On any given evening, in addition to the lines of curiosity seekers that wander into my open studio, a group of college kids will emerge. It is amusing to watch them stare absently into the glossy surfaces of my difficult photos of dereliction. Without fail, one of the group will step forward, proclaiming triumphantly: "Dude! There goes me on Sunday morning!" And of course his sidekicks guffaw in agreement, as they walk on down the hall, looking for the bar or the bathroom. It only takes but a few seconds for one of them to pipe up: "Eh, dude. I think we stumbled into someone's house by mistake. I think the bar is next door!"

John Wayne Gacy said it best. We met unexpectedly, and professionally; he was a serial killer, I was a photographer. Hastily we discussed plans to As it happened, our plans were brought to a halt by his attorneys. Acting behind his back, they were busy selling away John's rights to New Yorker magazine and the able talents of Richard Avedon . When John learned of this, he called the whole thing off: "Fuck those bastards, Burkhart. If it's not you, nobody's taking my picture. For all I care they can use that same tired-ass old Polaroid they keep running in the papers. What I'm concerned about, Burkhart, is the caption they'll put underneath it. Lies. all lies!"

And true enough, throughout our several conversations, the one reoccurring concern that haunted him was what caption would ultimately be put under the newspaper photo.

Coming from John Wayne Gacy, that's quite a phenomenal statement! Yet, I salute John Wayne's prevalent awareness: only those about to die can truly appreciate the difference between the Word and the Word made flesh. So let's take a look at what he was saying.

Even in their drunkenness, God protects these kids from the truly sick and dis-eased. They will probably never have to look intimately into the eyes of a real derelict, to glimpse the loss of dignity, buried forever in a succession of blackouts and unconscious Sunday mornings, awaking in an anonymous hospital or jail - or an alley if they're lucky.

And God forbid they'll ever have to look into the eyes of a serial-killer!

No, in the final analysis we have a gracious God that will transport these t-shirt clad teenagers and would-be-drunkards by taxi back to the waiting arms of their Downer's Grove parents. And on Sunday morning they'll go to church or synagogue, or for a spin in the family Mercedes, rather than to a hospital or the morgue.