Our
community was blessed with the presence of a man named Wild Bill. For
two years, Bill was a regular: at times hugging, loving and wise; at
times drunk, incomprehensible, and loud.
That
was Bill. When he was with us, really with us, our community was
enriched with knowing the love of Christ through Bill. When he wasn't
fully present, our community was enriched by having to share that
love of Christ with someone who wasn't always so lovable.
Wild
Bill had lived on the streets of Chattanooga, under a bridge, for
more than a dozen years. It boggles my mind and stretches my heart to
think about all that means. He survived a dozen winters, outside. He
slept under a bridge, with cars whizzing by, over his head. He camped
with friends, who he called brothers, developing relationships of
interconnectedness deeper than many of us ever will know.
I
first met Wild Bill, who told me that was his name, at Southside
Abbey's worship on a Friday evening. Soon after, I was doing my best
to make him feel welcome at Southside Abbey and I kept introducing
him to people as Bill. He stopped me: “My name is Wild
Bill.” As our relationship grew, I asked him: “Why Wild
Bill and not just Bill?” He told me, “of all the children my
mother had, I was the wildest, so she called me Wild Bill.” He let
that sink in for a most pregnant pause, before he let me in on the
joke – he was an only child. That was Bill, excuse me, Wild Bill.
Full of love, ready with a smile or a joke.
We've
been working with Wild Bill to get his back Social Security
Disability. He had injured himself years ago, walking up the large
concrete incline that led to his “home.” Several surgeries later,
he told me that he, “couldn't get through the metal detector at the
courthouse.” This was one of the the many things that had slowed
down Wild Bill's progress in navigating the bureaucratic waters of
Social Security. I'd like to think we were close to actually making a
breakthrough.
A
few Fridays ago, Wild Bill blessed us with his presence one last
time. He arrived at Southside Abbey and as I went to shake his hand,
he pushed my hand out of the way and flung his arms around me. As he
did, I could smell the alcohol. This wasn't new for Wild Bill, but
our rule is: drunk is okay (not ideal, but okay), belligerent is not.
Wild Bill was never belligerent.
He
left worship a little early to get back “home” to his bridge,
before it got too cold. The cold bothered Wild Bill, especially the
metal rods in his leg and back. He died that night – crossing the
highway above his bridge in the cold and the rain – Wild Bill was
hit by a car.
The
weeks that have followed have seen little change in Chattanooga. One
bridge in town is without its Wild Bill. He died without fanfare. No
legislation to change or end homelessness. No crowd-sourcing or
fundraising in memorial. As I start to wonder if anything will really
change because of Wild Bill, I realize that I have been changed, our
Southside Abbey community has been changed, and I think of all those
lives that were touched by knowing Wild Bill.
This
season of Advent, we wait expectantly for the coming of Christ. We
remember Christ, coming to us as the most vulnerable and we await
Christ's Reign, where God's will is known and done on earth as it is
in heaven. Many of us in the Episcopal Church can fool ourselves into
thinking that we're already there, or at least pretty close to the
Kingdom of God in its fullness, that progress has made things better
for everyone. Our lives are pretty great. I, myself, enjoy my
gluten-free bread at $5 a loaf.
But
we're not all there yet.
There
are still some places of wilderness out there, places that have wild
people, people like Wild Bill. I used to think that it was the
Church's job to save people like Wild Bill, but it may just be that
they are saving us. Happy Advent from those still waiting.
This
post
was
originally published on the
Episcopal
Church Foundation's Vital Practices Vital Posts
blog
on December 22, 2015. It has been reprinted here with permission.
