Ralph

I met Ralph in 2015. I was volunteering at the Church on the Street's men's shelter — 40th Avenue and Van Buren — doing IT work and showing up however I could. Ralph was the one keeping things in order. He provided structure for the homeless men who came in off the streets, and he did it with the kind of authority that only comes from having been one of them.

The thing that kept me coming back to COT's was simple: no matter what condition a man walked in with — strung out, belligerent, broken, half-gone — he was offered help. No hoops. No intake theology quiz. Just help. That was rare. Unlike my experience at Phoenix Rescue Mission, which is a whole different post someday.

‍

Ralph was one of those men.

Best I can recall, he had walked into COT's about five years before we met. He recovered completely from his addictions and became one of the few men in my life I would call a real Christian — and I don't use that word lightly. Ralph was at a place where his faith and hope were real. Not rehearsed. Not performative. Real. And his passion for helping other men who'd been where he'd been? Unstoppable.

Ralph was diagnosed with cancer a couple of years after we met.

Early on, he kept serving full time at the shelter. As the tumors grew and walking became a war, Ralph would fight his way — IV pole and all — to the front of the shelter's dining area with his Bible and preach the Gospel. On one occasion, he had to grip the arms of two men just to keep from falling as he made his way to the pulpit.

Let that sit for a second. A dying man, holding onto two broken men, dragging himself to the front of a room to tell other broken men that there's hope.

That's not religion. That's faith with skin on it.

When Ralph became bedridden, he refused to leave the shelter. He opted to stay in the storage closet on a makeshift bed. That closet became our world for a while. I spent hours in there playing chess with him, reading to him, trying to make him laugh. That season taught me lessons I will carry for the rest of my life.

I tried to get help from churches. Diapers. Someone to sit with him. Soup. The results were what you'd expect — and what's become all too common. Very little help.

When Ralph passed, I reached out to several large churches trying to raise enough money to give him a proper burial. The only thing I'll say about that is this: I called CCV and spoke to the pastor, who told me Ralph was not his problem.

About thirty minutes later, his secretary called me. She was in tears over the conversation. She sent me money out of her own pocket.

Funny how things work. Right.

It's ironic to me — the people who have nothing tend to be the most passionate about the simple message of hope we've been given. Ralph was an iconic example of what faith and hope look like when they're not dressed up for Sunday. He was a massive example in my world of what it means to follow Yeshua with everything you've got — by making Him everything you'll ever need.

I don't forget men like Ralph. And I don't forgive systems that do.

‍

‍