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(This article originally appeared in the Feb. 5, 1996, issue of Christianity Today.)

Some 30 or 40 worshipers shuffled in on Sunday morning to the basement of Freedom House, a community center in inner-city Boston that is part of Azusa Christian Community. The "altar" (a folding table draped with a brightly colored African linen) was circled by three rows of folding chairs on which had been placed, on alternating chairs, NIV study Bibles. There was no bulletin. The worship songs were familiar choruses, raucously proffered—the love of King Jesus was "tumblin' down" that morning.

"Julian" (not his real name) came in and sat down nervously, clutching his Bible. His gold earring jumped out like the exclamation point to his shaved head. His sweater glowed white, and his crisp white pants almost crackled when he sat down.

Julian asked for prayer for his Jewish neighbor during the prayer time. "Yes, Lord. He's my buddy, Lord," he repeated, throughout the petition.

At other junctures during the service, Julian had other things to say. "Pastor," he said, "I thought you were going to be gone today."

"No, Julian," the pastor replied in a quiet voice, "I'm leaving later this afternoon. It's time to settle down, Julian."

And for a while, Julian settled, blurting out random comments only now and then. But at the conclusion of what had become a two-hour worship service, just as the pastor dismissed the worshipers, Julian had one more thing to say. "I have a prayer to the Lord," he said standing up. "Everybody open your Bibles." Those who had started to shuffle out stopped and turned. "Everybody get your Bibles!"

"Julian," the pastor said, "It's time to go. Now say your prayer."

"I'm not going to 'til everybody opens their Bibles," Julian snapped. "This is prayer to the Lord. You mean nobody cares enough to say a prayer to the Lord?"

Departing worshipers looked at Julian and at one another, thinking, Maybe we should open our Bibles.

"Okay, Julian," the pastor continued. "My Bible is open. Say your prayer."

That wasn't enough. Julian wanted everybody's Bibles opened. He grew agitated. As far as he was concerned, nobody was going anywhere until he said his prayer to the Lord.

Then, heaven-sent, an older woman from the congregation stepped up to Julian, shook her finger in his face, and said, "Julian, you're out of order."

That's all it took. It was enough that only "Pastor" had his Bible open. And Julian said his prayer. He read out loud from Psalm 136: "Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good." Waving his arm, he signaled everyone else to echo the refrain: His love endures forever. "To him alone who does great things," Julian bellowed. "His love endures forever," the assembly answered. "Who by his understanding made the heavens" "His love endures forever … "

And on it went, until the psalm had been recited in its entirety by Julian, and its refrain echoed by the reassembled congregation.

Julian's prayer to the Lord, belligerently imposed though it may have been, ended that morning's service with spontaneous, unanimous adoration. Julian, a former street pimp, had been used by God.

He is but one example of those whose lives have been rerouted as a result of the courageous, in-your-face street ministry of the pastor in that church, Eugene F. Rivers III.

I. Hustler-turned-preacher
Rivers is a man who evokes strong responses. Some, when asked about his crusading campaign to transform Boston's ghettos through the Ten Point Coalition, have derisively dismissed him as an "agitator," a "philosophical gadfly," a "very problematic force," even a "bad joke." Others have hailed him as a champion of "ministry to the marginalized," a "conscience-raiser who afflicts the comfortable," and a "prophet." The Boston Globe, too, has trumpeted Rivers and his colleagues as "a band of Christ soldiers" who "deserve praise for their courage."

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