Earl

I was driving home from work tonight and it was so, so cold. Bitterly cold. As I blasted the heater in my Jeep, I thought of a man I met a couple of years ago on another bitterly cold night. His name was Earl. The following is a story I wrote about the experience I had with him, and the places my imagination took me because of it. Some of it actually happened, and some of it is purely fictional. Sometime soon I'll have to tell you all the real story of Earl. But for now, let me say this: Earl is a real man. He has very real problems and needs your prayers. I wish I could help Earl; I wish now that I'd done more then, but I never saw him again after that night. Aside from this story, I never really spoke of Earl until recently.

I don't know why, but something about him changed me. When I speak of poverty, I speak of Earl. When I speak of need, and helping people, and making a difference, I'm talking about Earl. Yes, Mom, I know I can't save everyone. But is it so wrong to try?

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The Story of Earl

I was leaving work one night when a strange man approached me. He was an older man; say mid- to late- fifties, with dark but graying hair and a pained and weary air about him. He was fairly short, and slightly hunched over; his hands and face looked worn, but kind. He asked for a ride to a place just up the road, and though I hesitated to let a stranger ride with me, he looked harmless, and I saw no reason not to help a kind-looking old man. I informed my co-worker where I was going (just in case the old man was not-so-kind, one can never be too careful), and we were on our way. As we drove, we talked a bit, and I began to feel sorry for the man. I learned that the place we were going to had a bus that he could climb inside to sleep for the night. I began to ask questions, wanting to know if he had eaten, where he was from, and where he had slept the night before. He humored my questions with short answers, and peered at me with painful eyes. As I began to ask another question, he pointed and said, “Turn here.” I turned into the parking lot with three or four buses parked side by side under a group of trees, paying no attention to the building itself. He thanked me as we pulled closer to the buses, and as he climbed out I grabbed his arm. “What is your name?” I asked. For some reason, I just needed to know his name. “My name is Earl,” the old man said quietly. “Earl,” I repeated numbly. He met my gaze as he took my hand in his. The words he spoke next will stay with me for the rest of my life. “If I were hungry, would you feed me?” His entire demeanor changed as he boldly spoke those words that pierced into my heart. I was heavy as he walked away and climbed into a bus on the end of the row. It was then that I read the words on the side of the bus: “Calvary Church.” As I drove away, I gazed at the steeple standing high above me.
I climbed into bed that night, unable to stop thinking about Earl, asleep in a church bus, homeless and probably hungry. I also couldn’t stop thinking about the question that he’d asked. Of course I would feed him if he were hungry! I would help him any way I could! So then why was he asleep in a bus as I slept in my bed? I got dressed again and found an old backpack, filling it with anything and everything I thought a homeless man would need: an old blanket, a flashlight and spare batteries, a couple of t-shirts, socks, a pen and paper, and other odd little things. I then drove to an all-night convenience store and loaded up on food and drinks: a six-pack of bottled water, Pop-Tarts, Vienna sausages, a loaf of bread with peanut butter and jelly, two apples, and a cheeseburger that he could eat that night. It was late by then, probably around two a.m., but something about Earl made me drive to that church again. I walked quietly to the bus on the end and knocked on the window. Startled, Earl sat up and came outside. I hesitated a moment, then sat the stuffed backpack at his feet. I told him what was in it and handed him the cheeseburger hastily. He stood in silence for a moment, and then he smiled as his kind eyes filled with tears. As I turned to walk away, he whispered, “Still, you will deny that you ever knew me.” I stopped in disbelief as I heard the words. “I would never deny you!” I said as I turned to him again. His eyes were sad then, and he nodded and walked away. I didn’t understand the accusation, or even why I knew that I could never deny this man. I drove away, confused and frustrated.
The next morning I decided to go to the bookstore. As I drove by the church where Earl had slept the night before, I noticed quite a commotion in the parking lot by the buses. Curious, I pulled into a space near the edge of the crowd. There were police, people in suits, people in shorts and t-shirts, and in the middle of them all: Earl. I asked one of the women standing there what was going on. She said that there was some old man asleep on the bus when a group from the church was going on visitation. “Just look at him,” she said, disgusted. “He’s filthy!” I looked at the woman, amazed, as I sputtered, “What do you mean filthy? He’s homeless!” Her disgust then turned to me as she asked, “Why are you defending him? Do you know him or something?” I was scared—shocked, even. I wasn’t expecting to be asked that. I’m not sure why I denied knowing him. I’m not sure how he knew. As I looked across the crowd, I saw the red face of an angry man in a suit, demanding that the old man be removed at once. I saw the women looking on in disgust and hiding behind their husbands as though the man’s filth might be contagious. I saw Earl, handcuffed and humiliated, looking at me sadly. I quickly looked away as they left, avoiding the plea of those kind eyes I had seen just hours before. I drove home, wondering what they would do to poor Earl, but telling myself it was out of my hands.
The next day as I was reading the newspaper, a small headline caught my eye:
“Local church to press charges against homeless man found sleeping on bus; church authority says man must be ‘held accountable’ for actions and will be made an example.”
Made an example for who?!, I thought. Was this poor homeless man to be made an example for the other needy people not to sleep on a church bus? I nearly laughed out loud at the absurdity of the whole thing, but instead I found myself at the bank emptying my savings account. Insane as it was, I was going to bail a homeless man out of jail.

Earl said nothing as we drove away from the jail. As we neared the church where this had all started, Earl looked pointedly at me and then pointed to my gas gauge. I looked down and sighed. We needed gas, and now. We stopped at a gas station across the street from the church, and there was a man cutting the grass there. As I screwed the gas cap back in place, the man looked over at us. He yelled as he noticed Earl, and three other men started running toward us. Afraid things might get ugly, I quickly began to drive away, asking Earl where he needed to go. “To Calvary,” he said. I could hardly believe my ears. “Earl, those men are not happy to see you. Why would you go back there?” But he did not answer me. He only smiled sadly and said,

“To Calvary.”

Against my sputtering and pleading, Earl got out of the car and walked into the church. I decided to wait for him just inside the foyer, out of the cold. It had only been about fifteen minutes when I heard the men all begin to yell. A moment later Earl came stumbling backwards out of the fellowship hall, with what looked like an angry mob of preachers behind him. “How dare you!” “Blasphemy!” “Liar!” They were pushing Earl out the door—and not too gently, either. But he had a few things to say himself. His brow lowered and the entire room seemed to darken as he spoke, “Today, if you hear his voice, do not harden your hearts.” One of the men became so angry that he struck Earl, who, very suddenly, did not seem so weak after all. Earl lowered his voice nearly to a whisper as he looked at the man. “But if any one strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. Dear friend, I beg you! Today, if you hear his voice, do not harden your heart.” The pastor of the church looked at him in amazement. Seconds ticked by, and no one spoke; no one moved. Then, raising a shaking fist, the pastor took a step toward Earl, knocking the first man out of the way. Indignantly he shouted, “What do you think you are doing? You—you—dare to use the words of God himself as your own?” He then lunged at poor Earl, hitting him with his fists. The others began beating him, kicking him, and even spitting on him. I could hardly believe my eyes. I ran toward the group, and, grabbing one of the men by the shoulders, I screamed, “Stop! Please, just…stop!” The men looked up and, realizing what they were doing, stumbled away from the bloody and bruised man. Except one. The pastor looked at me in disgust. “He is a liar, a thief! Why are you even here? Go away and let us take care of this worthless idiot. Have you heard his claims? Did you hear him hiding behind the words of God--” and, looking at Earl, emphasized, “—a holy God. Something you know nothing about,” he spat. I looked at Earl with tears in my eyes. “Say something!", I screamed. "Don’t you hear what they are saying? Won’t you even defend yourself?” Still he said nothing. "Earl, please!"

Apparently, in all the commotion, one of the men had left and made a phone call. Soon, nearly the entire congregation had shown up to hurl insults and threats at the already injured man. “Tell us then, since you say you are the Son of God, are you the King of the Jews too?” Earl looked up through swollen eyes as he said, “I am.” The entire crowd began to yell at him, calling him names and beating him. Someone in the crowd asked his name and he replied, “I am,” but only I heard him. The crowd mocked him by bowing to him, and then they would stand up and spit on him. They tore the backpack from him, dumping the contents on the ground. “Look at this! All of this food, yet he claims to be homeless. He is a thief!” The crowd yelled and screamed their agreement as the poor man still said nothing.

“No, I gave him those things! He’s not a thief! Please!” I was yelling his defenses, but they were drowned out by accusations. No one would listen. No one cared to know. The time had long since passed where my knowing him would matter. I could do nothing as they began dividing the contents of the backpack amongst themselves. I could do nothing when they nailed him to a makeshift cross and told him to save himself. I could do nothing but cry when his tear-choked voice cried out,

“Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?”

At this, the crowd quieted as they stared at him. One woman demanded, “What did he say? What did he say?” One of the first men involved began to weep uncontrollably. He looked at the woman as he translated the words, “My God, My God, Why have you forsaken me?”
The pastor snickered loudly at the sudden reverence of the scene. “He’s calling to God! We all know God, if the Lord wants this man, let Him save him!”

The crowd began to part, numbly walking away in shock at what they had done. A woman began to cry loudly, running toward him in an effort to free the suffering man, but the pastor threw her to the ground. “Leave, woman! Go home to your family and forget this man!”

I was standing at the foot of the cross when he cried out and died. It was strange because the door to the church broke in half, and clouds covered the sun immediately. The earth shook in the darkness as my tears fell to the ground. A man dropped to his knees behind me, and I heard him whisper, “Surely this man was the Son of God.” I closed my eyes, my head spinning. This couldn’t be happening. It isn’t happening, I told myself. This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening…

I woke up sweaty, tears still on my face. It took me a moment to realize where I was, and once I did, I jumped out of bed. Getting dressed, I dug an old backpack out of my closet. I then filled it with anything and everything I thought a homeless man would need: an old blanket, a flashlight and spare batteries, a couple of t-shirts, socks, a pen and paper and other odd little things. I then drove to an all-night convenience store and loaded up on food and drinks: a six-pack of bottled water, Pop-Tarts, Vienna sausages, a loaf of bread with peanut butter and jelly, two apples, and a sausage biscuit that he could eat when I got to him. I hoped I hadn’t missed him as I began driving toward the church. Just down the street, walking away, was an old man with dark but graying hair and a pained and weary air about him. He was fairly short, and slightly hunched over; his hands and face looked worn, but kind. I pulled up next to him. “Hey! You need a ride?” I asked. The man climbed in, thanking me. I sat the stuffed backpack at his feet and handed him the biscuit. I offered to take him to a homeless shelter downtown and he said that would be good of me. As we pulled into the parking lot of the shelter, he thanked me again. He was beginning to get out when I grabbed his arm. “Sir, what is your name?”
The old man smiled for the first time. “My name is Earl.”