The window through which he stared was one of many that lined the wall of that large parlor. Through the windows to his left the steps of an outside fire escape bisected the windows at a forty-five degree angle. In a moment he moved from the window; he set himself on the bottom step of the fire escape. Apparently it was not the best seat for a view of the room and me and my friend. He moved to another, higher, step. That didn’t suit either. One more move brought satisfaction with the view.
I watched him in the mirror. He’d settled in for the long haul. I continued to talk with my friend, but watched his repose in the mirror.
It was twenty minutes of more before the conversation was completed. We stood; I led my friend to the door. Opening it, I stepped outside, peered now directly at the one sitting on the steps. “Emmanuel! How are you?”
“I knew that was you,” Emmanuel mumbled, his words carrying the slurred inflection of one who has only one tooth. “I looked in that window and I knew that was you.”
“How are you?”
“They took my money,” he said. “They hit me in the head with a baseball bat and took my money. Look here,” he leaned forward and pointed to a spot on the back of his skull, ‘you can still see where they cracked my head open.”
“That’s terrible,” I said.
“I know, and now my caseworker says I can’t get any more help, but I need a little help.”
“Who’s your caseworker?” asked my pastor friend. If there’s any pastor who could be described as an advocate it’s him.
Emmanuel pulled out a business card from his tattered wallet. He handed it to my friend as he pointed to the name. “Him, he’s my caseworker, but he says I can’t get any help for my busted head.”
“We’ll see about that,” my friend said, pulling out his cell phone.
I smiled and held up my hand. “Don’t bother calling. He’s talking about his head being busted open when he was eighteen.”
“What?”
“He was eighteen (Emmanuel’s in his forties now.) when he was jumped by a bunch of thugs. They took his money and cracked open his head. That’s why he’s the way he is now.”
“Oh, my God,” said my friend. “I’ve seen him around, but I didn’t realize.”
Emmanuel was part of my life back when. He wanders the streets of Atlanta talking to himself. He rests his head at night in a group home, paid for by his SSI payments that are sent to his guardian. Emmanuel dresses sometimes in the most outlandish combination of clothing you can imagine. Emmanuel likes bright colors. And his particular likes do not have to compliment each other very often.
I remembered my days pastoring there. I remembered Emmanuel gradually coming to trust me. I remembered Emmanuel deciding to attend church. I remembered the first Sunday morning when about a third of the way through the service he waltzed down the aisle and took a seat on the front pew. “Jesus loves everybody,” he announced as he sat down. Eyes rolled. Some of the blue hairs shook their heads from side to side, and I could almost hear their tongues clicking in their cheeks. I remembered how Emmanuel and I used to run into each other late at night at Zesto's. I'd buy him dinner. And we'd talk.
I remembered how, when seminary students were doing their contextual education at the church, I’d introduce them to Emmanuel following the service and then confound them. For amusement I decided to confound my pastor friend. “Emmanuel,” I said, “tell my friend about Romans 8; why don’t you start with verse 28.
Emmanuel stepped back, put his left hand in his pocket, pointed his right index finger toward my friend and began:
“ And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. For those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the likeness of his Son, that he might be the firstborn among many brothers. And those he predestined, he also called; those he called, he also justified; those he justified, he also glorified.
What, then, shall we say in response to this? If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all—how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things? Who will bring any charge against those whom God has chosen? It is God who justifies. Who is he that condemns? Christ Jesus, who died—more than that, who was raised to life—is at the right hand of God and is also interceding for us. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? As it is written: ’For your sake we face death all day long; we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered.’ No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Something had happened when that bat cracked Emmanuel’s skull. He lost his reasoning powers; he lost his abilities; and when the funds shut down the mental health facility he became a creature of the streets. But he remembered the lessons learned in Sunday school.
My friend looked at me and then at Emmanuel, at me, at Emmanuel. I asked him, “Can you recite Romans?”
Emmanuel and I sat on the steps and talked. We shared part of his story with my friend. “Emmanuel,” I said, “this is my friend. He’ll watch out for you since I’m not here anymore.”
Emmanuel nodded.
I pulled my digital camera from my pocket and asked my friend to take our picture. As my friend was focusing, Emmanuel looked over to me and said, “Please don’t make me smile. I look silly because I don’t have but one teeth.”
“You don’t have to smile, Emmanuel.”
We stared at the camera until it went click, and we did not smile.
“You hungry?”
He hung his head without saying anything. I handed him a twenty. Tears formed in his eyes.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“You’re welcome,” I whispered back; this was a private thing between the two of us.
I rose to leave. Emmanuel said, “Can I hug you?”
We hugged. And then he said, “I can hug you, too,” to my friend.
They hugged.
I started to depart.
“Pastor,” said Emmanuel, “I didn’t look in that window to get money.”
“I know you didn’t,” I responded.
“I looked in that window ‘cause I wanted to tell you I still love you.”
Yesterday wasn’t so good. I was down, tired, depressed at the close of the day. Today I’ve been re-called. Today, I’m ready to pastor another forty years.
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