The Christian Detective

A man in his late forties, trudged, face down, along the beach sidewalk in the Bird Rock area of La Jolla, a wealthy suburb a few miles north of San Diego in southern California. He wore a surfer's jacket found on the beach, khaki pants and shirt. His hair was light brown with some premature graying at the temples, eyes a piercing, emerald green. His face showed the lines of hard living and the ruddy color of someone heavy into drink.

.........

The man's name was Jake Carson, a lawyer at one time considered by most to be a pretty good one. But for the last couple of years he hadn't been anything anyone would consider good and had been on shaky grounds for some time before that. He was finally sanctioned by the Bar Association and suspended from practicing law until reinstated. And, who could say when that would be? He hadn't changed much since being disbarred and didn't want to.

He was bound for the halfway house he'd been assigned by the court. In his hand, partially concealed in a brown paper bag, was a quart bottle of beer purchased with the last money he had. Drinking had gotten him disbarred and he'd been ordered to spend time in the halfway house until he “could show he'd overcome his problem.” It was either that or spend time in a minimum security facility as punishment for repeatedly being drunk and disorderly in court. So far he hadn't made much progress and looked it. He only shaved and put on fresh clothes when he had work. And, he only took jobs when he'd spent whatever he'd been paid for the last job.

………

Ahead, a voice from a speaker, male, filtered through the beach noises and got his attention. Light applause from a gathered crowd filled a pause. That was followed by what sounded like the gentle strumming of a guitar. Where the crowd was standing along the sidewalk rail, the street curved at a sharp angle to create room for parking spaces along the street for a lucky few and to make gathering room for beach goers. And, that was where the crowd had gathered.

Across the street was a paneled van whose sides bore the name of a local television station. An up-link dish was on top. Beside the van stood a number of men and women in street clothes, some talking to each other while half listening, half watching what was happening on the other side of the street. A few feet away from the van, a casually dressed man with a camera on his shoulder and not so casually dressed woman —she wore a dark gray suit—appeared to be interviewing a man with dark, short hair, wearing a perfectly fitted black suit. In the man's hand was what appeared to be a brochure which he periodically referred to during the interview. His face bore a serious look but he otherwise appeared comfortable.

Must be a news event. Jake surmised.

On the beach side, where the sidewalk crowd stood fixated, Jake knew was a shaky looking, thatch covered shed. It was anchored to a relatively flat rocky area elevated a few feet above the beach and used for parties and meetings. He'd seen AA groups gathered there.

Jake didn't quicken his pace. He didn't care what was happening. It had been a long time since he cared about much of anything except the beer in his hand.

Doggedly determined to stay on the sidewalk, he pushed into the fringes of the crowd, probably numbering seventy or so, he assumed. As tall as he was, he see over most of them. A wafting hint of perfume from a young woman he brushed past brought back memories of better times. He pushed away the thoughts. Gone forever, he thought bitterly.

By then the speaker's deep, melodious voice was clear enough for him to pick up the words. From the softening of the tone, it appeared the message had entered a transitional belly. Then, the pace of it picked up. “I imagine the Lord's watching us. Wondering just what the heck we're doing. We're supposed to be keeping His commandants. Goodness me, don't we come right out and say we're a nation under God!”

Jake drew close enough to see the speaker, a tall, stately appearing man, He was on the heavy side and dressed in white, right down to his shoes; gray haired with a neatly trimmed snow white beard and mustache that stretched from sideburn to sideburn. A fair sized roll pushed at his belt. A microphone was strapped around his neck and positioned to catch the words he spoke. A battered old guitar hung around his neck and rested under his arm.

He stood on an elevated wooden platform in front of the shed and had to look up to speak to those who had gathered along the rail to listen. A young man with one arm around a surfboard and the other around a long haired young girl laughed and interrupted him with a shout. “Make love not war, preacher man!”

The speaker sought out the young man with his eyes, waved a hand in his direction, smiled and said, “In the book of James, the Lord tells us, 'If you know what's right and you do wrong, you're going to make me mad.' I pray you don't make the Lord mad.”

The young girl slapped the back of the young man's head lightly and whispered something that Jake couldn't pick up.

“Thank you sir,” the young man promptly replied.

The man in white paused as if considering what he'd just said or what he was going to say next. He swung the guitar around and strummed a few cords as he took in the crowd. No melody Jake recognized though it did sound familiar.

A few yards from where Jake was weaving his way through, four young people in green and white, two women and two men, clean cut and smiling, faced the crowd from a space they'd carved out in front of the rail. As the man in white strummed his guitar, they clapped and hummed, with singing interruptions.

Ah, glory be, Jake thought with a cynicism that had dominated his thoughts for some time. They're filled with the Spirit.

The words of Benjamin Franklin were more what he believed in, The Lord helps those who help themselves. To Jake that meant you were on your own. That had always been enough religion for him. The words the four apostles were singing finally struck a chord in his memory. It was an old Mamas and Papas song, California Dreaming, singing about praying somewhere. Seems appropriate, Jake thought. The man stopped strumming, held his arms out as though dispensing spiritual blessings then spoke in a soft voice the microphone had no trouble picking up. “Jesus told this story to his disciples. Luke passed it on to us and I want to share it with you in case you've forgotten. A rich man, dressed in fine linen robes, stuffed himself every day on the best of everything. Outside his window, in plain sight was an emaciated man, dressed in rags and covered with sores. Lazarus was his name. Anyone paying attention could hear the starving man begging for the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table. 'Just the crumbs, sir. A few morsels.' The rich man was appalled by the sight. So, what did he do? Well, he pulled his shades shut so he wouldn't have to see it! There's a lesson for us in that.”

One of the four apostles called out, “Bless you, Brother Rasmussen.”

So, Brother Rasmussen's giving the sermon today, Jake thought with an "excuse me" to push through the crowd.