“I’ve completely given up on organized religion,” he said, shaking his head a bit. “I don’t mean any disrespect to you, but I’ve given up on the church.”
As he said the words, and I thought about his unconventional protest, it came to me that many in the church didn’t have too much to do with people protesting as he was either.
“I’m out here 24-7,” he said. “This is what I do.”
“My name is Clint,” I offered, wanting not to leave him without some kind of connection.
I urge you to read this powerful article about Clint's amazing encounter with a provocative protester on the streets of our nation's capital.“My name is Start,” he said, offering me his hand. “Hi Stark,” I said, not hearing him correctly the first time, and thinking it was a peculiar name, as we shook hands.
“Start,” he said, not as though correcting me, but more as an affirmation. “Start Loving.”
Did I hear him correctly? I thought to myself. You’ve got to be kidding! “Start Loving.” Who would really have a name like that? But he hadn’t said it as some kind of joke. He was straight faced as he said it, as though he was eager for me to remember. Why would he trust me at all with his real name, anyway? He had no idea about whom I might really be, or what I might do that could harm him.
