Community is coloured by the richness and diversity of the personalities of its members. The fabric of a community has been dyed and tinted by the many unique individuals who grace its life with their presence. Once I lived in a community that had a high turnover of some off-the-wall characters. One of them was a man by the name of James.
Early in Holy Week one year, a strange scrawny man with a long scraggly red hair and a sparse beard came to my office in the prison chapel. He was carrying a box with all his valuables in it, mostly books and papers. He looked comical but as very serious when he asked me to hold on to his possessions for him.
I was instructed, in the event of his death, to distribute these things to people on a list he gave me. He then preceded to tell me very casually that he was the son of God and on one Good Friday he would be killed and this might be the one.
Well, James didn’t die that Good Friday and I got to know him quite well. He was serving four year for stealing a police car with policeman asleep in the back seat. He was trying to get away from the Mafia. Why they were out to get him, I don’t know.
Several years prior to this, he had a “visitation” while working on a garbage truck. During that “visitation” he was told that he was the re-incarnation of Jesus Christ. Since then, his life had not been going too well. He was probably happiest in prison where his divine identity emerged more and more. He introduced himself as Jesus or sometimes as the king. He always signed his name James the First and the Last.
When he was released from prison, he came to live in my community. Now, it was not easy living with God’s son enfleshed in James, but it was never dull. He had a rich and colourful vocabulary and sometimes his conversation was like spoken poetry. At other times, he could outdo the vehemence of any Old Testament prophet especially in the face of blatant disbelief in his divinity. He knew the scriptures well and quoted them often in reference to himself.
He had no real followers that I know of, but two elderly religious Sisters who visited him in prison were considered to be devotees. They were far too gentle to be directly heretical. He called them “foolish virgins soon to be wise.”
James could never be domesticated. Although he tried to settle down with us, he eventually took to the road, criss-crossing Canada over and over again. He took on a vagabond’s life, hitch-hiking and making his home in Salvation Army hostels.
Once a month or so, James would drop by and stay for a few days. He rarely came empty-handed, but brought with him wine or a slab of cheese and once he came with two plump hens. He would talk excitedly and tell story after story of his messianic adventure.
One time he decided to go to Buffalo to visit a friend. At the border he was refused entry into the USA, being told that he was an undesirable alien. In character, he said to the border officials, “Of course I’m undesirable. Haven’t you read in the Book of Kings that once you have seen Him you no longer desire Him?”
A few days before Christmas one year, he came by and I invited him to spend the holidays with us. He told me he had to go to Hamilton where he would spend Christmas at the Salvation Army hostel. I tried to convince him that a men’s hostel would be a lonely place to spend Christmas. He simply asked, “Where else would He spend Christmas?”
James died a number of years ago and I miss his visits. He left his bible behind and it is in the chapel still. Sometimes I wonder if he were the Christ. I’m glad that I was nice to him.