By Jake Dell

Christ Church uses remarkably simple equipment to take prayer to the people in southeast Schenectady, New York.

I arrived at the church at 9 a.m. with Torre Bissell and we set up a 4-by-4 folding table with five chairs.

“Put it here,” Torre said, pointing to the crack in the sidewalk that must have been the property line. “That way no one can say we’re on the sidewalk. And point chairs this way, facing out. That way people don’t feel trapped.”

And that was it. A laminated sign reading “Prayer Table” flapped from the front. Torre pulled out a pen and paper and jotted down my name and his and the day’s date. Then he pulled out a bag of wooden crosses and laid out a few along with a thin paperback English Standard Version New Testament.

“Good morning!” he called to a man walking across the street. “Can we pray for you?”

The man waved and walked on his way.

Christ Church is on State Street in Hamilton Hill, which most people just call The Hill. In the cities where I’ve lived, The Hill is never a nice neighborhood. Hamilton Hill is no different.

“The Hill provides two essential services to the suburbs: prostitution and drugs,” Torre told me later over lunch.

Another man approached.

“Good morning! What do you need us to pray for?” Torre called.

There really isn’t any way out of that one. It’s direct and not a yes or no question. And who doesn’t have some burden to pray about?

“Um, yeah,” the man said as he sat down.

“What’s your name?” Torre asked.

“T—,” he replied.

“What can we pray for?”

“Um, my girlfriend’s been in a terrible car crash. And I’m kind of dealing with that.”

We prayed for him and his girlfriend. He thanked us and left. Torre made a note of the encounter.

Then G— approached. I could smell the alcohol.

“I just came from Florida, and I need a place to stay.”

We joined hands. And we just did it too, not asking “May I touch you?” The fear of insurance and liability were distant while the Holy Spirit moved.

“Lord, we pray for G— that he will find a place.”

“My friend is supposed to help me. I am supposed to call him.”

“We pray, Lord that you would open that door for G— or if that is not the right path for him show him the place to which he is to go.”

G— thanked us and left. We gave him a wooden cross necklace.

Then we saw three passersby. Some of them needed jobs. One just wanted to “give thanks.” Each received a cross.

K— came by. She’s been here before. Gang-raped last year, she’s shaved her head. Her brother is in prison.

“I’m seeing him tomorrow. He may get out next month!” She smiled.

“Lord we pray for K— and her brother. You have all things in mind for them; lead them.”

Torre looked at his notes and counted, then checked his watch.

“Not bad,” he remarked.

This is Christ Episcopal Church in action.

R— stopped by.

“R— what can we pray for?”

“Um, my girlfriend and I aren’t on the same page. And I’m out of work six months now and that kind of messes up my attitude.”

“We come to you in prayer, Lord, and we give R— and his job and his relationship to you,” Torre prayed.

R— took his Yankees cap off as we prayed. He wore a Yankee tee shirt with a digital print of himself holding a young boy.

“Is that your son?”

“Yeah, that’s one of my kids.”

“Have you accepted Jesus into your life?”

“Yeah, I did a long time ago when I was young.”

“Lord, we pray that you would lead R— back to you as you once led him to you in the beginning.”

Torre interrupts to pray. Conversations with him are punctuated by a different grammar.

But life is always being interrupted, and why let the devil have all the interruptions?

“How long have you been with your girlfriend?” Torre was back on point.

“Oh, for a long time, about six years,” R— answered.

“And have you thought about marriage?”

“Oh yes.”

“And you both want that?”

“Yes. But I am not … it’s … my financial situation. I am not used to that. As the man I should be providin’ and I can’t right now.”

Torre nodded his head and reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a diary. He opened to the back page and showed R— a picture of the Bissell family. There are at least 30 people in the picture: Black, white, and Asian faces flank Torre and his wife, Jean.

“This is my wife,” Torre pointed.

“When we arrived back from Africa” — Torre and Jean had been overseas missionaries — “we had no money. But we had family. What I want to say to you, R—, is that God doesn’t want you to live this way. We all want to be comfortable and have nice things, but think about it. Think about making this woman your wife.”

I braced at thinking R— might think he was being judged. I expected a defense or a comeback. Instead he rose thoughtfully with a much different look on his face than I would have had. There didn’t seem to be any shame or embarrassment. If anything I thought I saw a bit of relief, as if he had been given permission to do something he’s really wanted to do for a long time.

More regulars came and went. The prayer table is located near a bus stop and box-store clerks and other service industry workers stream by. A pretty young Hispanic woman, two younger girls, and their grandmother walked by. I don’t think she spoke English, but Torre held the woman’s hand, prayed for her, and gave her a cross. Fifteen minutes later she passed by again and smiled. She was wearing the cross.

This is Schenectady.

M— passed by with a baby, who smiled sweetly as we prayed over his mother.

Two boys rode by on bicycles laden with cans.

“There is a can redemption center up the street, but I like to think of Christ’s Church as the redemption center,” Torre joked.

The one who had been gang-raped passed by again, this time with a baby.

“Is that her brother?” I asked.

“It’s her son.”

“How old is K—?”

“Nineteen.”

K—’s baby boy looked at us apprehensively.

“He doesn’t know you,” his mother explained matter-of-factly.

But he knows the darkness.

(Lord, let there be light.)

A minute later a minivan drove up. A man and his son sat in the front seats. Torre smiled. The driver’s side door opened and the man got out and ran over to us.

“Here you are, gentlemen — for your efforts,” he said, as he handed us a piece of paper.

It was a check for $500 made out to Christ Church.

Money follows ministry.

(Let the church understand.)

Torre was quick to explain that the prayer table does not accept offerings or donations. But this man, who had a life-changing experience at Christ Church many years ago, occasionally drives all the way down to The Hill to deliver his support.

“10:30,” Torre said, glancing at his watch. “Time to pack it up.” Within two minutes, we struck the setting of our low-tech ministry and drove off.

State Street turned from vacant storefronts to houses and finally to the bulldozed earth cuts of new development. We turned toward Barnes & Noble adjacent to Panera in one of those new, upscale brick-and-stucco shopping centers that dot the landscape from Milwaukee to Birmingham.

Inside the superstore, a mural depicting Faulkner, Rimbaud, Wilder, Waugh, Eliot, Joyce, and countless other literati posing in a Parisian night cafe created an ersatz sophistication.

Jake Dell lives and works in New York City.