“He’s a nut case.” Missionary Phil and I were sipping coffee at the Dawn On The Amazon Café in Iquitos when he made the statement. He was referring to the thirtyish looking Peruvian man preaching the gospel in the boulevard in front of us to anybody who would listen to him. A dark-skin string bean of a man, he had a huge frayed black Bible in one hand and a six inch wooden crucifix in the other. Spittle flew from his mouth as he bellowed, “Get right with God or burn in Hell!”
I shot a glance over to the street preacher — then back to Missionary Phil. He had been bringing church groups to Iquitos and other parts of South America for years. He had always been cordial to me, but I’ve never liked the way he criticized local street preachers. A fifty-five year old corpulent man with a receding hairline and a fleshy face, he reminded me of Boss Hoag from the old television program, The Dukes Of Hazard. He had just polished off two cheeseburgers and fries and was about to devour his desert of chocolate cake topped with a heaping portion of vanilla ice cream. ”I love the Lord,” he said, “but this man is going about spreading the Good News the wrong way.”
I bite my tongue. As I watched him take a huge bite of the cake I said, “I take it you disapprove of this man.”
He whipped a snow white handkerchief from the pocket of his silk shirt and wiped at some vanilla ice cream trickling down his chin. He chuckled. “I realize that he means well. That said, he’s sending the wrong impression. He should …”
I thought about the last time I went to church in Atlanta. Unlike the small church I attended on the south side of town when I was growing up where the congregation belted out hymns with feeling, the congregation in this magnificent structure sang as if they were afraid someone might hear them. I felt as if I were in a country club.
Missionary Phil hadn’t missed a beat. “… and that’s why this unfortunate fellow is …”
I couldn’t take any more of Missionary Phil’s babble. So I excused myself and left. As I approached the street preacher I whipped out my wallet, took out a bill and stuck it in his shirt pocket. “Gracias, Senor,” he said, smiling. As I headed home I thought: I’ll take a man passionate about his faith any day over some pompous blowhard whose only passion is feeding his face.
