Shivers run down my spine, as I step off the train platform. Just as the sharp wind hits my face, the intrusive sights insult my senses. Crude words are heard above the hustle. Black coat professionals rush past the man; he sits there, unconcerned at the disregard. His cloths are tattered and dirty, matching his weathered face and hands. Wrinkles run deep around his eyes, as his leathery cheeks jut sharply in towards his mouth. Fortunately I have no change in my pockets, so I can at least tell myself I would have given.
Graffiti is strewed along an entire brick wall; ‘tags’ cover stop signs, bus stops and shelters. Glass covers the sidewalk where a bus shelter once stood. Women with their heads covered stand close, as they speak in a foreign language. Korean teenagers tumble out of a building; obviously a language school. They don’t seem to be speaking any of the English they have learned. One mom, younger than I, pushes her rackety stroller down the uneven sidewalk. As a cigarette hangs carelessly off the side of her mouth, I cannot help but feel sorry for the child she is hiding.
I continue walking, pulling my jacket closer as I seem to be moving in slow motion. Businessmen rush past me in hopes of missing the poverty and catching their train. Exhaust permeates the air as cars rush past. People impatiently wait for allowance to walk. Suspicious shadows linger at the corner; their large jackets hide what they sell, their faces worn with addiction. Mysterious as they appear, God’s image still imbedded. The challenge to see them not as they appear is obscure.
A man is now shouting; he looks worn and weathered. He speaks of Christ’s love, the only redemption. Drug dealers, prostitutes, druggies and strangers, curse all alike as they rush to avoid him. Some shout back swearing, others agree; the truth of his message, can anyone see? Once a dealer himself, he can’t help but declaring, the change he’s experienced is alarmingly real. Only four months ago, his life was a wreck; full of drinking and drugs, his entire existence. Then Jesus took hold of his life, removing the crack from his veins; the power of the Gospel, so relevant, so alive. He continues to shout and to dance and to pace; his mission is simple, it’s written all over his face. Carrying deep compassion for the brothers he had, his life has been changed, given over to God.
I listen a while to the message he preaches; I agree, I believe, that’s the message we’re missing. In our comfort and warmth, we hold up in our houses, the power of change, of redemption; salvation. We weren’t given this message to hold onto ourselves, but to share and declare; so simple, we’ve missed it. With each beat, my heart warms to the thought of declaring, the truth that God’s given, I haven’t been sharing. Nervous and scared, I wonder how to begin; slowly words bubble, my mouth moves at the thinking. A boy approaches, much taller, younger, but bolder. Standing too close to comfort, I answer his question and share the shouting man’s story. He says he believes, but he’s gay, so un-Christian. Looking lost, his confusion takes on a new meaning. Slowly frustration that has built up in his heart erupts like a wildfire, anger with sparks. He continues to shout as he walks onto the train; a searching soul, continuing in vain. I utter a prayer, as I know he’s forgiven; He died for us all, not just those that He’s risen.
Walking further away, past the noise, past the shouting, I can’t help but wonder what God is thinking. Looking in on the scene, I see staring, I see questions. What would I think if I were standing, unbelieving? An inconvenient clatter, adding more noise to my chaos; stop imposing, stop preaching, my suburb life is waiting. Where is Jesus in all this mess, the drug deals, the child prostitution? Why these problems, this chaos, this disease? My city, beauty it possesses, the mess is hidden away. Our eyes can’t comprehend what’s before us; we ignore and dismiss. If only our time, we would give to the dying. He’s waiting to change, to heal and to mend. Using us as His medium, unreliable and faulty, His message corrodes. Souls are dying, lives are lost, hopelessness permeates the daylight.
Returning back to the commotion, I feel a spray across my face. Unaware at its origins, I look to the sky. Apartments clutter my view, stacking bodies into boxes. As I look up, another orange rains down upon the shouting. Tough and mysterious, those shadows appeared; they now run as they giggle under shelter. Unaccustomed, I leave this culture behind me, moving onto the train, where similar company awaits me. Alcohol floods the train car, as a group of First Nation people stumble by me, out the door. My warm home awaits, familiar smells and security. Grateful for what I have, challenged with what I see; moved to action in my sorrow.