Thanks For Asking
I have been attending Mass recently at St. James Parish in Kansas City’s midtown area at 39th and Troost. This morning, I pulled into the parking lot and backed into a space, which left me about three minutes to get into church for 10 a.m. Mass. Just as soon as I killed the engine, a young black man hurriedly approached my car toward the passenger side. He looked very intense and looked like he needed to communicate something to me right away. I thought maybe I had better not be parking in this space or something like that. I lowered the window next to me, and he hustled around to my side of the car. He leaned down and asked if I would be willing to give him a ride to church. That confused me.
I said, “We’re already at church.”
He said, “No sir, not this one. My church.” He pointed to the screen of his cell phone. The screen contained the list of routing points that display when you use the Google Maps GPS app.
I said, “I came here to go to Mass, and it starts in about two minutes.”
He pointed at this phone screen again and said, “This says it's 7 minutes from here.” He pointed toward Troost Ave, where there is a canopy-covered bus stop, and said, “The buses are running late.” He didn’t budge.
I sat there for a moment considering a lot of potentially negative thoughts about what his real agenda might be. I thought that if I let him in the car, he might make demands for money, pull out a gun. Who knows what. This is how people, especially old white-haired guys like me, get taken advantage of. I was afraid.
I looked him over. He said, “Please, sir.”
I shrugged. My gut said he’s no threat. I said, “Okay, get in. Let’s go.”
I pulled out of the parking lot and turned right on Troost.
He said, “Thank you so much, sir.” Then, “I go by T.J.”
I said, “I’m Drayton.” And, a bit further down the road, I asked T.J., “If you don’t mind me asking, why are you making such an effort to get to church like this?”
He answered, “I haven’t been to church since my grandmother died in 2017.”
Though that was hardly a revealing response, I left it alone.
He used his phone’s GPS to guide me through a series of rights and lefts and as we approached his destination on 63rd St. he, in a whispered tone, said to himself, “I need to pray.” He commenced a quiet but intense petition. “Give me strength.” Over and over again.
Clearly, he was confronted by something going on in his life. I pulled into the parking lot of the austere, little church; I couldn’t see its name anywhere. As he opened the door to pop out of the car, sensing his desperation, I said. Hey, T.J., you’re doing the right thing. You’re going to be all right.”
We shook hands. He looked at me with sad, shy eyes, then gave me a hint of a grin and said, “Thank you, sir.”
I arrived at Mass thirteen minutes late. The choir and congregation were making their way through Psalm 63, its response being: My soul is thirsting for you, O Lord my God. Words, I thought, that would resonate with T.J. whatever his circumstances might be.
I thought about T.J. during Mass. I wondered about what might be so confronting for him that he asked me (no, begged me), a stranger, to alter my plans for the inconvenience of giving him, a stranger, a ride to another church. Who does that? I thought about my confrontation in dealing with this unexpected intrusion, with its stereotypical threat, unwarranted as it turned out, but nonetheless, a situation loaded with plenty of logical excuses to beg off, play it safe. I could visualize leaving T.J. standing there with his seven-minute GPS plan in his hand. I didn’t like what that looked like at all.
When I chose several weeks ago to start attending Mass at St. James in this diverse crossroads area of Kansas City, Troost Ave being the historic red line that has separated white opportunity from black disadvantage for decades, I saw myself as this benevolent suburbanite sacrificing convenience to bless this modest congregation with my presence. My disposition, though subtle, was real. But St. James put me in my place. This congregation, young and old, Asian, African American, Hispanic, and white, co-mingled in the community so genuine, so unpretentious, so joyful, and so comfortable with each other. It turned my pride inside out. It wasn’t me they needed; it was they I needed.
And too, there is T.J…an unexpected gift. What would appear to be a one-sided transaction was actually a mutuality of giving and receiving. Both me and T.J. shared both sides of the equation in a blended reality.
T.J., thanks for asking.