politely.
Again I was tempted to deliver a wise crack, but a force higher
than my self-serving tendencies caused me to hold back. I knew instinctively
that I was missing something, a recognition that I couldn’t place. I looked
the man over cautiously, expecting a delayed realization, but came up empty.
“I don’t think so.”
The man smiled and nodded approvingly at my elected politeness.
“I have always wanted to walk through Central Park,” he said
through his grin.
“First time in New York?” I asked, as though it were some place
that traveled with me.
“Yes.”
“How long will you be in town?”
“Unclear,” the man replied.
“Well then you should have plenty of time. Are you here on
business?”
I was still waiting for my brain to completely thaw and for
whatever it was that I had sensed to click into view.
“You could say that.”
“Going to cause a little trouble?” I asked with a man-to-man
smile.
“Let’s hope not.”
The man shifted his position to face me and put his back to the
wall of the aircraft. The base of his neck was centered in the window and the
sunlight streamed in from behind him illuminating the edges of his head.
“What business are you in?’ he asked, taking control of the
conversation.
I gave him my stock answer designed to prevent further
inquiry. The effort proved ineffective and so I decided it harmless to tell
him of my meeting with Martin Bowman as it had just taken place hundreds of
miles behind us. I took the opportunity to laugh out loud as I spoke of the
man’s discomfort and embarrassment as he ran back and forth to the men’s room.
“I guess you could say that was a two million dollar
breakfast,” I finished through a final chuckle.
“Fascinating,” said the little man. “Your compassion is
overwhelming.”
“Well, perhaps it wasn’t so funny for him.”
Seeing no need to explain myself, I quickly changed
conversational lanes.
“So what do you do?”
He paused for a moment but politely permitted the question.
“I’m a minister.”
He watched me carefully and smiled slightly as my eyes widened.
“Really?”
“Really,” the man confirmed, mocking my surprise.
I enjoyed that he had descended from his altar enough to
demonstrate his conversational gamesmanship. I examined him sideways to
confirm that he wasn’t pulling my leg. He caught the look and in response
extracted a worn brown leather business card case from his front pant pocket.
He handed me a white card with a red flame and crucifix in the upper left
corner. Along the bottom was his contact information at a church in Los
Angeles.
“Where’s your outfit?” I asked, motioning to my collar.
“You’re thinking of priests.”
I let it go, noting his decision to correct my impression
rather than answer my question.
“So what kind of minister are you?”
“I’m a Senior Minister in the Methodist Church.”
“What do I call you?”
“You can call me Daniel,” he replied, again enjoying my
surprise.
“Father Daniel?”
“Just Daniel is fine.”
“Been at it a long time?”
“Over thirty-five years,” he replied, marking himself older
than I had guessed.
“The church must be paying well these days?” I asked
rhetorically, referring to our first class status. The capitalist in me would
never have forgiven myself for not putting it out there.
Daniel reached over and patted my forearm the way a father
might an incorrigible son.
“I have a friend in New York who arranged the trip,” Daniel
replied, permitting the inquiry.
“Some friend, making you connect in Chicago.”
I looked Daniel over again, leaning in to see if I could feel
the radiance of his goodness. Maybe there was something, but I couldn’t be
sure.
“Do you give mass?”
“Every Sunday,” he replied, nodding his head with solid
affirmation.
“Do you enjoy that?”
“Sometimes,” he responded with a chuckle.
“Do you give confession?”
Again I was tempted to deliver a wise crack, but a force higher
than my self-serving tendencies caused me to hold back. I knew instinctively
that I was missing something, a recognition that I couldn’t place. I looked
the man over cautiously, expecting a delayed realization, but came up empty.
“I don’t think so.”
The man smiled and nodded approvingly at my elected politeness.
“I have always wanted to walk through Central Park,” he said
through his grin.
“First time in New York?” I asked, as though it were some place
that traveled with me.
“Yes.”
“How long will you be in town?”
“Unclear,” the man replied.
“Well then you should have plenty of time. Are you here on
business?”
I was still waiting for my brain to completely thaw and for
whatever it was that I had sensed to click into view.
“You could say that.”
“Going to cause a little trouble?” I asked with a man-to-man
smile.
“Let’s hope not.”
The man shifted his position to face me and put his back to the
wall of the aircraft. The base of his neck was centered in the window and the
sunlight streamed in from behind him illuminating the edges of his head.
“What business are you in?’ he asked, taking control of the
conversation.
I gave him my stock answer designed to prevent further
inquiry. The effort proved ineffective and so I decided it harmless to tell
him of my meeting with Martin Bowman as it had just taken place hundreds of
miles behind us. I took the opportunity to laugh out loud as I spoke of the
man’s discomfort and embarrassment as he ran back and forth to the men’s room.
“I guess you could say that was a two million dollar
breakfast,” I finished through a final chuckle.
“Fascinating,” said the little man. “Your compassion is
overwhelming.”
“Well, perhaps it wasn’t so funny for him.”
Seeing no need to explain myself, I quickly changed
conversational lanes.
“So what do you do?”
He paused for a moment but politely permitted the question.
“I’m a minister.”
He watched me carefully and smiled slightly as my eyes widened.
“Really?”
“Really,” the man confirmed, mocking my surprise.
I enjoyed that he had descended from his altar enough to
demonstrate his conversational gamesmanship. I examined him sideways to
confirm that he wasn’t pulling my leg. He caught the look and in response
extracted a worn brown leather business card case from his front pant pocket.
He handed me a white card with a red flame and crucifix in the upper left
corner. Along the bottom was his contact information at a church in Los
Angeles.
“Where’s your outfit?” I asked, motioning to my collar.
“You’re thinking of priests.”
I let it go, noting his decision to correct my impression
rather than answer my question.
“So what kind of minister are you?”
“I’m a Senior Minister in the Methodist Church.”
“What do I call you?”
“You can call me Daniel,” he replied, again enjoying my
surprise.
“Father Daniel?”
“Just Daniel is fine.”
“Been at it a long time?”
“Over thirty-five years,” he replied, marking himself older
than I had guessed.
“The church must be paying well these days?” I asked
rhetorically, referring to our first class status. The capitalist in me would
never have forgiven myself for not putting it out there.
Daniel reached over and patted my forearm the way a father
might an incorrigible son.
“I have a friend in New York who arranged the trip,” Daniel
replied, permitting the inquiry.
“Some friend, making you connect in Chicago.”
I looked Daniel over again, leaning in to see if I could feel
the radiance of his goodness. Maybe there was something, but I couldn’t be
sure.
“Do you give mass?”
“Every Sunday,” he replied, nodding his head with solid
affirmation.
“Do you enjoy that?”
“Sometimes,” he responded with a chuckle.
“Do you give confession?”
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