Have a Little Faith - Mitch Albom [7]
“What one?”
The one standing up. With the crown.
“I think that’s his father.”
Is Jesus the other guy?
“Jesus is the baby.”
Where?
“In the crib, stupid.”
We strain our necks. You can’t see Jesus from the sidewalk.
“I’m gonna look,” my friend says.
You better not.
“Why?”
You can get in trouble.
I don’t know why I say this. Already, at that age, I sense the world as “us” and “them.” If you’re Jewish, you’re not supposed to talk about Jesus or maybe even look at Jesus.
“I’m looking anyhow,” my friend says.
I step in nervously behind him. The snow crunches beneath our feet. Up close, the figures of the three wise men seem phony, hardened plaster with orangey painted flesh.
“That’s him,” my friend says.
I peer over his shoulder. There, inside the crib, is the baby Jesus, lying in painted hay. I shiver. I half expect him to open his eyes and yell, “Gotcha!”
Come on, we’re gonna be late, I say, backpedaling.
My friend sneers.
“Chicken,” he says.
Life of Henry
Having been taught to believe in the Father, and having accepted the Son as his personal savior, Henry took the Holy Ghost to heart, for the first time, when he was twelve years old, on a Friday night at the True Deliverance Church in Harlem.
It was a Pentecostal tarry service—inspired by Jesus’ call to tarry in the city until “endued with a power from on high”—and as part of the tradition, people were called to receive the Holy Spirit. Henry followed others up to the pulpit, and when his turn came, he was swabbed with olive oil, then told to get on his knees and lean over a newspaper.
“Call him,” he heard voices say.
So Henry called. He said “Jesus” and “Jesus” and then “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” over and over, until the words tumbled one into another. He swayed back and forth and spoke the name repeatedly. Minutes passed. His knees began to ache.
“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus…”
“Call him!” the church members hollered. “Call on him!”
“Jesus-Jesus-Jesus-Jesus-Jesus—”
“It’s coming! Call him now!”
His head was pounding. His shins cramped in pain.
“JesusJesusJesusJesusJesusJesusJesusJesusJesusJesus—”
“Almost! Almost!”
“Call him! Call him!”
He was sweating, choking, fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Finally the words were so tumbled and bumbled that it didn’t sound like “Jesus” anymore, just syllables and gurgling and mumbling and groaning and saliva drooling from his mouth onto the newspaper. His voice and tongue and teeth and lips were melded into a shaking machine, gone wild with frenzy—
“JelesulsjesleuesJesuslelelajJelsusu—”
“You got it! He got it!”
And he had it. Or he thought he had it. He exhaled and he heaved and he almost choked. He took a big breath and tried to calm himself down. He wiped his chin. Someone balled up the wet newspaper and took it away.
“How do you feel now?” the pastor asked him.
“Good,” Henry panted.
“You feel good that He has given you the Holy Ghost?”
And he did. Feel good. Although he wasn’t really sure what he’d done. But the pastor smiled and asked the Lord to protect Henry and that was mostly what he wanted, a prayer of protection. It made him feel safe when he returned to his neighborhood.
Henry ingested the Holy Ghost that night. But soon he ingested other things, too. He started smoking cigarettes. He tried alcohol. He got tossed out of the sixth grade for fighting with a girl, and soon he added marijuana to his list.
One time, as a teenager, he heard his mother talking to relatives about how, of all her children, Henry was the one, he had the heart and the temperament. Her little boy was “gonna be a preacher one day.”
And Henry laughed to himself. “A preacher? Do you know how much of this stuff I’m smoking?”
The Daily Grind of Faith
The Reb’s office at work was not much different than the home version. Messy. Sprawling. Papers. Letters. Souvenirs. And a sense of humor. On the door was a list of blessings, some funny posters, even a mock parking sign that read:
YOU TAKA MY SPACE
I BREAKA YOUR FACE.
Once we sat, I cleared my throat. My question was simple. Something one would certainly