First published in the Baptist Times 29 July 2011
Martin was a regular churchgoer in a local parish where we used to live.
A heavily-built man with tousled hair and a shambling gait, he lived in the nearby psychiatric unit but spent most of his time wandering around the neighbourhood. If he stayed out too long or became upset, someone would call the priest or the police, who would gently escort him home.
He would arrive midway through services and amble up the aisle, leaning over pews full of people to pat the head of any child, which sometimes alarmed parents but never children.
He sat in the front pew, telling people to 'budge up' if it was occupied, and from this vantage point would comment on the speakers with uninhibited honesty, often representing the unspoken views of the congregation.
One sermon that had children fidgeting and adults surreptitiously reading the newspaper was punctuated by Martin's huge vocal yawns. Finally he let out an agonized groan and stretched out full length on the bench. The mounting volume of his snores, accompanied by the children's giggles, persuaded the speaker to finish.
The church was both Martin's mission field and his fundraiser. He would greet people with a warm handshake after the service - or not quite after, generally starting his round of greetings in the silent period after communion. That way, he had time to position himself outside the main door before even the promptest leavers exited.
Having been greeted by the priests inside the porch, Mass-goers would be greeted outside by Martin with an outstretched hand and clear message: 'Twenty pence, please!'
One week he forgot the script. 'Twenty pounds!'
'I've heard of inflation, Martin,' I told him, 'but that's a bit much, isn't it?'
He frowned, then guffawed. 'I meant twenty pence,' he allowed. 'But not if you're poor.'
One day I was leaving church, feeling low, and he beckoned me over.
'I haven't any money on me, Martin.'
'I don't want money,' he said. 'I want to give you some chocolate.' He proffered a large chunk of Dairy Milk.
'That's just what I need,' I told him.
'I know,' he said. 'That's why I'm giving you it.'
Another day I found him upset, angry and shouting at passers-by.
'Not having a good day?' I asked.
'A f---ing awful day!' he shouted.
'Did someone upset you?'
'Everybody!'
'You know God loves you, Martin?'
'He might f---ing love you but he don't f---ing love me!'
'He loves me and he loves you, so don't let the bastards get you down,' I told him.
He stared, then roared with laughter. 'That's a good one!'
Sometimes he roared at God. During a time of silent adoration, when I was trying not to be distracted by the whispering of two women at the back of the near-empty church, Martin erupted. Striding up to the altar, shaking his fist, he shouted, 'Why didn't you answer me! Why didn't you give me what I asked you for?'
One of the women approached me. 'Should we call the priest?'
'No - why? He's praying.'
Certainly more fervently than any of us had been.
At Christmas, a friend had agreed to play guitar for carol singers at the hospital but, out of practice, was tuning up in the chapel first. Martin put his head round the door, went away and returned with several psychiatric patients: 'Sit there and listen to the music!' He left Kathy nervously singing carols to them, and kept returning with more people till the chapel was full. When she left for the official carol service, Martin led an encouraging round of applause.
A. W. Tozer remarked of 'mental unfortunates' that it's not their disability that society can't tolerate, but their honesty. Martin's honesty made encounters with him unpredictable.
But it also gained him so many friends that, when the unit closed down, locals petitioned social services not to send him away from the neighbourhood he had made his own.
