Have a Little Faith - Mitch Albom [37]
Proverbs, apparently, didn’t interest him.
An hour later, when the police left, Henry and Annette grabbed the old notebook, burned it immediately, and spent the rest of the day thanking God.
What would you do if your clergyman told you stories like that? There was part of me that admired Henry’s honesty, and part that felt his laundry list of bad behavior should somehow disqualify him from the pulpit. Still, I had heard him preach several times now, citing the Book of Acts, the Beatitudes, Solomon, Queen Esther, and Jesus telling his disciples that “anyone who loses his life for me shall find it again.” Henry’s gospel singing was inspired and engaged. And he always seemed to be around the church, either up in his second-floor office—a long, narrow room with a conference table left over from the previous tenants—or in the small, dimly lit gymnasium. One afternoon I walked into the sanctuary, unannounced, and he was sitting there, hands crossed, his eyes closed in prayer.
Before the weather turned cold, Henry occasionally cooked on a grill by the side of the church; chicken, shrimp, whatever he could get donated. He gave it out to whoever was hungry. He even preached sometimes on a low crumbling concrete wall across the street.
“I’ve spread as much of God’s word on that wall,” Henry said one day, “as I have inside.”
How is that?
“Because some people aren’t ready to come in. Maybe they feel guilty, on accounta what they’re up to. So I go out there, bring them a sandwich.”
Kind of like a house call?
“Yeah. Except most of ’em don’t have houses.”
Are some of them on drugs?
“Oh, yeah. But so are some folks coming in on Sundays.”
You’re kidding. During your service?
“Whoo, yeah. I’m looking right at them. You see that head whoppin’ and boppin’ and you say, ‘Umm-hmm, they had something powerful.’”
That doesn’t bother you?
“Not at all. You know what I tell them? I don’t care if you’re drunk, or you just left the drug house, I don’t care. When I’m sick, I go to the emergency room. And if the problem continues, I go again. So whatever’s ailing you, let this church be your emergency room. Until you get the healing, don’t stop coming.”
I studied Henry’s wide, soft face.
Can I ask you something? I said.
“Okay.”
What did you rob from that synagogue?
He exhaled and laughed. “Believe it or not—envelopes.”
Envelopes?
“That’s it. I was just a teenager. Some older guys had broken in before me and stolen anything valuable. All I found was a box of envelopes. I took ’em and ran out.”
Do you even remember what you did with them?
“No,” he answered. “I sure don’t.”
I looked at him, looked at his church, and wondered if one man’s life ever truly makes sense to another.
I take home a box of the Reb’s old sermons. I leaf through them. There is one from the 1950s on “The Purpose of a Synagogue” and one from the 1960s called “The Generation Gap.”
I see one entitled “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.” It is from the late 1970s. I read it. I do a double take.
It is an appeal to fix the collapsing roof.
“Our roof sheds copious tears after each rain,” the Reb wrote. He mentioned sitting in the sanctuary when a “sodden wet ceiling tile” fell and just missed him, and a wedding celebration in which two days of rain “created unwanted gravy on the chicken.” During a morning service, he had to grab a broom and puncture a buckling tile to allow the rainwater to gush through.
In the sermon, he beseeches members to give more to keep their house of worship from literally caving in.
I think about Pastor Henry and his roof hole. It is the first time I see a connection. An inner-city church. A suburban synagogue.
Then again, our congregation ultimately came up with the money. And Henry couldn’t even ask his.
NOVEMBER
Your Faith, My Faith
When I was a teenager, the Reb did a sermon that made me laugh. He read a thank-you letter from another clergyman. At the end, it