Not Steve Hoey
I’m a sinner. I know that. The Bible tells me so.
But when I become a pastor, I’m going to need stories about how I’ve struggled. I need experiences that can be easily turned into a metaphor of God’s love. For a while, I didn’t have any. How was I supposed to change people’s lives if mine had been fairly easy? I mean, sure I lied and struggled with lust, but who hadn’t? I needed something more effective. More…evangelistic.
I heard about this “Homeless for a Weekend” event sponsored by my college and decided to go.
I ditched the rest of the group almost immediately upon arrival. Why? They were sissies. I wanted action. The real, uncensored part of Chicago that you don’t see on “weekend homeless vacations.”
So I went to Michigan Avenue.
Not much luck there. Fantastic shops, but no hate crimes. I continued on. Somewhere near Wells Street, I found some homeless people. I almost puked from the stench, but I just kept thinking about how many pagans would come to know Jesus because of my experience. I started talking to them about homeless people, and how it’s their fault for not trying hard enough. A minute later, they were beating me. I’m not sure why… but at least they were trying hard at something.
I could feel my testimony getting better as my body lay motionless on the ground.
Sometime later – I couldn’t say when, precisely – a group of teenagers picked me up and inspected me. I didn’t hear much, but I do remember the words “whitey,” “princess,” and “general tso’s chicken.” Before they could do whatever it was they had in mind, some other guys with guns and knives ambushed us. I could only assume from what I learned in sociology class that this was a gang war. One of the gang members handed me a switchblade. Desperate for a redemptive story, I sought out who I assumed to be the other gang leader. I jumped him from behind and stuck my switchblade into his side.
Murder?! NOW, I have something to be redeemed from! I could have stopped stabbing the gang leader. He was past dead. But I just kept going, because I thought, “This will make a great sermon illustration some day.” Upon my murder, I was accepted into the gang. We partied hard that night. There were drinks, women, and as I snorted my third line of cocaine, I couldn’t help but smile because of the impact my story would have on future generations. “For Christ and His Kingdom indeed!” I said, as visions of sugar plums and talking dinosaurs danced in my head.
I thought to myself, “Man, the only way this could get any better would be if I spent the night in prison.” Sure enough, it was in God’s plan for the police to catch me bathing in Buckingham Fountain, and I was escorted to an 8×8 cell at 3:30 a.m. I knew in my heart that this is exactly what Paul must have felt.
So I’m writing this letter that you all may grow in your love for God, that you may be redeemed from your less impressive sins, and that my words might do a mighty work in your hearts.
I, Stephen, write this greeting with my own hand. Remember my chains. Grace be with you.
Another gem from our collegiate correspondant Stephen Hoey. Approximately 60% of the events described in this article are factual. The remaining 40% were stolen from the movie “Gangs of New York.”
Popularity: 47% [?]
