Have a Little Faith: A True Story

seems forgotten. The walls are decaying. The roof is crumbling. Over the years, some of the stained glass panels were stolen, and some windows have been boarded up.

I used to drive past this church on my way to Tiger Stadium, a famous baseball park a half mile down the street. I never went inside. I never saw anyone go inside.

For all I knew, the place was abandoned.

I was about to find out.

In the months since the Reb had surprised me with those words enemy schmenemy, I had been forced to rethink some of my own prejudices. The truth was, while I tried to be a charitable man, I still drew mental lines between “my” side and the “other” side-whether cultural, ethnic, or religious. I had been taught, as many of us are, that charity begins at home, and helping your own kind should come first.

But who was my “own kind”? I lived far from where I was raised. I married a woman from a different faith. I was a white man in an overwhelmingly African-American city. And while I had been lucky financially, Detroit was going broke around me. The near-depression that would soon hit the nation foretold itself in our streets. Jobs disappeared at an alarming rate. Homes were foreclosed. Buildings were abandoned. Our daily bread, the auto industry, was crumbling, and the swelling numbers of unemployed and homeless were scary.

One night I found myself at a downtown shelter, a Christian rescue mission, where I decided to spend the night and write about the experience. I waited on line for a blanket and soap. I was given a bed. I heard a minister preach about Jesus and was surprised at how many of the weary men, chins in their hands, still listened to how they could be saved.

At one point, in line for food, a man turned and asked if I was who he thought I was.

Yes, I said.

He nodded slowly.

“So…What happened to you?”

That night motivated me to create a charity for the homeless. We raised and distributed money to area shelters. We took pride in no overhead or administrative fees, and if we couldn’t see and touch where the disbursements went, we didn’t proceed. That meant many in-person visits.

And so, on a humid September afternoon, I pulled my car up to the old, decaying church on Trumbull. The pastor, I had been told, ran a small shelter there. I had come to see if it needed assistance.

A traffic signal swayed in the wind. I stepped from the car and clicked the lock button on my key. A man and a woman, both African-American, were sitting by the church wall in fold-up aluminum chairs, the cheap kind we used to take to the beach. They stared at me. The man was missing his left leg.

I’m looking for the pastor, I said.

The woman rose. She pushed through a small red door that was weakly hinged. I waited. The one-legged man, his crutches resting against the chair, smiled at me. He wore glasses and was missing most of his front teeth.

“Kinda warm today,” he said.

Yeah, I said.

I glanced at my watch. I shifted on my feet. Finally, I saw movement in the shadows.

And then.

And then out stepped a large man.

An extremely large man.

He was, I would learn, fifty years old-although his face was still boyish, with a thin, close-cropped beard-and he was tall as a basketball player, but he had to weigh more than four hundred pounds. His body seemed to unroll in layers, a broad slab of a chest cascading into a huge belly that hung like a pillow over the belt of his pants. His arms spread the sleeves of his oversized white T-shirt. His forehead was sweating, and he breathed heavily, as if he’d just climbed stairs.

If this is a Man of God, I thought, I’m the man in the moon.

“Hello,” he rasped, holding out his hand. “I’m Henry.”

From a Sermon by the Reb, 1981

“A military chaplain told me the following story:

“A soldier’s little girl, whose father was being moved to a distant post, was sitting at the airport among her family’s meager belongings.

“The girl was sleepy. She leaned against the packs and duffel bags.

“A lady came by, stopped, and patted her on the head.

“‘Poor child,’ she said. ‘You haven’t got a home.’

“The child looked up in surprise.

“But we do have a home,’ she said. ‘We just don’t have a house to put it in.’”

SEPTEMBER What Is Rich?

The Reb was using a walker now. I heard it thumping toward me as I stood outside his front door. It was September, three years after the hospital visit. The leaves were starting to change color, and I noticed a strange car in his driveway. His muffled voice sang from inside, “I’m coming…hold on…I’m coming…”

The door opened. He smiled. He was thinner now than when I first began visiting; his arms were bonier and his face more drawn. His hair was white, and his once-tall body was bent at an angle. His fingers gripped the walker tightly.

“Say hello to my new companion,” he said, rattling the handles. “We go everywhere together.”

He lowered his voice.

“I can’t shake him!”

I laughed.

“So. Come.”

I stepped in behind him, as I always did, and he pushed, lifted and thumped his way to the office with all his books and the file on God.

The car belonged to a home health care worker who now came to the house to aid the Reb. It was an admission that his body could betray him without warning, an admission that things could happen. The tumor in his lung was still there. But at the Reb’s advanced age-now eighty-nine-the doctors felt it was not worth the risk to remove it. Ironically, as the Reb slowed down, so did the aggressiveness of the cancer, like two tired combatants plodding toward a finish line.

Politely put, the doctors said, age would likely claim the Reb before any tumor did.

As we dragged down the hall, I realized another reason that car stood out: there was pretty much nothing new in this house since I started visiting six years earlier. The furniture hadn’t changed. No carpet had been redone. The television had not grown in size.

The Reb had never been big on stuff.

But then, he’d never had much of it.

He was born in 1917, and his parents were poor even by the day’s modest standards. Albert’s mother was a Lithuanian immigrant, and his father, a textile salesman, was always in and out of work. They lived in a cramped apartment building on Topping Avenue in the Bronx. Food was scarce. Young Albert would come home from school each day praying not to see the family’s furniture out in the street.

As the oldest of three-a sister and a brother followed him-he spent from sunrise to sunset in a religious academy called a yeshiva. He had no bicycles or fancy toys. Sometimes his mother would buy bread from the