Jack

Most of the time coffee shops are set up so that people can ignore each other. But there is a table at a coffee shop I go to regularly that is big enough so that it isn't awkward to sit next to a stranger, but small enough to be able to start a conversation.

One day I sat down at this table, and there was an odd-looking guy, probably in his forties, who was close up to his laptop apparently using google-talk. As I listened, I gathered that this man was talking with a prostitute, coordinating a time and place to meet later that night. I soon realized that he had some sort of mental problem, the sort of problem which disables people from being able to discern and balance their social context and their volume.

He loudly finished up his awkward conversation and slammed his computer shut, looked at me, and said, "Hotel!"

"What's that?" I said, pretending I had not been following his conversation.

"Need a hotel man... where is one at?"

"Not sure man. But I bet there are a few around mall 205."

"I don't know where that is."

I explained where mall 205 was. Without a segue, this guy began telling me his life story, which at this point did not take me by surprise. The guy wasn't the type to discern his social context.

"I'm a love machine, man!" He said. "Playas always hatin' on me and I don't give 'em nothin but love!"

"Great. That's what you have to do." I said.

At first I was annoyed, but at this point I became interested in the guy - this would be a good break from writing my paper.

"Name's Jack!" He said, extending his hand.

"Jesse. Good to meet you, Jack!"

"I ain't perfect you know. I tell you that. I seen some messed up stuff though, brotha. But I got myself, stick true to me, and I got my Lord."

He kept on describing his life in such general clichés. As soon as I had the chance to get a word in I said, "You mentioned your Lord?"

"That's right! Got my Lord. He's always there for me."

"That's cool, dude. I have a Lord too. Is your Lord Jesus?"

"Jesus! Love that guy. That's my Lord, man."

I was certain Jack didn't know the same Jesus that I did, considering his affiliation with prostitution and such. I decided I would keep prodding until it was clear that his Jesus was some fluffy, fake version of my Savior.

"Cool, man. When did you meet Jesus?"

He had had a "conversion" experience in '92, he told me.

"I'm a a knucklehead man!" He said slamming both hands down on the table, and leaning over towards me so I could smell his breath. "But Jesus still loves me. He has brought me through so much since then, and he's made me a good man. But I got so much ugly stuff at the same time. I get so confused, Jesse. I am two people in this body. Got a devil and an angel on my shoulders."

"Yeah man, I hear ya. You know, I think we're actually more similar than you might think. You mentioned ugly stuff, what's going on in your life?"

At this he cringed, and leaned back down into his seat, putting his hands in his hair. "Man... I got so much. I mean, look at my knuckles!" He showed me his bruised knuckles. "I just fought with some fool a few days ago, man. I steal too. Gotta eat to live, gotta steal to eat. You know?"

"Yeah, that's a hard spot, I understand. But you know, Jesus can help you, even when your situation is impossible. He wants the best for you. He wants you to be saved from this stuff, Jack. If you trust him and obey him he will provide for you. He is calling you out of that lifestyle, buddy."

"I'm glad I met you, Jesse."

"I'm glad we met too."

I prayed for him.

After we prayed, he looked up holding my hand with both of his and said, "Brother, I'll see you someday, even if it's not in this life!"

"Absolutely. And he has promised us that when we get there we will be totally freed from our sin."

"Oh, I can't wait, brother!" Jack really meant it. He fought with his flesh daily. He knew Jesus. He loved Jesus. He had held onto Jesus for 20 years. And he was a wicked sinner. But his righteousness and mine were both found in the man Jesus Christ. I knew he was my brother.

He stood up to leave and set his backpack on the table, which had a baseball bat sized club in it. He noticed that I saw and said. "Ah man. See? This is how screwed up I am. I carry this thing around. Ain't that nasty?"

"Yeah." I said. "You know, you can always throw that away..."

"What? I can't throw that away." He smiled at the sheer ridiculousness of my statement. "I gotta be watchin' my back, man!"

I laughed at his response, which was a meaningful symbol of a hundred idols I am yet to throw away.