Saints & Sinners

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New Orleans, Louisiana is the location of the oldest continuously-operating Cathedral in North America, home to the famous Joan of Arc statue, and a sort of cesspool-Disneyland exploiting touristic appetites for tawdry ghost tours, witchcraft shops, and fortune tellers. Just the kind of place that makes you think, "Saints & Sinners". According to Google, that's even the name of a restaurant in New Orleans owned by Channing Tatum... We didn't go there, but it sure feels like we experienced the full gamut of America's moral spectrum on this trip.

Are we the Heroes or the Villains?

These moral quandaries started back in Seattle, on the way to the Kenyan Reggae warehouse party. On the phone with one of my Jamaican bredren, I mentioned the artist we were going to see and I got an earful. Allegedly, the singer had been a contract killer back in Jamaica, and apparently this was well-known, he'd sung about it on his debut album, and now he was putting on a Rasta image and carrying a Reggae career on the back of dreadlocks and cover songs of hits from the 80s.

This all blew up into a larger conversation about what has happened with the Ras Tafari movement in recent times, stirring up a righteous indignation in me and in my bredren. That night I wrote in my notes, "The Rastafari movement has degenerated into a bunch of racist, vegan socialists, and criminals in a dreadlocks costume, along with all the would-be profiteers of Reggae and ganja. Where is the true spirit of JAH love? Where is the Ivine man to save all humanity?"

You may have no idea what I'm talking about here, but you may be able to gather that I am a Ras Tafari, and that I am not a racist (for the most part), not a vegan (anymore), not a socialist (anymore), not a criminal (anymore), not a dreadlocks (anymore), and not someone who makes their living from Reggae or Ganja (though I've dabbled). I could go into each of these topics individually, the pros and cons, my personal history with them, and when they are each appropriate, but that is not the point. The point I'm trying to make is that Ras Tafari stands for the love of God (JAH) coming as a salvation to all people through what InI call I-vine consciousness (knowing the divine within oneself). If this is not evident in one who calls themself a Rasta, then their racial and political attitudes, dietary choices, or hairstyle are a meaningless waste of time. If you are a Rasta, but you do not follow the spiritual side of Ras Tafari, then all you have left is a morally-bankrupt political movement using Haile Selassie I as a figurehead, or a music and fashion subculture based on Reggae. That's not good enough.

Does this mean that I would consider myself the ideal Rasta? No. I have fallen far short of the glory and expectation of the King. I am not here to live in a glass house and throw stones. I am here to examine myself critically, to examine my own heart, and to do the work. I'm just saying there are a lot of other people out there who should be doing the same, and maybe they'll have to take of their costume to do so.

And that's where this journey begins. What did we see of both good and evil in New Orleans? What did it show us about who we are, who are the saints, and who are the sinners?

Saints?

There were many strange and unexpected sights waiting for us in New Orleans, especially on Mardi Gras. There were the jazz parades, the day-drunk stumblers, the sunburned tourists, the confused Francophones. There were street markets, wild costumes and beads and hats. There was a miles-long parade of old firetrucks converted into floats, filled with people wearing painted blackface and afro-wigs, for God's sake! What else did we see? We saw Satanic walking parades complete with horned devil masks, Satanic temple banners, demon iconography, strip-pole dancers, and men in drag. There were a lot of men in drag, and women in drag, and who-knows-what-they-are just strange and indecipherable people.

One of the strangest sights was the group of Christian fundamentalist protestors at the corner of Bourbon and Canal, with their microphone and PA systems, and signs that said things like, "God hates Mardi Gras." They were of the 'you're all going to hell' camp and their arguments seemed opaque and confusing even to me. The preacher appeared to be extemporaneously ranting into the microphone, not reading from the Bible or quoting from it, but just spewing in a kind of rage-filled stream of consciousness. The first time we walked by I thought it was just an amusing piece of scenery, but later in the night I made the mistake of engaging with them directly.

It was well after dark now. We'd already spent a long day walking the town. We'd been home to our hotel where I smoked some ganja, said my prayers, and read a speech of Haile Selassie I. I had church and Bible on my mind, but in a very loving good and happy way, as the sun went down on our walk through the crazy town. But I was disturbed also by the t-shirts, signs and banners I saw that said things like, "God died for our sins. Sin a lot so he didn't die in vain." Was that what people here really believed? I'd read in a book at the hotel that Mardi Gras originated in a Catholic celebration preceding Lent, so was this somehow religious, like a crazy funhouse-mirror version of religion? We were surrounded by people indulging in all kinds of desires and passions of the flesh, lower-order, animal-nature kind of things. The kinds of things that really aren't good for human bodies and minds, nor for souls, definitely unholy and undeniably sinful. But wouldn't my judging of them be just as sinful? This was the conundrum.

Then we turned the corner from Canal onto Bourbon and saw the guys with the signs and the microphones. This time I stopped and walked over to the speaker. I told him I was confused about what he was saying and I wanted to ask him some questions. At first, he played nice. He announced that he had someone here named Nic who wanted to ask some questions and so we'd turn this into a Q&A format discussion for a while, for the benefit of all the passers by. But, I think it was only the first or second answer and I was already confused. The thing is, these guys had their own particular vocabulary they were using, phrases that sounded unfamiliar to me even as a Church-going Orthodox Christian. It was like they had their own completely different tradition of translating, thinking, writing, and talking about the Bible (which they do). I asked him a clarifying question, "What do you mean when you say 'Traditions of Men'? I mean, reading and writing and giving our children names is a tradition of men, so how could all the traditions of men be condemned?" He didn't take that very well and now it became a confrontation. We continued to talk, I had more questions, he had more answers, but now the whole tone of it was angry and adversarial. It wasn't fun. Chelly got angry and walked away. I couldn't disengage, I mean, maybe I was trying to "win" an argument, maybe I just wanted to calm things down and be on a friendly basis with this guy. It was a confused mix of emotions and motivations.

I let him know that I am a Sunday School teacher and asked him to read something from the Bible, but he strongly resisted that, saying that this wasn't the time for Bible study, and that I didn't know anything about Christian preaching. But, he continued to claim the Bible as his source of authority. He just wouldn't read from it. His whole thing was deeply condemning of the Roman Catholics and of the non-religions, a-religious, anti-religious, or sacrilegious people (you know, the Mardi Gras people!). I told him I was an Orthodox Christian, but he didn't want to touch that, "the whole Orthodox conversation is something for a different time." It got to the point that we weren't having a conversation at all anymore. He was just yelling at me and interrupting my questions, asking me over and over why I was obstructing or getting in the way of his preaching, but he was still somehow sharing the microphone with me? It was weird.

I told him that maybe if we could calm down and have a nice conversation, people might better understand what we were talking about and might be convinced. That fell on deaf ears and then he had the 'muscle' come over and remove me.

The muscle was an older gentleman with a Boonie hat who carried himself like ex-military. He chest-shoved me over to the side along the wall and got aggressively into my face, grabbing me about the shoulders and asking me repeatedly why I would get in the way of a preacher of the Gospel. I told him I loved the Gospel and he asked me what was the meaning of the Gospel? I answered him first in one way and then in another. He asked me that question 10, 15, maybe 20 or 30 times, I don't know. "What is the meaning of the Gospel?!!!" I told him that the Gospel was the good news, that God had chosen to become a man and redeem Mankind. I told him all about the New Testament, that it was composed of 4 gospels, the book of Acts, numerous epistles, and the Revelation of St. John the Divine. I told him the entire story of Jesus Christ found in the gospels, from the prophecies that preceded Him, to His birth, His exodus, His ministry and miracles, His procession into the city, His betrayal and sacrifice, His death and resurrection, His teaching to the apostles, and His ascension, even to the prophecies of His second coming. He didn't like any of my answers and repeatedly bludgeoned me with the question, "What is the meaning of the Gospel?!!"

Finally, I gave him an answer that he liked. I told him the meaning of the Gospel was that there was nothing mankind could ever do to save ourselves. There was no peak of perfection we could reach through our own devices. There was no amount of learning, of science, of technology, of religious studying or legal observances, of perfection of character, nothing we could do to save ourselves and reconcile ourselves to God. God had to do that Himself, through His own contrivance, out of Love, pure and unconditional Love. He saved us in the same way He created us: by His own means, for His own reasons, in His own likeness and image. He chose us; we didn't choose Him.

This time he looked at me and said, "Now I can believe that you're a Christian." So we gave each other a hug and stopped talking, just kind of standing there in a daze like two boxers after the bell rings. Right at that moment, another man in sackcloth robes with a long white beard and a sign that read, "The End is Near," approached us. I asked him, "Are you a real crazy religious guy, or are you just dressed up in a costume as a crazy religious guy?" He told me, "I take my own life as a joke, and I am obsessed with talking to people about Jesus, so I guess I'm both." I said, "Me too." And then the three of us posed for a picture together. It was a beautiful moment. I don't know if it was worth all the pain and frustration of the situation, but it put a broad smile on my face and then I knew it was time to walk away and find my wife.

Sinners?

There was a lot of evidence of New Orleans' Roman Catholic history as a French and Spanish colonial capital, from the statue of Joan of Arc near the French Market to the gorgeously-appointed St. Louis Cathedral with its problematic paintings of King Louis IX announcing the 7th crusade. In addition to this Church, we saw many attractive, old, retired Churches around. Some had been converted to homes, or turned into wedding venues, studios for Yoga classes, and the like. The story we got was that church membership was down, so the Catholic Church had decided to sell off many of these buildings over the years. We took pictures and commented how sad it was that all these people had lived with the church as such an integral part of their life for so long, but now they had left it, their children didn't have that, and there were different things happening. Where would they turn now for structure and meaning and community? The reasons they had for leaving the Church were certainly legitimate, but they were losing a lot in the process.

The day after Fat Tuesday was Ash Wednesday, and Chelly--being a Catholic herself--brought me to the big cathedral for a noon mass. The St. Louis Cathedral (designated a "minor basilica" by one of the Popes) was absolutely packed with people, to the point where it was standing room only. Signs and announcements let us know that this was the oldest operating Christian church in the United States of America. The Church was massive and gothic, with ornate architecture and vaulted ceilings covered in elaborate, romantic paintings.

It was a simple post-Vatican 2 Roman Catholic mass, a "low mass" with very faint remnants of the kind of hours-long liturgies that I am used to in the Orthodox Church, but nonetheless recognizable at parts. I can say the responses without needing to pick up the book. It was solemn, but beautiful, and my heart was touched. The Archbishop gave a very meaningful homily about Lent and the Lord's Passion. He echoed the very sentiments that had been in my meditations the day before, that Christians must examine their own hearts rather than pointing fingers at others. Then he warned us that there were protestors waiting for us outside, that they had made it a yearly tradition to protest Carnival, Mardi Gras, and particularly this Catholic Church on every Ash Wednesday. He asked us not to engage with them in any way, but simply to pray for them as the Lord had commanded us to love our neighbors and to love our enemies.

Outside was a mass of protestors with banners and loudspeakers. "All Catholics Will Burn In The Lake Of Fire!" declared one banner, and there were many more of the sort. All kinds of awful invectives came out of the mouths of these so-called "Christians" while the Ancient Order of Hibernians played their bagpipes for the benefit of the exiting worshippers. It was a bizarre and painful scene so emblematic of America's broken family and conflicted soul.

I reflected on this intractable conflict between Catholics and Protestants that has raged for 500 years, born out of the Great Schism 500 years prior between the Western (Roman) Catholics and the Eastern Orthodox Church. Now Europe's 1000-year-old civil war is harming the entire world. European-descended peoples are torn apart and divided by this conflict everywhere that they live on Earth, and all the formerly-subjugated or newly-evangelized non-European populations in Africa, Asia, Australia, and the Americas are inheriting this conflict. It is the mother of the crisis of meaning that human societies now face. This is what the Rastafari elders (and at least one Ethiopian Orthodox Priest in Jamaica) have called "Mystery Babylon": the harlot that rules over many waters, which is described in the Book of Revelations.

But it doesn't start or end there. The adherents of Islam are locked in a 1300-year war between Shia and Sunni. Christianity on a whole has been at war with themselves for 1500 years wince the Council of Chalcedon ripped apart the European from the African and Asian churches. Jews kill Muslims and Muslims kill Jews. Hindus fight Buddhists. Communists want to destroy all religions (other than their own). When will it end? When will human beings give up on trying to be the boss of everything, trying to own all correctness and control all knowing to the point of so much evil and death? When will be the time for peace and unity amongst mankind?

See, I think the Christian fundamentalist protestors at Mardi Gras have got it all wrong because they are trying to be holy, but by not believing in the saints and completely rejecting tradition, they don't have any examples or techniques of how to be holy. And I think the Roman Catholics got it all wrong because they made saints out of some awful people (like Louis IX), and promulgated a corrupted tradition (ever hear of the Inquisition, Conquistadors, or child molestation?), but neglected to center the true holiness shown by Christ and His Apostles.

The city of New Orleans--with the street people in their filth, the dive bars, and the most explicitly foul music I've ever heard blasting in the middle of the night--was getting it all wrong. Packed bars and night clubs and greasy restaurants... Souvenir shops and Larry Flint's Hustler Club. Every night we saw ghost tours through the city, telling horrific stories of murders and hauntings. There were even children's ghost tours, filling little boys and girls heads with nightmares. The streets near the waterfront were lined with "voodoo" and witchcraft stores (real Vodun is nothing like this). And the square in front of the Cathedral was crowded with fortune tellers seated at card tables with tarot decks or crystal balls. All this hedonistic indulgence and make-believe bullshit for sale might fill some hungry bellies, but it won't feed hungry souls.

The "sexual revolutionaries" were getting it all wrong. If "queer politics" and anti-breeder rhetoric leads to a dystopian future where the healthy sexual attraction between boys and girls is shamed and discouraged, where traditional breeding and rearing relationships within a family structure are either taboo or outlawed, then what will that do to the future of the human species? It's horrifying and unnatural, but not impossible, and there are some people right now trying to make this a reality. There are also some people using this narrative to stir up reactionary fear and exploit our emotions for their own political gain.

Everyone's getting it wrong and we've seen what it leads to, but where does it all end? There are no total answers or "final solutions" to our problems. There is no one coming to fix everything for us. We're going to have to do this on our own.

The problem with the totalitarians--whether they be the historical types of Imperialists, Communists, Facists, and Nazis, or the more modern sorts like Neo-Conservatives, Statist Liberals, religiously fundamentalist politicians, the W.H.O., or the supposedly "woke" cancel culture--is that they externalize the blame for all their problems on some "other", then externalize all agency or authority to deal with the problem onto the government (or the mob) and its license to use force. Where is the acknowledgment of their own flaws and their own personal role in their problems? Where is the willingness to grow, to change, to improve and redeem themselves? It's a broken mindset obsessed with total control.

In the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church tradition, we have an ancient liturgy, preserved for 2000 years, said to have been taught by our Lord Iesus Kristos to His 12 Apostles during the Holy 40 Days after His resurrection and before His ascension. In this Anaphora of the Lord are found the words, "Look at yourselves, and cleanse yourselves and do not make mention of your neighbors' sins. Be careful that no one should bear any wrath against his neighbor. God is looking. Lift up your hearts." This is a challenge to all of us, and it is a holy charge. Have I answered it sufficiently? Of course not. I just gave you a few thousand words about other people's sins. I guess I'll just have to try harder.

The Movies

We watched a lot of movies on this vacation. We both got really sick about halfway through the week, and then spent the remainder of the trip (4 days) mostly laying around the hotel room, sleeping, and watching movies on TV (yuck, ads!) or with Netflix on my laptop. We watched Die Hard, we watched Shazam!, and the second Shazam! We watched Will Smith fight robots in I, Robot. That one gave me a lot of heavy thoughts about artificial intelligence, which guys like Asimov thought would primarily take the form of robotic slaves, but in fact seems to be unfolding mostly in non-personified pieces of code, programs that do not have bodies at all. That night there was some kind of spooky ghost reggae floating up from the street all night until morning. One musician with an electric guitar and a portable amp. AI will never replace him.

The most impactful and memorable film we watched was the Bob Marley movie. It was a big deal for me to see this film. I'd been anticipating it for months, talking with people about what it might be like, watching YouTube commentators analyze the trailers or expound on their own expectations. I don't usually do that with films, but this is my hero, this is my music, this is my religious and spiritual path or identity.

Bob Marley: One Love came out on Wednesday the 14th, so we went to see it on the 15th. Already sick as I was, and still suffering from my tailbone injury, it took an effort to get across town to the theater. But, when we missed the start of the film and they didn't have a second showing on another screen a half hour later (as I thought after misreading their website), we made the trek across town to another theater to see it there. I wasn't just watching it for myself, anyway, I had been invited to present my thoughts in a discussion on the film for the Association of Rastafari Creatives later in the month.

After the film, we walked across town in the dark--not really dark because of all the streetlights and house lights--and shared our thoughts and reflections.

Because I had so much emotion invested in this movie—I basically worshipped this man for much of my life—I was highly moved (to tears actually) by the story, the music, and the message. But, also because of this emotional investment, I had very high expectations. I wanted it to be done so well, with so much impact, and at such a high level of technical achievement. I came out of there with a lot of mixed feelings.

I wanted it to be Gandhi level or Malcolm X level, a sure-thing for Oscar awards and a memorable best film of the century type of thing. I wanted it to turn so many hearts to Ras Tafari, to educate people about Haile Selassie I, and to point ones toward the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church that both Ras Tafari and Bob Marley, and I myself, belong to. But it didn't quite do all that. It was a touching musical bio-pic, but it wasn't an Oscar-sweeping film to change the world.

There were a lot of things I could criticize about the script and the performances, the tone of the film (too light-hearted and not heavy enough), about the details that were included and those that were omitted. I also felt it ended too early. It cut short the key climactic moment of the film. We needed to see the politicians famously joining hands at the One Love concert and to hear more of Bob's music at the end. At the same time, I had the distinct feeling that maybe I should quit everything I am doing in life and just do this: do what Bob did to spread the message of Rastafari. Maybe become a musician and make Reggae Hard Rock. Maybe make movies about the mission. And nothing else. Ever. Just do Rastafari works full time.

The next day at brunch, we chatted with our Jamaican waitress about her hometown of Clarendon (I visited there with Winston Jarrett in 2012), about the Marley movie, and about the responsibilities Jamaicans have through their musical influence on the world to live up and be positive messengers. She, like many Jamaicans and Africans, is disappointed with the newer generation of musicians (and some of the older), who seem to have given up on naturality and positivity, to trade-in clean living for dirty living, self-promotion and greed.

Why is this so important to me? It's not just about love of music and love of culture and the way of life I have chosen. It's also about a certain perspective I have been given of the world through my travels and experiences.

Through a study of history, I have come to understand that Christianity was so impactful 2000 years ago partially because it articulated a response to the Hellenistic "domicide" (the death of home) that had occurred in the Mediterranean, Mesopotamia, and surrounding world after the conquests of Alexander the Great and his successors. Likewise, the Ras Tafari Movement in this time is in part a response to the global domicide wrought by 500 years of Western European colonial Imperialism. This legacy and response is most evident in the story of the enslaved Africans who were brought to Jamaica. Whether it is understood explicitly, or just 'felt' and enjoyed--resonated with--people all around the world are vibing and jamming and following along with the Jamaican people and their movement of Ras Tafari because it is successful at "homing" them: returning them to a sense of rootedness, belonging, and moral security--bringing them home. For many in the African diaspora, this is accomplished physically through repatriation. For others, it is simply spiritual.

This means the Jamaican entertainers, and especially the Ras Tafari ones, have a responsibility. The whole world is following their lead.

Getting Older

Saturday the 17th was the eve of my 42nd birthday. I learned that morning that my long-time friend (and cousin's ex-husband) Jonny had died. I was sick, and injured, and mired in hyper-criticality, woeful over the lack of financial success I've met with my fitness business and filmmaking business. I wrote in my notes:

It sucks.

I feel down about a lot of things, but also mindful of my mortality and that I don’t have time to waste. I see signs of this all around (sometimes literal signs or slogans on t-shirts and bumper stickers). I am often moved by strong emotions to seize the day and seize my chance.

I had a good meditation session today and that helped me to free up my soul from nervousness and fear.

I have everything I want, and everything I need to do what I want to do, and need to do, and to do whatever I choose to do… except the money. I don’t have the money. I suppose I have to find the money. I have only found money easily when I was doing what I loved and desired. So, I guess I have to do that.

What did I work hard for for years? To make films. There’s no use pretending. I want to be a filmmaker and that is what drives me passionately. Everything else is just a hobby or a lark. I have grown a lot as a fitness coach, but it is not my driving desire. I have to figure out how to really apply myself to the filmmaking dream, but without losing touch with the personal growth and emotional development I have gained as a fitness coach. I have to integrate and retain all these things that make me the best version of myself.

My centering/grounding/meditation practice needs to be a part of my life every single day.

I turn 42 tomorrow.

What is my great message?

Thou art God. God became man so that man could become God. We did not evolve a God-man, and we will never evolve a God-man. God chose to save us out of His own love, not of our own merit or strength of desire. This is how he made us originally, and this is what he intended for us. In His incarnation and his sacrifice, he redeems us. In his Church, his ever-living manifestation through history as the super-nation of Christ’s Israel, he reaffirms this redemption. This is who Ras Tafari is, and this is who I am.

No matter what you believe, I love and respect you, and I can reason this through with you. What is your God? What is your highest concept? Well, that is what you are. That is what you will reflect. You are the Universe. You are the Creator. You are the Almighty. You are the cosmic network of Life. You are Love.

1 = infinity. That is my mathematical treatise.

All is one, and this is the ground of our being as conscious entities. There is nothing greater in the Universe than a single human being, and all the stars and planets are here to serve us. This is the only way to life.

The liberation and redemption of all human beings is the highest cause.



And that is the truth as I see it.

Am I mad? Possibly. But this madness is the only sanity that I have ever found. In one way or another, this truth has saved me from darkness and despair at many times in my life. God is Love and God lives inside of me. God will not forsake me.

The Crusty Punk

Something else interesting happened on the evening of Fat Tuesday, before the street preachers. We'd made it all the way back to Canal street. Walking up the street, looking for something to eat, we passed the Shake Shack, which was not an option. I might have eaten at a place like that when I was a kid, but 42-year-old Rastafari fitness coach Nic would not eat there. We would have walked right past, but sitting outside the Shake Shack was an old-school crusty punk. I knew guys like this in my youth, in my skinhead days. I recognized the uniform of a man who'd been riding the trains and sleeping in parks for decades, a modern day hobo, Woody Guthrie type. He had his hat out asking passers by for money, "just a little something so I can get a burger and shake?" I saw at least a dozen people walk right by and ignore him within a few seconds, and the way the streets were crowded that night, I can't imagine how many people had turned a deaf ear to this man's pleas over the time he'd been sitting there.

I walked straight into the Shake Shack and got in line. Chelly was confused. "Well, you needed to find a bathroom, right?" So she went to the ladies' room and I ordered a burger and shake. While I waited for the food, she went outside and made a phone call to her Mother (or her sister). Food came quick and I carried it outside to hand over to the train crusty. He was quite surprised, and pleased.

I asked his name, told him mine, and we chatted a bit.

"These people out here have got it all wrong" I said, "This is what's it really all about."

"This right here is what it means to be human. We feed each other and keep each other alive. That is the meaning of civilization. If we can't do that, if we can't feed each other, then it's all meaningless."

"Exactly man!" He shared his own similar sentiments, sounding like a modern-day Diogenes to me. Now we were resonating on the same level, and I told him something about the ancient Cynics that I'd learned from this Vervaeke course I've been watching on YouTube: "If you set your heart on the wrong ideals, they will fail you, and you will suffer." We related that to what's going on in America these days.

We talked about all the people parading and marching and partying, and the others protesting and acting all holy. Folks either pursuing pleasure or pointing fingers, all thinking only of themselves, and many using religion as a smokescreen. The Christian-haters and the hater-Christians. They got it all wrong. Too much bullshit and not enough humanity.

I told him what my wife said to me that day, that of all the places and people in the world she's witnessed, America is the place that disrespects God the most.

Now he was strongly in agreement, which surprised me, because I usually think of Crusties (and Punks in general) as being atheistic or even anti-religious, anti-God. But, he agreed that there is a real God, one who sees and knows and does everything, the only one with a right to judge, and that people are playing games with this, ignoring this reality. They just don't see and they just don't care.

Then we talked about the old days of 90s punk rock kids (we were both the same age), and about what we see nowadays on the streets. We talked about the punks and the skins and the crusties and all that, the little fashions and scenes we remember from our day, and how surprising it is to see what the younger generations have done with that. They've co-opted bits and pieces and turned them all into a bizarre caricature of what they were. We were both shocked that the crusty punk thing seems to be the one that's most popular these days, with all kinds of lefty types and high-fashion people copping their style, but doing it wrong. He laughed about the number of people who've offered him hundreds of dollars for his authentic, greasy, beat up crusty jeans. He turns them all down. They're all doing it wrong anyway, making a high-priced fashion out of a hard-living impoverished lifestyle.

We bonded over a mix of shared values, nostalgia, and smug hipness--and a small act of kindness--then we parted ways.

So there I am. That's me, both critical and charitable, a messenger of God, and a judgmental prick. So, how do you judge me? What am I, a saint or a sinner?

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