Jesus Freaks

 

It was my senior year in High School. We were the last class that was not going to be “bussed” as per the new federal law. Throughout the country there had been riots and marches. The borough of Watts in LA had been burned, Kent State, Selma, spitting on soldiers returning from Vietnam. It seemed as if the whole country was on fire.

Things had gotten tense at school until one day it all came to a head. Fights started on the commons area. Before it was over students had spilled out of classes to join the fray. Anger and hate were like a poisonous gas

Administration, school security and eventually local police managed to restore some order and get folks back to class after a couple of hours. That night word began to travel that the next day some were bringing weapons. That was before the propagation of firearms among young folks but knives, chains and all manner of objects were at hand. Word was to look out for girls hiding sharpened hair picks in their afros.

Lunch came with some scattered fights in the halls until everyone was again gathered on the concrete commons area; whites on one side, blacks the other. The only exception was the “Jesus Freaks” sitting on the grass where they always were. They were sort of our original hippies; soiled blue jeans, vests, long hair.

They were tolerated because they never bothered anybody. They’d just play guitars and sing folk songs, so we hardly noticed them anymore. It was a “peace and love” thing.

You could feel the tension rising. There was a lot of glaring and balled up fists. Some began to shout profanities and try to goad one another into an altercation.

I was on high alert, watching everything, tensed, ready. Then out of the corner of my eye a tall thin “Jesus Freak” named Pat, sat his guitar in the case lying open on the grass and strode toward the black crowd at the top of the steps across the common.

He gestured for someone there to come to him. A petite black girl in an Indian cotton blouse and bell bottom blue jeans walked down a couple of steps. Pat turned and stooped and the girl sort of shimmied up onto his shoulders. He walked back toward his buddies. They all stood. One picked up Pat’s guitar and began playing that old camping favorite, “Kumbaya.” No kidding … freakin’ “Kumbaya”. They started singing. You could hear the girl’s clear soprano above it all as Pat turned and faced the crowd. A couple of the hippies headed towards the black crowd and students there joined them to walk back onto the grass singing, back slapping, punching each other on the shoulder.

Across the concrete no man’s land, you could see confusion. One guy shouted, “to hell with this,” and stomped away. Gazes began to soften. Heads began to hang. Weapons were pushed back down into pockets. A white football player in his team jersey started walking toward the black crowd, toward a fellow football player. They both reached out their hands and shook.

At that point many started to walk into the void to shake hands and hug, laugh and sing so that before long there was a joyful noise, people on shoulders, some sitting on the steps together hugging …  crying.

Unlike the day before there was no intercom announcement to return to class. When the bell rang. The Jesus Freaks gathered their stuff and began to head that way. Most followed.

Other than a few isolated incidents there were no more riots at my school. All the assemblies and counseling, all the newsletters and announcements and newspaper articles … none of it, had made the slightest difference until Pat stood up and crossed that barrier.

That’s the day I learned about a different kind of courage. The kind that can change the world. Alone, striding across the grass that one thin guy changed OUR world just like another thin guy changed the ENTIRE world two thousand years ago.

We looked at Jesus Freaks different after that.

The irony that Pat looked like the Jesus of our Bibles, on our walls, did not escape me. Here now during this season of Advent as we wait for Christ’s coming, I remember. When Pat stood that day, we were all witness to the restoring birth of Christ in our hearts.

All the hate was dissolved into love. (Even though we didn’t want to call it that) That’s what this season means to me. We are renewed in the light that dwells in our hearts. We are reminded of that glowing baby swaddled in the manger come to save us … come to heal all that separates us from the Divine light that is our Creator

 Come to show us how to live.

 

In Christ’s name we pray,