in trouble with no one to help me.
Enemies are all around like a herd of wild bulls. Powerful bulls from Bashan are everywhere.
My enemies are like lions roaring and attacking with jaws open wide.
I have no more strength than a few drops of water. All my bones are out of joint; my heart is like melted wax.
My strength has dried up like a broken clay pot, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. You, God, have left me to die in the dirt.
Brutal enemies attack me like a pack of dogs, tearing at my hands and my feet.
I can count all my bones, and my enemies just stare and sneer at me.
They took my clothes and gambled for them.

~Portions of Psalm 22

This is the one that Jesus quoted on the cross. It’s significant to me because it was written by the psalmist many years prior to Jesus’ crucifixion. It’s a lament to God from the Psalmist. You can hear the notes of complaint and suffering in the voice of the psalmist. Interestingly enough, Jesus calls upon this suffering psalm to represent himself. He questions himself and all the suffering.

This is a beautiful picture. Not of a God who remains aloof and distant. It is a dramatic picture of a God who joins with us in our suffering and understands the pain and expresses our anguish to himself as we have expressed it to him in the past. God joins humanity in our suffering.

To once again quote Gregory of Nazianzus:

“My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? …But, as I said, he was in his own person representing us. For we were the forsaken and despised before, but now, by the sufferings of Him who could not suffer, we were taken up and saved.” ~Gregory of Nazianzus

Each month I select one of my own favorite stories from my own blog to post on here. This month I’ve selected St. Lucia.

The coins clattered to the stone and Lucia looked around as if she expected somebody to notice. In fact, many people noticed the sound of coins hitting the ground in this poor neighborhood but none of the people were her wealthy soon-to-be husband. She had no trouble giving away the money but knew it must be done in relative secrecy lest her betrothed find out that she was giving away her dowry. Her mother had not approved and had begged her to think of her father–her recently passed father–but could not convince her. At least, not since that night at Agatha’s tomb when she had been healed from her bloody problem. They had waited and prayed all night and Lucia’s mother had finally been healed but Lucia had been the recipient of a vision at the same moment that foretold her soon coming martyrdom. Mom had been happy to be healed and Lucia had not let her know what she had learned. Instead, she proposed that she be allowed to give away her dowry to the poor as an act of almsgiving. Of course, mom had resisted but Lucia won out. As she handed over the last of the coins, she breathed a sigh of relief–partly because she had maintained the secrecy and partly because she was glad to finally be rid of the bride money–after all, she had committed herself to a celibate life and had no desire to be a bride in this world.

Yet, as thing so often happen, her betrothed was quick to find out. He was a wealthy man and so he had much influence. Great influence in a city buys many eyes in various places and some of them had told him that they thought they had seen her in the streets giving away a large sum of money. He confronted her and asked to see the dowry set aside for him to gain when he finally married her. She knew she had been caught and so she admitted that she had given it away–knowing well that her martyrdom was likely to spring from this moment of opportunity. “If you don’t replace it, I will betray your secret–that you are a Christian–to the magistrate. Maybe then you’ll see some sense once you’ve given up these silly Christian fables.” he yelled. She nodded because she knew he would and because she had come to accept it.

She was arrested at her betrothed’s insistence and dragged before magistrate Paschasius. This was during the time of the Diocletian persecutions and being Christian was akin to high treason. She was ordered to make a sacrifice upon the Roman altars and she refused. Paschasius was not surprised by any means–it seemed that the Christians were only all too willing to refuse and die if the other option was denying their Faith. “If you do not,” said Paschasius, “then you’ll be killed. Offer sacrifice and live.” Paschasius wasn’t surprised but he was confused–what could be so valuable as to forfeit your life–it didn’t make any sense to him (it never does to the Empire).

“Here is my offering,” Lucia began, “I offer myself to God, let God do with His offering as it pleases Him.” Paschasius sat in shocked silence for a moment. Lucia’s betrothed was dumbstruck by what he might call her lunacy but others might call her courage. Paschasius finally asked her why she would not like to keep her life and be married. He pointed out many of the desirable traits of her betrothed. Lucia let them know that she had committed herself to celibacy and was not interested in marriage.

At this, Paschasius saw an opportunity to wring a denial out of her. “Deny your faith,” he said slickly, “or I’ll turn you over to the brothel to be raped and become a prostitute.” He gloated to himself and smiled what can only be called a smile of self-satisfaction. In this, he had revealed the Empire’s great lust to control and dominate even if by evil means. He fully expected her to give in but this time he truly was surprised.

Lucia siad: “No one’s body is polluted so as to endanger the soul if it has not pleased the mind. If you were to lift my hand to your idol and so make me offer against my will, I would still be guiltless in the sight of the true God, who judges according to the will and knows all things. If now, against my will, you cause me to be polluted, a twofold purity will be gloriously imputed to me. You cannot bend my will to your purpose; whatever you do to my body, that cannot happen to me.” Furious, Paschasius ordered her eyes gouged out and then to be martyred. The soldiers followed through and ended her life as a martyr.

by Joshua Hearne

Jumping quickly from the #6 Bus to catch the #1 bus was a regular occurence for me during the school year. The #6 picked me up near Duke’s campus and carried me away from idyllic Duke and through Downtown Durham to get to the primary city bus terminal. Once I got there, I had to rush to make sure I caught the #1 bus so that it could take me, through Northgate and Walltown, to my apartment. The city buses were a learning experience on many occasions but near the end of my Durham Bus tenure, I had a particularly interesting experience.

By some stroke of luck, the #6 had arrived at the terminal early and the #1 had not yet arrived. I had about 4-7 minutes to stand and wait. That was okay, though, because I was busy reading Adolf von Harnack’s What is Christianity? for my Church History course. It’s a dense read so I was focused pretty intensely on it. My attention, though, was raised by a homeless man who I had seen at the terminal before, who had told me his name was Robert, asking for handouts and/or help. Usually, the line was that he had a baby that needed diapers. Regardless of what you had to give, he was clear to say: “C’mon… diapers cost more than that…” Maybe Robert wasn’t scamming people but it did seem dubious at times. I couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t a ruse. If that makes me a bad person, then I imagine that I am not alone in my wickedness.

I looked over and saw a man, Ibrahim, that I had become familiar with while riding the #1 bus. His kufi and copy of the Koran–in Arabic–clearly identified his religion. On more than one occasion, I had set in front of or behind Ibrahim on the bus. Often times while engaged in studying either the New Testament in Greek or Old Testament in Hebrew. I’d imagine that we were quite the sight for the other riders. Side note: If you ever want to have a seat on the bus to yourself, read a book in a language with a different alphabet. On more than one occasion, Ibrahim and I would have the last free seats on the bus next to us. Ibrahim approached Robert and discretely gave a few folded bills to him and then began to walk away as Robert thanked him in his, typically, loud way. I was, apparently, not the only person who saw this, however. As Ibrahim was walking away, a large woman that I knew as Clara from a previous encounter [a story for another day in which I was berated for my reading selection] walked up and demanded, “How much did he give you?” Robert was wary of her as she was very loud and very forceful. Too much attention could be bad for him in Downtown Durham. There were gang members around who would be interested in how much money he had on him and there were police officers around who would not be pleased with panhandling.

She opened his hand, very impolitely I might add, and loudly asked: “15 dollars? That’s it?” She then proceeded to dig into her purse and produce three 10-dollar-bills and place them into his hand as if she were giving him his change at McDonalds. “I’m a christian…” she added loud enough for anybody to hear, “… and I want you to know that Jesus loves you…” and that christianity wins this alms-race. Her tone and the focus of her eyes clearly pointed out that her gift (twice that of Ibrahim) proved her right and more loving. I shook my head and mumbled to myself when I saw another woman approach.

I was familiar with her, too. She had long braided brown hair, wore a tattered skirt and smelled of patchouli. She wasn’t a “hippie” or a “new-ager.” In fact, conversation with her would demonstrate that she didn’t necessarily believe in specific ideas or thoughts but, rather, failed to believe in “established” or “orthodox” thoughts. She was a bit of a religious mutt. Some might call her a syncretist. I called her Eileen. I, also, called her a fun and interesting conversation. Today’s flavor seemed to be a particular shade of Wicca that involved obligatory references to the “Earth Mother.” She approached Robert, Clara, and Ibrahim and with some soft and hard to understand statements about life, earth, nature, and harmony she gave Robert another fifty dollars.

Robert was very happy. He was benefitting from this Alms Race and doing very well with it. He had received 95 dollars to be a plot of land over which people could fight. An argument had broken out between these Clara, Ibrahim, and Eileen in which Clara was picking fights, Ibrahim was disinterested, and Eileen was trying to calm down everybody but herself. Robert was basking in the chaos.

I was completely dumbfounded.

But from my right I see a small man I didn’t know and still don’t know walk up to Harry, one of the other homeless men at the terminal, and say “Blessings upon you, brother. Life has been hard but there is a God who cares for you and loves you. Though we suffer now, God wants to redeem us. Though we are alone and struggling, now, God offers peace and rest in Jesus Christ the suffering and struggling.” I smiled and tried to make sure that he didn’t know I had overheard. He handed Harry some money and continued, “Here’s something to help you out. If you need a meal, a place to stay, or anything I can help you with… Here’s my phone number and address. Don’t hesitate to call, brother.” Then, he slipped away behind the building and caught his bus. Harry looked around to see if anybody else had noticed. I smiled at him and he indicated confusion at what had just happened. I held up my book and tapped the covered which prominently displayed the title: “What is Christianity?” Then I pointed towards the bus where the man had boarded. I looked back over my shoulder at the Alms Race. Robert was gone. Clara was still yelling. Eileen was still struggling to remain calm. Ibrahim had gone back to his reading and ignored the others.

I put my book away and turned in my bible. I turned to Matthew 6. I smiled as I read verse 3: “But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing…”