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But up the block at His Place, a combination nightclub and crash pad run by Southern Baptist Arthur Blessitt (TIME, Dec. 26), the message is simply love. In Washington, D.C., Blessitt is now conducting a 40-day "evangelical blitz" to mark the end of a 3,000-mile cross-country trek during which he and three companions hauled a 100-lb. cross. Part of Blessitt's message is in the little red Day-Glo stickers (JESUS LOVES YOU, TURN ON TO JESUS) that he and his followers plant everywhere. Part of the message is in the drug argot that he raps out to his street audiences: "You don't need no pills. Jes' drop a little Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Christ is the ultimate, eternal trip."
Ancient Boldness. Moreover, say the street Christians, Christ can liberate the addict from other trips. They claim that genuine conversion can keep an addict off drugs as no other "cure" can, and the witness of their followers, like the testimony at faith-healing tent meetings, is filled with tales of needle-scarred young lives healed by Jesus. But in contrast with many conventional fundamentalists, their approach is open and joyful, notably lacking in self-righteous stiffness. The prevailing attitude is ecumenical. Many come from Roman Catholic or Jewish backgrounds.
So far, the street Christians have met with little opposition, possibly because their primary concern is not politics but the Gospel (most are pacifists, but they rarely demonstrate). Policemen love them. Businessmen contribute generously. Even a conservative evangelical theologian like Carl F.H. Henry applauds their "1st century boldness." Perhaps the major hurdle street Christians will have to overcome is the eternal temptation to turn spontaneity into drill.
Clayton House, one of San Francisco's earliest, seems to have succumbed already. Founder Richard Key and his entourage now tape broadcasts for ten radio stations, publish a newsletter soliciting contributions, and maintain a 24-hour prayer room to forward the petitions of their benefactors. Meanwhile, Clayton House has abandoned the now largely black Haight-Ashbury scene just down the hill. "God has taken us out of the street ministry," explains one member. Of the potential converts still remaining in the Haight, he says: "Their hearts are hardened."