Lundi Gras
On Feb. 28th, Becky and I descended into New Orleans on a whim, not even realizing it was the day before Mardi Gras.
That’s how we roll.
We parked for several hours and roamed the streets filled with families, for it was Lundi Gras,1 the warm-up for the Sharknado that is Mardi Gras.
“Cats were out,” as my jazz tutor puts it.2
The music was pumping from corner bars. The beads were descending from balconies. The fish were frying near bandstands.
The partiers were just getting into the swing of pre-Lenten decadence.
Smack dab in the middle of all the fun, directly in front of the historic St. Louis Cathedral gathered all sorts of opportunists:
Fortune tellers, tarot cards at the ready
Living statues, one guy spray-painted gold
Acrobats with European accents, some shirtless
Buskers, art hustlers, and panhandlers
Baptists wearing “Jesus is Lord” t-shirts, one guy on-the-mic
If you’ve read my book Good Posture, you may recall I don’t hold a lot of confidence for such “open air preaching.”
The Slap Heard Around The World
You know the annoyance. You’re on the town for a good time, maybe family vaca.
You hear someone on a P.A. system bellowing to the air, a gaggle of attendants trying to stage a crowd.
The message is usually contrarian toward all manner of activities, ideas, and pleasures in our world (some very legitimate).
They seem more like pro-wrestlers than fellow sinners and sufferers.3
No wonder the passersby avoid them like COVID19 spittle on a tongue stick.
I was surprised then, maybe as surprised as you will be, that I noticed in these street outreaches two embers of human compassion worth noting.
Surprise, Surprise!
As Fred Rogers used to say to children who witnessed a tragedy,
Look for the helpers.
My focus, at first, was trained on the guy rocking the microphone. This is what you’re supposed to pay attention to, of course.
Then I noticed a circle of other folks, Bibles under their arms, keeping watch, presumably for those paying some kind of attention.
Looking beyond that circle, I observed men and women in the black T-shirts casually mingling in the crowd. Some were sitting.
Their presence appeared humble, unassuming, and normal.
If a person came to New Orleans with spiritual questions, pain, or loneliness I could imagine one of these members of the Good News team making a sympathetic connection.
Lingua Franca
The other surprising sign that street preaching might possibly have merit in our distracted age was an instance of healthy oral translation.
As we walked around the waterfront, we encountered disparate small groups of tourists coming, going, and clumping around benches along a wide boardwalk.
Once again, right in the middle of the swarm was a street preacher.
He was flying solo, which bothered me for the reasons I already stated, but he had my admiration for his courage.
Not only that, he was warm. He looked like a retired 9th grade history teacher.
He was simply re-telling stories about Jesus in his own words. No bait-and-switch, no culture wars, no name-calling.
Ground Zero
You may not have an ounce of appreciation for such sidewalk encounters, and I’m with you there.
Like you, I just want to enjoy the festivities. I don’t want to be persuaded to buy, give, or believe anything new.
But part of the human drama is free speech and attempted persuasion, even if it’s happening in a tarred-and-feathered medium.
In this holy week, Christians rehearse the mayhem of a crowded Jerusalem as Jesus made his way to his crucifixion.
History, some say, was getting boiled down to its greatest showdown.
Maybe this is what explains tarot readers competing with street preachers at Mardi Gras. The zealots feel it is ground zero. In a way it is.
If I need to endure the holler of a fundamentalist doing what he thinks is his duty while I’m paying for my waffle cone, so be it.
In our beloved country, free speech is protected. Dissent is allowed. Persuasion is expected.4
Drop The Mic
If you’re with me this far, abandon the thought of me taking up residency in Penn’s Square, Lancaster to become the next George Whitefield.
No, I’ll keep trying to come up with creative ways to engage people over matters of faith using dialogue, food, humor, weirdness, and plain old humanness.
Besides, they say Whitefield’s booming voice could reach thousands before the days of microphones. Mine’s been compared to a bloated ferret trying to escape from a canvas bag.
Which is why I’m trying to find my voice in writing, and I’m floored that you’ve stuck with me all the way down to…this…final…word…which…is…thanks!
Lundi, meaning the moon (lunar) as in Monday, git it?
Matthew Monticchio not only introduced me to John Coltrane’s Love Supreme and opened my eyes to the genius of Peter Gabriel, he also taught me the right context for viewing people as felines.
As a case in point, a particularly loud preacher with an angry affect sometimes takes to Penn’s Square during Lancaster’s First Friday to broadcast his screed (Thanks to editor Ken Cutler for suggesting that perfect zinger).
A few years ago, I posed a test. I did something unthinkable: I made eye contact with the screamer.
Walking straight into his sight line, I pointed heavenward, smiled, and said something approving like, “That’s right! Jesus is Lord!”
No cynicism. It was simply my attempt to elicit some kind of camaraderie or warmth.
He didn’t take the sweet bait. Instead, he never missed a beat and continued to bellow about God’s wrath directly in my face.
Thank God we are not in Putin’s Russia, Afghanistan, or North Korea.