I rode the eastbound Max train Monday from Pioneer Square in downtown Portland, Oregon, to the airport. The train was not crowded – just me, a youngish couple to my right, two guys further up with their bags near their feet and their cell phones holstered like six-shooters, one lone eastbound commuter and a woman with a baby stroller. No one spoke above a whisper.

Until Bliss boarded.

The kid wore a baggy blue hoodie and pants he looked in immanent danger of losing. His head was shaved, and his feet were dirty. He strode into the car, and I looked down to keep from making eye contact. He zeroed in on the couple next to me, extended his hand, and said “Hey, man, I’m Bliss – where are you guys from?”

“New York,” the male half of the couple said, and Bliss seemed to like that. “Cool, you’re from the city.”

Then his monologue began. He was a musician he explained, and maybe they’d caught him a month or so ago on MTV, or heard him on the local indie station. He and a couple of buddies had put some songs together and needed funds to make a demo. Not your normal panhandler, I decided. This one’s got a story – and he plans on telling it.

“I don’t want to just ask you for a buck or something,” he explained. “Everyone does that. I want to make something for you.” Now I was really curious.

“I’m gonna make you a rhyme,” he said. “It’s a good rhyme I been workin’ on – and I think you’re gonna like it.”

New York guy must have reached into his pocket to give him a buck in exchange for silence, but Bliss declined payment before full services were rendered. “Just wait, man,” he said, “and if it’s cool, then we’re even.”

He steadied himself in the center of the car, and then started his rap/beat poem about himself, and his music. His voice was loud and clear. He did not look down, even though most of us did. He used one off-color slang word, then half-apologized: “Sorry to offend, man, but this is art.”

When he finished Bliss took the dollar extended to him – but instead of slinking away, he looked his benefactor in the eye: “I hope you liked it. Did you like it? Was it better than you thought it would be?”

Bliss was hustling for money – but he was clearly a man who loved his work. And as he exited at the next stop, it occurred to me that he was less reticent to sell his rhyme than I usually am to give away my faith.

What I have to offer is priceless, but it can be had for even less than a buck. And I know without asking that it’s better than good.

So how come I’m not just as willing to put it on the line anywhere, anytime, the way Bliss was, in transit?

For I am not ashamed of the gospel, for it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes…for in it the righteousness of God is revealed…” (Romans 1:16,17, NASB)

© 2003 Leigh McLeroy