He was like a kid when it came to possessions; price tags meant nothing, small enjoyment meant everything. High tech? He liked a clock radio playing classical music. Fancy restaurants? His culinary pleasures were graham crackers and peanut butter cookies. His idea of a great meal was pouring cereal into his oatmeal, adding a cup of raisins, and stirring it all up. He adored food shopping, but only for bargains-a leftover habit from his Depression days-and his supermarket journeys were something of legend. He would push a cart through the aisles for hours, judiciously choosing the correct merchandise. Then, at the cash register, he would dole out coupon after coupon, joking with the cashiers, proudly adding up the savings.

For years, his wife had to pick up his paychecks, or else he’d never bother. His starting salary at the temple was just a few thousand dollars a year, and after five decades of service, his compensation was embarrassing compared to other clerics. He never pushed for more. He thought it unseemly. He didn’t even own a car for the first few years of his service; a neighbor named Eddie Adelman would drive him into Philadelphia and drop him off at a subway so that he could take a class at Dropsie College.

The Reb seemed to embody a magnetic repulsion between faith and wealth. If congregants tried to give him things for free, he suggested they contribute to charity instead. He hated to fund-raise, because he never felt a clergyman should ask people for money. He once said in a sermon that the only time he ever wished he was a millionaire was when he thought about how many families he could save from financial sorrow.

What he liked was old things. Old coins. Old paintings. Even his personal prayer book was old and fraying, stuffed with clippings and held together with rubber bands.

“I have what I need,” he said, surveying his messy shelves. “Why bother chasing more?”

You’re like that Biblical quote, I said. What profits a man if he gains the whole world, but loses his soul?

“That’s Jesus.”

Oops, sorry, I said.

“Don’t apologize,” he said, smiling. “It’s still good.”

Church

As the Detroit traffic whizzed by outside, I walked through an oversized sanctuary with Pastor Henry Covington of the I Am My Brother’s Keeper Ministry. It was a spectacular old room, with massive high ceilings, a large mahogany pulpit, a towering pipe organ, and an upper balcony of pews.

It was also rotting away.

Paint peeled everywhere. The plaster was cracking. Floorboards had deteriorated, and the carpet had dips that could twist your ankle. I looked up and saw a hole in the ceiling.

A huge hole.

Maybe ten feet long.

“That’s a big problem,” Henry admitted. “Especially when it rains.”

I noticed red buckets in strategic spots to catch the water. The white plaster was stained brown by seepage. I had never seen such a hole in a religious building. It looked like the hull of a ship blown apart by a cannon shot.

We sat down. Henry’s belly hung so large in front of him, he seemed to hook his elbows over the pew for balance.

“I’m not sure why you’re here,” he said politely.

You take care of homeless people, right?

“Yes, a couple of nights a week,” Henry said.

They eat here?

“Yes, in our gym.”

And sleep here?

“Yes.”

Do they have to be Christian?

“No.”

Do you try to convert them?

“No. We offer prayers. We ask if anyone wants to give their life to Jesus, but no one is forced. Anyone can come.”

I nodded. I told him about the charity. How maybe we could help.

“Oh.” His eyebrows lifted. “Well. That would be excellent.”

I looked around.

This is a big church, I said.

“I know it,” he said, chuckling.

You have a New York accent.

“Um-hmm. Brooklyn.”

Was this your first assignment?

“Yes. When I first came, I was a deacon and a caretaker. I swept, mopped, vacuumed, cleaned the toilets.”

I thought of how the Reb, when he first arrived at our temple, had to help clean up and lock the doors. Maybe that’s how Men of God develop humility.

“Long time ago,” Henry said, “this was a famous church. But a few years back, they sold it to our ministry. Actually, they said if you can pay the upkeep, it’s yours.”

I glanced around.

Were you always going to be a pastor?

He snorted a laugh.

“Noooo.”

What did you plan on doing when you got out of school?

“Actually, I was in prison.”

Really? I said, acting casual. What for?

“Whoo, I did a lot of things. Drugs, stealing cars. I went to prison for manslaughter. Something I wasn’t even involved in.”

And how did you get from that to this?

“Well…one night I thought I was going to be killed by some guys I stole from. So I made God a promise. If I lived to the morning, I would give myself to Him.”

He paused, as if some rusty old pain had just rumbled inside him. “That was twenty years ago,” he said.

He patted his forehead with a handkerchief. “I seen a lot in life. I know what the songwriter meant when he wrote, ‘Glory, Glory, hallelujah, since I laid my burden down.’”

Okay, I said, because I didn’t know what you say to that.

A few minutes later, we walked to the side exit. The floors were caked with grime. A stairway ran down to a small, dimly lit gymnasium, where, he told me, the homeless slept.

I was noncommittal about the charity help that day, saying I’d come back and we could talk more. To be honest, the prison thing was a red flag. I knew people could change. I also knew some people only changed locations.

Covering sports for a living-and living in Detroit -I had seen my share of bad behavior: drugs, assault, guns. I had witnessed “apologies” in crowded press conferences. I interviewed men so adept at convincing you the trouble was behind them, that I would write laudatory stories-only to see the same men back in trouble a few months later.

In sports, it was bad enough. But I had a particular distaste for religious hypocrisy. Televangelists who solicited money, got arrested for lewd behavior, and soon were back soliciting under the guise of repentance-that stuff turned my stomach. I wanted to trust Henry Covington. But I didn’t want to be naïve.

And then, let’s be honest, his world of faith wasn’t one I was used to. So broken down. So makeshift. The church seemed to sag even on the inside. The up staircase, Henry said, led to a floor where five tenants lived in dormlike rooms.

So, wait, people live in your church?

“Yes. A few. They pay a small rent.”

How do you pay your bills?

“Mostly from that.”

What about membership dues?

“There aren’t any.”

Then how do you get paid a salary?

He laughed.

“I don’t.”

We stepped out into the sun. The one-legged man was still there. He smiled. I forced a smile back.

Well, Pastor, I’ll be in touch, I said.

I don’t know if I meant it.

“You’re welcome to come to service on Sunday,” he said.

I’m not Christian.

He shrugged. I couldn’t tell if that meant okay, then you’re not welcome, or okay, you still are.

Have you ever been in a synagogue? I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, “when I was a teenager.”

What was the occasion?

He looked down sheepishly.

“We were robbing it.”