If this reads like it’s disjointed-that is intentional. I am trying to capture a disjointed experience with words and images and thoughts.
Foggy, misty night when everything feels like it’s coated with sadness. We’re laughing though because in this moment in time all is good. The company is enjoyable. There are families and the illusion of security. These are the times we disappear into and the world around us melts away. There is only the present and it is filled with laughter.
Twenty foot tall Christmas tree, filled with lights and ornaments trying to shine brightly in the murky, soupy darkness, but it’s just a dim beacon offering false hope to the hopeless that wander the streets. The night is filled with so many shadows. Christmas trees don’t save.They give a lot of people warm feelings, and taunt the rest. Consumer god. Idol to materialism. Promising instant, temporary happiness. Forgotten within two weeks, resurrected from storage in ten months to once again call us to worship.
Christmas tree worship is broken by the appearance of broken man.
Desperate homeless man on his knees telling us he’s going to die. Cancer covering his brain, exhaling whiskey as he tells us God is Real, that he is sent to tell us...God…Is…Real. Tears flow down his cheeks. On his feet then back on his knees, head bowed down like a peasant before kings… Speaking Alcohol Gospel.
Prophetic figure or con man? I see his condition and know that even if he’s not telling the absolute truth his interruption of our insulated Christmas gathering reminds us of both our excess and finiteness. He says we’re all going to die. He says we need to KNOW that God is real. We Need to know…Need to know that God is the Judge. Disconnected thoughts and words flow in between crystallized statements of truth. And this inconvenient reminder stops the laughter and for a moment…the young face the old, the healthy the broken. The comfortable and satisfied collide with the desperate and resigned.
The cross and empty grave. Hard to get in any words. He’s out of his mind. Repeating the same things over and over. Talking but not listening. Silent group, the fog and mist chew up almost every word spoken but his. Ours dissipate into the night. He’s not listening. Quietly prayers are offered up for him, for us in the shadows.
“Papa, don’t say a word, I’ve done what I’m supposed to do” he says over and over. He asks us to pray for him. His mind moving so fast he jumps from one topic to another like a small spider flicking about. Tides of longing crash over him, years of bad choices and disappointment, of being forgotten, of living on the margins…he’s had enough. Back on his knees again, crying ‘God is Real.’ This is his arsenal. His armor. We pray for him and he stands up again to tell us his message.
“Papa, all I need is money for my family.” We ask where his family is. He has no family. Ten minutes later he has family. They’re ‘over there.’ No one is over there.
He needs to go to Austin. Needs bus money. We only have a fraction of what he asks. “Don’t give me nothing Papa…no…not that way. I don’t need nothing. I’m going to die. I know that. “
A catalogue of unrelated images and words. Trying to understand it all. Racing thoughts, racing thoughts, he’s moving so fast I can’t hold his image. “I’m going to the Santa Christa Hospital for surgery soon. I won’t live for long. Maybe 6 months. Need money for my family.” The family only he can see.
Ghosts of family perhaps long gone? Of family he wishes he had? We don't know. He needs money though. Money for more whiskey? No one knows. He doesn’t know. Questions are asked. Cross and Hope offered, but he’s not listening. Discomfort level rising.
He continues: God is Real. That’s why he came-because God told him to tell this young group He is Real. That’s what he said.
Inhibition is distant. "I’m black. 56 years old. I don’t come to white people to ask for help..I come with a message. Did what I was supposed to do.” But he asks for help and I know that there is no way outside a miracle that we can truly connect and find out what is going on with him, truly know. His world is in his head and we don’t know the terrain. We can't find the door. Only One does. Only One can. We ask Him for help.
Something is given. “Don’t spend it on alcohol, please. Let’s get some food instead. “Papa, no…not like that…I’ve done what I’m supposed to do, said what I’m supposed to say. Just let me go now. Just let me go now." Disconnect. Like a snake eating its own tail. Help but don’t. Yes but no. He disappears into the fog and mist and God knows where he is now.
Gated communities. The satisfied ones. The world belongs to them. The rich, the happy, safely insulated from this man on the street. Perfect hairstyles, new clothes, new phones….loaded cars and shiny silver from mom and dad. Good kids. Very Good Kids. But something inside some screams: “Hurry back to that fun place. Let's run away from this...into the streets where the businesses are still open and let's just get lost in it all, away from these petty concerns that don't belong to us."
I realize I’m no different. I can be all of those hateful little things and I’m mad at myself for realizing that. I can want that safety and security-that escapism. I can embrace it because it's so easy to do. Feels so safe. But there is no safe approach to living. We each know we have that appointment with God. We just don’t want to think about it at Christmas. Ironic.
He came to die. Baby Jesus is loved. He makes us feel good. Bloodied, beaten, crucified Christ makes us squirm. False distinctions, as if there were two Jesus’. The shadow of the cross hangs over the manger but no one’s looking. The Christmas tree blocks the view. People shouting "Don't move the tree!"
This man makes us squirm because we hear and see some measure of Truth this night. Beginnings and endings. Life and death. God is Real. The clock is ticking. You were invincible but now you are more aware of your frailty. Now you are the old one. You’re going to get older. There’s no preventative directive or safe approach to living. He never promised us safety and calls us away from self-preservation. We each know we have a fate, an end. Don’t remind us now. Not with our full bellies and our Christmas wish lists. Don’t talk about these things.
But these things, these realities don’t change. You can change your hairstyle, your friends, change your clothes, change your cities your continents but sooner or later your own self and Ultimate Reality will always catch up. Sooner or later you have to face endings, if not yours, someone you love. Always present. Always waits in the wings. We just choose to ignore it until it’s thrust upon us.
And maybe sooner or later you meet the Alcohol Gospel Prophet, and he somehow forces you to remember The True Prophet, Priest and King who has absolute rights over every one of us. Sooner or later we face our Maker. Sooner or later we hear “Take up your cross and follow Me.” He doesn’t tell us where. He promises much—both life and meaning as well as trials and suffering. He just says follow, which is an invitation to come and die.
But it’s Christmas. Don’t talk about that. Tough economy—that’s the issue. Stuff We Have to Have—that’s the thing that haunts us, not the Mad Man sleeping on the street, his dignity long gone, giving up on life—no, not him. Give us Christmas ornaments, Bing Crosby, Chocolate and Gift Cards.
You see, there’s not much in the bank account. Lean Christmas. Tree with two boxes under it. Oh how we suffer under our roofs, with our full cupboards and central air and heat, with our clothes from Last Year. We’d like to tell the Whiskey Prophet about our ‘suffering''-he's not the only one suffering...but we’re not leaving this nice, safe place to track him down, to tell him about our “Lean Christmas.” Maybe we could put on our coats and get in our car and turn on the radio and heater and look for him downtown, find him, so we could say, “you are in my prayers, peace, be filled.” Yeah, let’s do that.
Times are changing. New realities. Economic Uncertainties. Shifting Focus. Coming to terms with Unknowable Tomorrow. “ Open up all the boxes, hurry kids, open ALL the boxes!” No….that’s not Christmas. We know this. Don't surpress it. Don't drown it out with Stuff.
Can’t get Alcohol Gospel Prophet out of my head and I’m glad he drifted into my life in that exact moment.
Christmas. Worship. God’s Gift to us. Don’t let Him get lost in all the anxieties and concerns, buried under all the wish lists and Christmas wrappings. And remember The Least of These. Including the Alcohol Gospel Prophet. He came to set him free as well.
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