Critique of Practical Religion - Division I - Chapter 4

Chapter 4



“Some heads are going to roll!” Another client with a bad reputation screams at the top of his lungs.


“Man, Black. This is getting out of hand.” One his friends mentions. “What we will do?”


“I got this.” Black confidently replies.


He reaches for his prepaid phone in a patient, natural disposition. “Hey, John. It's Black. Can you check on the ARCH's website and look up the information about their budget? And, also any news stations? We have a cat saying that some people are stealing from us. Give me a call back quick. Thanks.”


“What do we do now? His friend asks. “We can't let this get out-of-hand. ”


“Yell, out loud “Roll Tide". They should know.” Black replies with patient tone that far exceeds the normal limits of anyone. “They will understand to separate fact from fiction.”


And, with the loudest and deepest of voices his friend yells out loud. “Roll Tide!”. All of the sudden the yell reaches the first group of clients. They understand it immediately. It moves rapidly to every group throughout the shelter. The outbursts suddenly stop and it becomes quiet faster than the mob had formed.


“One good thing about America is that they release their budget to the people unlike other countries that are corrupt.” Black replies with a greater knowledge than most. “And, other organizations follow their lead.”


But, the passive-aggressiveness has taken it's toll on the volunteers that are already suffering from heart-draining anxiety and ever-pounding anguish. Yet, they have heard it all before. And, they are tougher than most people who never has experienced the mentality of the locational-challenged clients. It's just the stress of the anguish of a tragic event that have their nerves-on-edge tonight.


The sorely needed break for the volunteers couldn't come at a better time, as the exhaustion of keeping their faiths entacted and blossoming for the good of the locational-challenged clients takes heed, as “strength in adversity” is what they needed.  It's not easy for most, but these two social groups (volunteers and clients) know it better.


“I wonder when they are going to get back on the job?” Jamie with a confused look on his face that may represent eagerness. “I have to work on a friend's computer.”


“Is he going to pay you for the services?” Alex gently responds.


“No, not really. He will pay me back with cigarettes and I can sell them to get me by.” Jamie responds with tone of assurance. “ I can get by with them until I find work so I can get my beauty products.” He laughs.


“Beauty products? Man, I wouldn't be so confident. They have a way of taking beauty out of a person. Are they rollies or the real stuff?”


“ Rollies. And, remember, I'm not handsome at all, but I have a well-rounded beauty that even you couldn't compete with.” Jamie bursts out in a hard laughter. “There is no replacing beauty like mine!”


And, the well-thought-out bartering of cigarettes,well-needed hygiene items, and clean,sorely-needed clothing in the transitional shelter is a known practice of obtaining essentials that the clients need on a daily basis. Yet, there is “fine-line” of the bartering practice in a transitional shelter. Food is never traded or used to obtain financial gain or essentials (in nearly all). But, at a transitional breakfast, lunch and dinner, food is passed between clients as it is either an unused particular, or heart-tugging conviction, as most practice the technique of edible preservation.


All seems lost for the moment with no ending in sight for all who has attended the weekly tradition of transitional dinner – as nothing seems to rise out of Murphy's Law. It will take a miracle to have everyone overcome the heart-draining stress of the trials of daily life, for everyone involved with the deception of the mysterious gentleman, who has now made his way to the corner of the street of the transitional shelter.


It is quiet now throughout the transitional clients and shelter as the patience of waiting for the information of immoral behavior from John, as it's not an easy task sometimes in most. But, on this night the gentle, spring breeze is now beginning to pick up in some places. And, miracles are far-in-between these days at the transitional shelter at the moment. Will they come soon? Or blow away in the wind?


All of a sudden a young man is watching something on the Internet through his economical, lower-end cell-phone. And, the high-volume echoes throughout the crowd as it blares at a high-pitch tone.


“Coach McGinty. What will it take to bring Washington back in the game?”


“Heart. Heart.”


“Can you elaborate?”


He pounds his heart. “Miles and Miles of Heart.”


And, it seems that the love of within America has all, but dissipated on this night. Miracles are “far-in-between” these days in America, as the social evolution of status and prominence has the American citizens pursuing the best interests of their families, where allowing time to volunteer for social issues takes a back-seat, as normal volunteers of them are over-exhausted from “pulling their weight”.


But, this cool, spring air is something different. It seems to have an undying energy, with Murphy's Law at the heart of all of the transitional shelter. What can we expect? Anything perhaps.


Alex now steps out-of-line to check on the case management line to see if any extra beds will be open tonight. He walks towards the end of the corner of the transitional shelter. And, stops.


“Murphy!” He yells out with excitement. “How you doing soldier (while saluting him)!?”


“Aww, I'm hanging in there. Just coming by to look for a friend.” He calmly projects his agonizing pain with a crack in it. “How is the dinner?”


“It's not going to what is planned. But, it's business as usual.” Alex states. "I know it's hard for you though. Harder than nearly all.”


Murphy is an Anglo-American standing at 5 feet 6 inches tall with a gentle, humorous humble quality within him. He is a Vietnam Veteran who self-medicates with alcohol to numb the emotional pain of a forgotten war.


He has long-light brown hair and beard, and wears a red bandana and black clothes everyday. But, he has a gentle nature about himself. He doesn't stay in shelters much, but constantly lives on the streets as he visits the shelters to look for his friends. He well-liked by all even the authorities. Everyone knows he is struggling, and all wish he would finally “come to terms” with his memories.


“I don't mean to pry in your business, but I just wanted to say thank you for the protection and preservation our freedom.” Alex affectionately reassures him with placing his right hand on his shoulder. “I know it's hard for you. Have you thought of going to hospital for all of it?”


“I've tried. But, it's too damn hard.” He say with the enormous swelling of tears in his eyes. “I just can't.”


"It's time to come home solider.” Alex responds with reassurance. “And if a they can't help you. One thing can. And, that's God.”


“Man, that's deep!” He replies with a strength in his response as it seems he has already been thinking of the subject.


What will save the dinner from becoming a complete failure? Perhaps, everyone should give up as faith has all but disappeared? But, the natural law of belief in overcoming obstacles lies with the human psyche of nearly all. Some need help more than others. Faith does not discriminate to anyone. Life is bunch of trials trapped in a well-wrapped enigma.


The mysterious gentleman is about make to make his final, pulverizing move as he has thought long-and-hard about the next move of chess, as it is a game that has been in society throughout the end-of-time. He considers himself a master player. And, this special social crowd is “music to his ears”. He intends to win-it-all.


He begins to take another deep puff of his Cuban cigar to settle the life-long accounts of his wretched beliefs and mindful convictions of Humanity. He cannot fail at his mission. The faithless crowd is so easy to believe the fabrication of deception. He inhales. And, exhales, and blows the deep smoke towards the transitional shelter. But, it quickly disperses and blows back towards him. He looks with a puzzled look in his eyes.


And, all-of-a-sudden, a 2013 White Ford Mustang stops at the East Bound light. The music from the Ford Mustang echoes a creed into the cool, spring air.


“Hello my friend, we meet again.”


The light turns to green and the Ford Mustang slowly strolls East.


And immediately after it has passed, a dark tinted 2009 Black Chevy Silverado pulls up to the curb in front of the transitional shelter. The muffling of the engine is smooth and quiet. It stops it's engine and parks.


On the back of the dark-tinted window reads an inscription in white lettering:


“Not of this world.”


Print Print | Sitemap
© Critique of Pure Religion