Viewpoint Mystery of church can happen anywhere
By GEORGE WILSON
Theres no doubt about it, it
was the smile that grabbed me.
I was seated halfway toward the back of the bus I usually take to
work. My attention was drawn to two men seated in conversation up front. The
one on the left, an older black man, talking in a friendly fashion to a young
black fellow seated opposite him. I couldnt hear the talk but it was easy
to catch the tone of impish banter in the older mans voice. He had a head
of gray nappy hair; his eyes had the whitish cast of someone with severe
cataracts.
How old? Ive discovered over the years that Im not as
good at guessing the age of black people as I am with whites, but Id
guess he was about my age. What people who shouldnt be blamed because
they dont know any better might call old.
But then there was that smile. How to describe it? Pleasant? That,
for sure. Engaging? Very much so. How then? Sweet! Thats it. His
smile was sweet.
Over the following few weeks I came to realize that he was the
same fellow who shuffled across our parking lot occasionally in the morning,
carrying his small plastic bag of trash to put into the dumpster. Before he
reached the bin he would pull a smaller bag and shake out a batch of crumbs for
the birds.
A few weeks passed. Then one day as I boarded the bus I found him
sitting there with no one in the next seat, so I sat down next to him. It was
easy to exchange pleasantries. A few days later I took a small initiative and
we introduced ourselves. Gradually we took to talking, until one day he asked
me what I did. I had learned that he had worked for many years in the post
office, eventually becoming president of the employees local. When I told
him I was a priest he smiled that smile and said Is that so?
He asked me where my church was and I told him that though I
wasnt a pastor and didnt have a church, I was a regular
member at St. Agnes, a predominantly black parish whose church we passed each
day riding on the bus. Chuck let me know that he had been Catholic as a child
but hadnt attended any church for some years. Our relationship had become
comfortable enough for me to suggest that he might come on a Sunday sometime
and see how welcoming the community is. He was noncommittal but also not put
off. When I met him on later trips he would ask in a slyly teasing manner
Did you go to church this Sunday?
Chuck lived alone, though I learned he had some daughters in
Cincinnati and also in Detroit.
After some more time he trusted me enough to tell me that he was
being bothered by some rough young studs in his apartment building. They beat
him up and one day they took some of his things. It was clearly a preoccupying
issue because he came back to it several times. Twice he mentioned that he had
a weapon and would not be afraid to use it if they attacked him again. There
were some oblique references to the FBI coming snooping around, and I began to
wonder whether he might be paranoid. He may have been; probably was. But the
evidence of his openness to strangers put a qualifier on that.
He certainly showed no fear of talking to strangers on that
bus.
One day he went so far as to confide in me that he had seen a
vision of Jesus in his apartment. Now I have to confess that I dont do
well with reports of visions; guess Im a bit too rationalistic. But here
was a man honestly telling a bus companion about a most intimate experience,
something you dont just blab to the world. I would have to allow my
horizons to expand a bit in such a presence; more things going on in the world
than all our philosophy, and all that. Turns out that Chuck had been troubled
over something and the Jesus who visited him consoled him and said he
shouldnt worry, that he was all right. Take off your shoes, Wilson. You
are on sacred ground.
Time has passed. I havent seen Chuck at the bus stop for
several months. There is a clutch of black women who wait there every day with
their little kids. They exchange stories about events in the city and in their
own families, with pronounced positions on whats right and whats
wrong in the world, how a mother should raise her kids, what the cops should be
doing, and all. You name it. A regular Sophoclean chorus.
One day one of the women asked us, Have any of you seen that
old fellow who comes and gets on the bus here, the one who goes and puts his
trash in the dumpster? When the others said the hadnt seen him
either, she said, Im goin ask up at the rental office if
anybody knows what happened to him.
She didnt know his name the way I did; I guess for her it
was just neighbor. Someone to be concerned about, and ask
after.
Jesuit Fr. George Wilson lives in Cincinnati and serves as an
organizational facilitator for Management Design Institute.
National Catholic Reporter, March 8,
2002
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