By Roger Franklin
NEW YORK - God only knows why he ordained that Americans should worship him in so many weird and wonderful ways.
From the Utah "wars" that pitted polygamous Mormon settlers against the United States Cavalry, to Jonestown's mass suicide and the Waco inferno in 1993, this country's regular eruptions of religious mania have inflicted an infernal amount of grief over the years.
So, given the potential for turmoil, the curious outbreak of devotion that now grips the small, bleak Pennsylvania town of Hazleton has to seem pretty harmless. Not normal, mind you. Nobody in town claims that life is "regular," as they say over the coffee and crullers down at the local diner.
Nor can anyone explain why, for the first time since the steel mill shut down in 1987, folks are feeling good about life again. Or why, when there is so little to be thankful for in this broken down burg, the town's churches are once again filled with the hymns and prayers of joyful worshippers.
No, when the locals get right down to it, the only common ground in Hazleton these days is that it all began on the afternoon in late October when a bare-footed stranger in a dirty white robe walked into town, selected a street corner and began preaching. A few idlers ambled over to hear the soft, low-key sermon about the importance of faith. The next night, word had spread and the crowd was almost 100-strong. By week's end, better than 1000 people were spending the evening in a paddock on the edge of town, where the mysterious visitor sat beneath a tree and lectured into the wee hours.
Almost four months later, the crowds are still coming - although the harsh winter has now driven the meetings into the local hall.
"I would walk through fire for him," gushed Hazleton resident Connie Muir, a middle-aged mother who explained that she was "just a typical housewife" until she listened to the man in the white robe.
"It didn't matter to me that he wouldn't tell us his name, or where he came from. All that matters is his message. He's blessed by the Holy Spirit. People's hearts are really changed after they've heard him. I know mine has."
Nor is Muir alone. With the exception of the local police, who exercised their right as custodians of the public order to demand his name, few others in town know the robed figure's identity. Even less seem to care that he is Carl J. Joseph, that he is 39, or that he refuses to say where he grew up.
Teachers at the local schools report that their pupils are quoting the bearded stranger in classroom discussions, and that habitual troublemakers have reformed under his influence. Even the local police department has noticed an improvement, reporting that incidents of aggressive driving and intoxication have both dropped since the holy man's arrival.
"Most everybody calls him 'What's Your Name,' which is what he calls himself," explained the Rev Gerald Angelo, who is Hazleton's parish priest. "He says it is ancient Hebrew tradition not to tell people who you are until a bond of trust and friendship has been established.
"What I do know is that since he came here, I'm seeing people inside my church who haven't been to Mass for years and years. What's Your Name's effect on people is amazing!"
Which only makes the mystery man's magic all the more remarkable since his message is as old as the New Testament: Do unto others, and open your heart to God's grace.
Hazleton is an unlikely site for such religious fervour. Unlike many of its neighbouring communities, the town is solidly Catholic and not given to the more colourful manifestations of spirituality that mark America's brand of fundamentalist Protestantism. Itinerant evangelists roll through from time to time, set up shop and holler for salvation. But the response is always a big yawn and a tent full of empty seats.
What's Your Name has encountered no such lack of enthusiasm, despite the initial suspicion in some quarters.
"I thought, 'So what we have here is a very slick con man,' " observed a prominent local Protestant, who asked that his name not be used. "But then I heard that he refuses to accept money, or gifts. I'm still wary but I no longer think he is a crook. In fact, after you've heard him preaching, it's hard to disagree with what he says."
What's Your Name declines to give interviews. But those who have come to know him report that he has told them of spending the past 15 years walking throughout North and Central America to preach the gospel. He has been arrested only once - in Greenfield, Ohio, where even the local police admit it was not really his fault.
"He was holding a public meeting without a permit and when our people asked him to move, the crowd didn't like it," said a Greenfield cop. "The listeners got out of line but he was a perfect gentleman."
The bearded and long-haired enigma has hinted that he might soon be on his way. "He could be gone tomorrow," lamented Muir, who has had What's Your Name sleeping on her livingroom sofa ever since the freezing weather made it impossible for him to sleep under the stars.
"But until he goes, this town is blessed to be hosting someone is who is especially beloved of God."
If that sounds just a little too passionate, a little too starry-eyed to be wholly rational, another current outbreak of religious weirdness puts the enthusiasm in perspective. This one is taking place in Austin, Texas, where a local baker's store has become a magnet for believers eager to see what they believe is the miraculous image of the Virgin Mary in the pink icing atop a cinnamon bun.
Given What's My Name's reworking of the Sermon on the Mount, he does not seem that strange at all.
Preacher gets steel town smiling again
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