In the summer of 1988 the controversial movie “The Last Temptation of Christ” played in theaters across the country. By the evening of the first day, the line of protesting Christians at Chicago’s Biograph Theater had reached a thousand strong. At curbside, the police had cordoned off a two-lane corral to restrict the flow of Christians, who they deemed to be violating the speed limit of light. At the sight of this I was moved to throw in my lot with the chosen ones, jumping into the fray with my crucifix-shaped-like-an-ordinary-camera.

          On the opposite side of the police lines, dozens of trendy theater goers inched their ways to the box office, with an occasional familiar face rising above the din to greet me. As I bent to acknowledge each, a question would appear on their face: “My God, Burkhart… What in the world are you doing mulling around in there with all those Christians?”

          And sure enough, as soon as I would step back into the flock, one of the Christians would chasten me: “My God, Brother… What in the world are you doing over there cavorting with those heathen?”

          At one point I crossed back over the line to get a better perspective on these so-called Christians with whom I had become identified, but was immediately turned around by the police and marched back into the corral: “You’ll have to stay within the confines of your assigned area, sir.” “But officer,” I stammered to no avail as I was sucked back into the throng.

          It was another two days before I stepped back into the pedestrian line, finally headed in to see the movie everybody was talking about. Either the officer didn’t remember me as the Christian he’d rerouted two days earlier, or else the policy about Christians had been revised. Perhaps with good reason: by the end of the day the number of Christians was so diminished that the line attending the movie was now the longer and noisier of the two. In fact, another couple of days would find but a handful of zealots remaining.

          I remember with sadness that last great day of protest. With rain falling heavily from the heavens, everyone was gone, except for one lone nut seeking refuge under the Biograph’s marquee, his weary placard drenched and flagging at half-mast, yet still proclaiming defiantly: “Oh God of the Eternal Heavens & Earth… If It Be Your Will, Rain Down Fire & Brimstone on the Biograph Theater, Forever & Ever, Amen.”