Have a Little Faith - Mitch Albom [28]
It was also rotting away.
Paint peeled everywhere. The plaster was cracking. Floorboards had deteriorated, and the carpet had dips that could twist your ankle. I looked up and saw a hole in the ceiling.
A huge hole.
Maybe ten feet long.
“That’s a big problem,” Henry admitted. “Especially when it rains.”
I noticed red buckets in strategic spots to catch the water. The white plaster was stained brown by seepage. I had never seen such a hole in a religious building. It looked like the hull of a ship blown apart by a cannon shot.
We sat down. Henry’s belly hung so large in front of him, he seemed to hook his elbows over the pew for balance.
“I’m not sure why you’re here,” he said politely.
You take care of homeless people, right?
“Yes, a couple of nights a week,” Henry said.
They eat here?
“Yes, in our gym.”
And sleep here?
“Yes.”
Do they have to be Christian?
“No.”
Do you try to convert them?
“No. We offer prayers. We ask if anyone wants to give their life to Jesus, but no one is forced. Anyone can come.”
I nodded. I told him about the charity. How maybe we could help.
“Oh.” His eyebrows lifted. “Well. That would be excellent.”
I looked around.
This is a big church, I said.
“I know it,” he said, chuckling.
You have a New York accent.
“Um-hmm. Brooklyn.”
Was this your first assignment?
“Yes. When I first came, I was a deacon and a caretaker. I swept, mopped, vacuumed, cleaned the toilets.”
I thought of how the Reb, when he first arrived at our temple, had to help clean up and lock the doors. Maybe that’s how Men of God develop humility.
“Long time ago,” Henry said, “this was a famous church. But a few years back, they sold it to our ministry. Actually, they said if you can pay the upkeep, it’s yours.”
I glanced around.
Were you always going to be a pastor?
He snorted a laugh.
“Noooo.”
What did you plan on doing when you got out of school?
“Actually, I was in prison.”
Really? I said, acting casual. What for?
“Whoo, I did a lot of things. Drugs, stealing cars. I went to prison for manslaughter. Something I wasn’t even involved in.”
And how did you get from that to this?
“Well…one night I thought I was going to be killed by some guys I stole from. So I made God a promise. If I lived to the morning, I would give myself to Him.”
He paused, as if some rusty old pain had just rumbled inside him. “That was twenty years ago,” he said.
He patted his forehead with a handkerchief. “I seen a lot in life. I know what the songwriter meant when he wrote, ‘Glory, Glory, hallelujah, since I laid my burden down.’”
Okay, I said, because I didn’t know what you say to that.
A few minutes later, we walked to the side exit. The floors were caked with grime. A stairway ran down to a small, dimly lit gymnasium, where, he told me, the homeless slept.
I was noncommittal about the charity help that day, saying I’d come back and we could talk more. To be honest, the prison thing was a red flag. I knew people could change. I also knew some people only changed locations.
Covering sports for a living—and living in Detroit—I had seen my share of bad behavior: drugs, assault, guns. I had witnessed “apologies” in crowded press conferences. I interviewed men so adept at convincing you the trouble was behind them, that I would write laudatory stories—only to see the same men back in trouble a few months later.
In sports, it was bad enough. But I had a particular distaste for religious hypocrisy. Televangelists who solicited money, got arrested for lewd behavior, and soon were back soliciting under the guise of repentance—that stuff turned my stomach. I wanted to trust Henry Covington. But I didn’t want to be naïve.
And then, let’s be honest, his world of faith wasn’t one I was used to. So broken down. So makeshift. The church seemed to sag even on the inside. The up staircase, Henry said, led to a floor where five tenants lived in dormlike rooms.
So, wait, people live in your church?