Today I stopped midway through my bike ride to talk with a fellow standing on the north side of the University Avenue bridge crossing Highway 163. He was holding up a big wooden cross that could be seen by morning rush hour traffic heading downtown. On one side of the cross was the question, “Are You Ready?” On the other side: “Heaven or Hell.” The word “”Heaven” was nestled in wonderful blue sky and puffy clouds. The word “Hell” was surrounded by angry flames.

I asked if I could take his photograph. Smiling, he turned from his “work” and posed for me. I asked what group he represents, and he told me he is an independent Baptist missionary. He says God called him back from fifteen years “duty” as a missionary in Japan to warn Americans that they must turn away from their wickedness. He said God directed him to construct the cross and to stand with it at various intersections and overpasses in San Diego County. He has a schedule. He is not what I expected. He is not homeless. He is clean. He is not angry. His tone is gentle and soft. He believes he is doing something important.

He and I, standing together, talking amicably on a bridge above rushing morning traffic, are a paradox. Nothing about his “work,” his message, makes sense to me; but he, the man standing on the bridge, trying to do what he believes he should be doing, seems to be a man of honor. He is convinced that many of the people in the cars are going to hell unless he can get their attention and turn them to whatever conversion experience he believes God has told him will save them. He clearly wants to save them from eternal disaster. Some of the people who see his sign may indeed exist in a kind of hell on earth, but I don’t believe there is a place where people go after death to be tormented eternally. He clearly believes there is an alternative destination after death that is eternally blissful and wonderful, a place reserved for people who do whatever he thinks God is telling him people should do. He seems secure in his beliefs. I am secure in mine.

I decided not to ask more questions. I thanked him for letting me get his picture. He said, “God bless you,” and patted my shoulder as I got back on my bicycle to ride away.