I Am Going To Use The F Word In This Post

A lesson in grace: A homeless man charges up to you while you're on the phone, asks if you're mocking him, informs you how "fucking good it's going to feel to kill you right here on the sidewalk," (that happened sooner than you expected, huh?) then spits in your face for being on the aforementioned phone while in his presence. Tell him you love him, or go Jason Bourne on his face and kick his teeth in?

"What are you doing? Huh? Are you mocking me!"

Walking down Highland Avenue in Los Angeles, lost in an iPhone app, I looked up and saw a short, stout man wearing sunglasses which could have doubled–or in fact been–tanning goggles, and his hair looked like he'd just jammed a fork in an electrical outlet.

By the time I registered him, he was 2 inches from my face screaming incomprehensible demands in hopes of an act of reparation against the atrocities I was apparently in the midst of committing.

I've lived on the road for over a year, and in Los Angeles for three. I've had plenty of encounters with the homeless. The majority of them peaceful. My heart breaks for the homeless. I do everything in my power to fight for those I come across. I've been in far more dangerous situations, so I made the decision to keep walking. Maybe he just needed a place to vent. I was happy to be that for him. I smiled, nodded, and continued about the day's affairs.

"You deserve to die! Do you know that? I will kill you if you keep walking!"

This particular word choice got my attention. He'd started moving right along with me, and I'd disregarded him believing he'd tire himself out soon enough.

"It's going to feel so fucking good to kill you right here on the sidewalk."

Now out of a general fear of being stabbed with a rusty piece of metal, I increased the length of my stride. When my life is actually threatened, the natural instinct to kick in is not to stay and fight, but to flee. This guy looked like he was a dirty fighter anyway. He was raving mad, and I was in no mood to be scratched and bit by patient zero of the Zombie Apocalypse.

The moment I picked up my pace, he charged to catch up with me from behind and I braced myself for impact. But he didn't attack. He simply spit in my face with such gusto and enthusiasm, Babe Ruth would have been embarrassed. His dirty saliva pooling in my ear and dripping down my neck. He finished me off by informing me I deserved it for being on my cell phone before tumbling away down the sidewalk in circles like Tazmanian Devil.

Now I don't have a violent bone in my body. I have a difficult time staying angry, and I rarely yell. But for one fleeting moment, I wanted to be responsible for disabling this man's ability to breathe.

I know this isn't a very Christian thing for me to do or think, but I've already said the F word twice in this article so you know how my week's going. Congratulations if you're still reading and not already down in the comment section rebuking me. I've got a book you might enjoy. It's called We Can't Go Home Again. I use expletives in there too.

What I don't need is you to tell me you can't share my articles with your church or your youth group because of the smattering of colorful language which appears throughout.

You can't tell me that I don't have a relationship with Jesus because of the way I write. I don't need to be told I am not a Christian because I have tattoos and talk so bluntly about sex.

What I don't need–what we don't need–is to constantly be ridiculing and attacking each other when we screw up. And I'm just as guilty of this as you are.

"By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another." John 13:35

Not by how many books you write on on the topic or how large your congregation is, nor by your sexual orientation, your wealth of knowledge, or how many people you can prove are wrong; not by being caught doing something awesome for all to see, and certainly not by how many hits you get on your Christian blog each month.

Now I'm not trying to be some mainstream alternative Christian either who recounts his gritty tales of stories from the streets. I don't want to be that. In fact, I don't even like to cuss. I believe that words give life and they bring death.

I am just a man who is learning. Who is trying to watch his tongue and figure out where God fits in to his new life off the road.

I am learning what it means to be a married man and simultaneously bombarded with sexual images of lingerie models and magazine ads on both the television and the Internet.

I am learning that not every thing I write has to come with a message, that I don't have to post here every Wednesday, and that sometimes I need to write what I want to write, not what I think you need to hear.

I am learning that my wife loves my hair no matter what it looks like even though it drives me absolutely mad.

I am learning how to be one with her yet simultaneously remain myself.

I am learning that there is a difference between Cappuccino White and Country Linen White when it comes to painting your living room walls.

And I am learning to extend grace to even those who spit in my face and threaten my life.

Most importantly, I'm just a man who is learning how to love.

This is me on Twitter: @maxdubinsky

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