The obvious evangelist

 

     “He always stands head and shoulders above everyone else”, I muse as I recognize the familiar fedora rising above the stream of pedestrians being funnelled into the “de l’Église” Metro station.  If Jean-Christophe was ever standing in your line of sight, it was quite easy for you to get him in your cross-hairs before this gentle giant glimpsed you.  If “Jean” had been a character in the literary Middle-earth, he would have been numbered among those Big People which residents of the Shire sought to avoid whenever possible.  Jean is one of those rare individuals who is always completely himself.  His unabashed authenticity is one of the reasons many inhabitants of our Middle-earth avoid him whenever possible.  Jean, you see, defies categorization.  He lives alone in a basement apartment, and many of the good people of the city find him rather odd.

     “He’s at it again”, I say to myself as I watch Jean, perched on the edge of the crowded sidewalk – a bit like a bear by a rushing river full of unsuspecting salmon – holding a t-shirt aloft and offering a toothy smile to the passersby.  Jean styles himself an “evangelist”, though I suspect he is enamored of an idiosyncratic definition of the term.  For one thing, it is uncommon for Roman Catholics to use that word outside of church, where they may perchance use it to evoke an author of one of the books one can find in the New Testament.  Most Protestants I know, upon hearing the word, conjure an image of a well-dressed preacher standing behind a pulpit that is not their own.  Yes, for many Christians, evangelists belong safely within the confines of either the Bible or a church building.  The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that Jean’s definition of the word is closer to that of the apostle Paul.  Funny how many well-meaning people have made careers for themselves by spilling ink as they poured endlessly over the apostle’s letters (and spent countless hours reading through the contents of libraries well-stocked with pages inked by previous commentators), but have never actually engaged in any activity that remotely resembles that undertaken by that first-century adventurer… perhaps if we did what Paul did, we may come to better understand what he wrote.  But then again, adventures have a worrisome proclivity for making one late for dinner, and that is indeed a bridge too far (for most parishioners).

     One thing’s for sure, St. Paul never sold t-shirts.  For that is indeed what Jean is engaged in outside the Metro station.  He designs these shirts which are emblazoned with an image of a superhero, or perhaps the poster of a blockbuster movie.  So far, so New York.  But what makes Jean’s t-shirts unique is the way he paraphrases popular slogans – for example, one shirt reads “Jesus strikes back”, written in the unmistakable lettering which recedes across the screen when one watches a George Lucas film.  The thing is, people actually buy his merchandise.

     “He’s caught another one,” I think as I see a young man stop, look the t-shirt over and reach into his pocket.  Not wanting to interrupt “business”, I sit down on a bench across the street.  I would like to chat with Jean, but I’m in no particular hurry.  To be sure, Jean is not the only self-proclaimed evangelist one can find in and around the city’s train stations.  Pairs of Jehovah’s Witnesses can often be seen standing beside a rack full of Watchtower Society material.  Others, recently arrived from elsewhere, will stand amongst the crowds of commuters fighting with each other to (dis)embark the trains, brandishing a Bible and “preaching” – without a microphone, I might add – their gospel of salvation from the world, the flesh and the devil.  Still others, more mild-mannered, will stand quietly and, as you walk by, offer you tracts or perhaps a copy of a book written by a canonical Evangelist.

     From what you’ve heard about Jean so far, you may be tempted to dismiss him as somewhat of a kook, or at least as someone who doesn’t reflect deeply on what it means to share the Christian faith with others.  I can understand that type of reaction, but as I sit here and observe him, I can’t help but remember a time when we were seated side-by-side at Mass, listening to our Archbishop deliver a homily based on the last episode in the book of the fourth Evangelist.  It was a very Catholic situation – an Archbishop in a seminary chapel preaching about Jesus and Peter at a Mass “for vocations”.  At one point, as his Grace shared a somewhat “modernistic” interpretation of the Eucharist, Jean leaned over and hissed into my ear, “It’s the body of Christ!”  I could only agree with him – and I’ve never forgotten the utterly sincere simplicity of his conviction, itself based squarely on the words of our Lord, spoken during another episode, this time from the sixth chapter of the very book the Archbishop had been (supposedly) preaching from.  Peter had been there that time too… “Lord, to whom shall we go?  You have the words of eternal life”.  As Paul said once, “The foolishness of God is wiser than the wisdom of men”.  As Jean and I left the church that evening, I thought to myself, “I definitely did hear the gospel according to John tonight.”  His words were the only sermon I retained from that particular Mass.

     No, Paul didn’t sell t-shirts, but come to think of it, he did build bridges – perhaps scandalously – between elements of people’s culture and the message of Jesus – “In Zeus we live and move and have our being…For we too are his offspring.”  Maybe that’s why Jesus told stories about crops and children and money and animals and slaves and fish…he was inviting his listeners to imagine a different way of living, of moving, of being in the world, a way that led to the death of self, and the freedom of being head over heels in love…with everyone.  Yeah, don’t think that would have gone over too well in the seminary chapel… Whereas most church-going folks that Jean and I know tend to go out of their way to protect their sense of security, of the routine, Jean seems to find discomfort to be his “way”; or perhaps, he is genuinely at ease among “the least of these”, who, most probably, seldom darken a church door.  As I watch Jean’s t-shirt supply diminish, I thought, “You’re an evangelist in my book”.

     As I rise to cross the street, my eyes are drawn up to contemplate something that dwarfs even Jean’s tall frame – the twin steeples of the church of Our Lady of Seven Sorrows.  Then, my eyes pan down and to the left, to the opposite corner where Jean mans his post at de l’Église station.  Then it hit me – these are both churches.  Jean seems to belong to the one where people queue to receive train tickets, not the bread of life.  But then again, he is there.  As an old saint once said, “You are what you eat”.  As I reach the opposite curb, Jean finally catches sight of me.  As he stretches out a rather large hand in joyful greeting, I recall the words of a prolific Trappist monk, “For me, to be a saint means to be myself”.  After all, when you think about it, “Jesus strikes back” is good news this time of year.