It may seem ridiculous. It may seem highly unorthodox. It may seem kinda weird. And you’d be right. But it’s needed now more than ever. What am I referring to? Stoplight preaching. While Ray Comfort and his team preached at the base of the Huntington Beach Pier, six of us saw a golden opportunity to
I was carrying a huge box of vegetables at the Farmer’s Market when a man in a wheelchair pulled up alongside. “Did ya hear about Tammy Faye Baker? She died. Did ya see her on Larry King? Those big eyes, skinny—now she’s dead.” I’ve had my run-ins with him in the past when handing out
A few hours after the debacle at Peet’s Coffee, a few of us tried out a new destination to see if the “bad luck” still clung as we tried to evangelize on Friday the 13th. The new outdoor mall complex catering to the rich ungodly in El Segundo had yet to be tried, so that’s where we headed.
Wrong move.
We hit Starbucks first, some designer cooking pot stores, foo-foo baby suppliers, and name brand sock-sellers… then hit a road block at Whole Foods Market.
I hate that store.
It’s the ultimate in chic-cool with employees sporting gotees, black earplugs, pierced tongues—and those are the women! I always feel out of sorts and out of step when I enter the premises. But! I just love to hand out Gospel tracts and talk about THE ONE TRUE GOD to all the pantheists la-la-ing in the aisles.
“If you died today, would you go to Heaven or Hell?” I asked the all-natural security guard. After taking him through the 10 Commandments to see where he stood with God on Judgment Day, I then handed him a GIANT $100 bill, full Gospel on the back.
“Uh, thank you,” he said, “but can you please not give that to me? The manager is right behind you.”
I turned around quickly to see a foursome huddled together. “Which one is the manager?”
“All of them.”
All four managers approached our little team of three. “You can’t be handing those out here in the store,” said Manager #1.
We moved to the sidewalk, outside the store. “We’ll just hand these Gospel tracts out here, then.”
“You can’t do that; it’s private property.”
“We can do that,” I protested. “It’s a public sidewalk!”
“It’s private property,” he repeated. He pointed to the street. “You can do it there; and we are on the phone to the police.”
We decided to move on down the sidewalk, since all four managers appeared to be calling El Segundo’s finest on their cellphones.
Two of them trailed us, Nokias to ears.
We moved onto the parking lot and looked behind us; they still followed.
Fiesta Hermosa: The Good, the Bad, and the Godly
A plane flew overhead pulling a huge banner that said “WiCKED”. People walked about the Fiesta Hermosa holding brochures advertising the play “WiCKED! My daughter excitedly showed me some free sunscreen she had obtained. Emblazoned boldly on the little tube was the word: “WiCKED”. Up Pier Avenue and in front of the shuttle bus stop,
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