He sat on the corner of a street, selling intricate metal jewelry. He had dread locks, tattoos on his arms, and an inviting grin. I didn’t have a single bit of money on me, only a few hundred pesos, but I felt prompted to go have a look.
“Ah, the ladies I have been waiting for all night!” he said to me in Spanish as my teammate and I approached.
He introduced himself and started telling us about his jewelry, his art, his trabajo, as he called it. I told him I had no money, to which he answered, “Neither do I!” and cheerily continued to show us his beautiful handiwork.
He pulled out a tangle of brass wire and started bending it and twisting it with pliers, transforming it into a beautiful swirly ring. He gestured for my hand, and put it on my ring finger.
For me, this was a sign from God that this was a divine appointment. In Cambodia last month, I had asked God to give me a ring, as a symbol of him being my groom, and it came in an unexpected way. Now I was on the lookout for moments like that, and Thomas became another conduit for God to speak to me. But I didn’t know what kind of appointment this would be.
I began to ask him about his life, and he started telling me all about his life as a híppi and his travels through Europe and South America. We swapped stories of our adventures, and I continued to dive into knowing his story. He had a gentle presence but was fiercely passionate about his art.
At one point, he mentioned a thirteen-year old daughter, whose birthday is in a few days. He was trying to save up money for a trip to Bógota, the capital city about 22 hours away by bus, to visit her for her birthday. My teammate said, “Well, we will pray that will happen!”
Suddenly, the conversation changed. He said dismissively, “I don’t believe in that,” and his whole demeanor changed. No longer was this the warm, friendly, passionate Thomas we met. This man was now a bitter, angry man who had been burned by the church.
He began bitterly questioning us, about what we were doing here in Colombia, and why wouldn’t we spend the money for our trip for people who really needed it. He grilled us about our churches and our pastors’ lives, asking if they lived in nice houses or if they had children with multiple women, calling them out for being hypocrites if they were driving nice cars when there were people in need. He lambasted us in our Biblical knowledge, tearing apart our knowledge of Jesus, and throwing Scripture at us, asking why the churches don’t accept him with his long dreadlocked hair and his bearded face.
And the whole time, I just nodded, and listened. “Yo entiendo,” I said. “Estoy de acuerdo,” I said. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, because this man was ranting to us about every angle of the broken system of religion.
And yet, one thing he said rang through all the bitter words:
“Ustedes son los primeros cristianos que me han escuchado.”
You are the first Christians who have ever listened to me.
No matter how much he questioned my beliefs, my church, my Jesus, no matter how much he aggressively despised the system of the church, he could still see that we sat there, and listened, to every word he said. We didn’t argue. We didn’t debate. We simply listened.
After about thirty minutes of ranting, he began packing up his jewelry and tools, and the conversation ended abruptly. With his ring on my finger, I said goodbye, and thanked him for sharing his story and his life with me. In response, I got a dirty look, and he said, “Debes pensar en cambiar de religion porque tú eres demasiado linda.” You should think about changing religions because you are too pretty.
As we left the plaza, I began to weep, and I could feel my heart breaking. Every word that man had said was dripping with bitterness, anger, resentment, but underneath that, I saw a man in pain, broken and burned by the Christian church.
I wept for him, like I have wept for so many people who have been burned by the Church. In the end, these people don’t need theological answers; they need to be heard, to be seen, to be loved in a tangible way that doesn’t make sense. Because that’s the love that Jesus has for me, for you, for Thomas. And if you are like Thomas, and you have been burned by Christians in the past: I want to honestly say that I am so sorry. That is not the Jesus Christ that I know, and that is not who I represent. Please forgive us our faults. It sincerely breaks my heart to know you have been hurt by the people are supposed to be proclaiming love.
Every day, Thomas sits on a street corner, facing a cathedral in the middle of the plaza, watching the pastors and the people come and go. He sees them in their nice cars and clean-shaven faces, their pressed pants and expensive dresses. He probably receives more than a few dirty looks of judgment for being a barefooted man sitting on the street in his dreadlocks and tattered pants.
In a way, Thomas is not too much unlike another man I know. Rejected and judged by the religious leaders of his day, he lived a nomadic, unconventional life. He had long hair and a beard, and he sat on street corners with beggars and blind men, stood on hills and in boats, and preached the good news of a Kingdom where anyone is allowed to enter, if only they believe.
*Name has been changed to protect and respect identity.
