The Old Guitar Man Evokes our Love

by Sarah-Leah Pimentel · March 1, 2016

Mercy transforms. It is not just a pious concept restricted to religious contexts

The old man comes shuffling in, guided by his daughter. He doesn’t appear to see very well as he feels, rather than reaches, for his cup.

Rodriguez’s concerts in South Africa evoked the love and mercy for him that Pope Francis calls on us to extend to all.

His speech is slurred and at times he appears somewhat disoriented. His coat is ill-fitting and the beanie on his head makes him appear out of place. Bearing his guitar, he might be a washed-out, oldtime busker on a street corner. You might casually drop him a coin or two as you walk past.

The old guy whom you might have been prepared to disregard when I first described him is Sixto Rodriguez, the enigmatic “Sugarman” who was the voice of a generation who felt powerless (and possibly afraid) to change the cruel regime of the day, but who still wanted to express their desire for a different kind of country.

Attending a Rodriguez concert recently reminded me that how we treat others is often directly tied to the context in which we meet them and the personal relationship we have with them.

What touched me deeply was the compassion that the audience had for Rodriguez. The artist was clearly ill at ease when he first stepped onto the stage. He started by playing someone else’s songs.

In between songs he seemed unsure of what he would be playing next or even which tune he was strumming.

But the audience transformed him. For over an hour and a half they called out things like “Rodriguez, we love you” and “You’re my hero”, and thundered applause after every song.

By the end of the concert, Rodriguez had played some incredible solos, taken digs at the candidates vying to become US presidential candidates, and given advice by telling the audience to “stay off drugs and listen to your momma”.

Mercy transforms. It is not just a pious concept restricted to religious contexts. Mercy is a call of the heart to reach out in compassion to the heart of another. And when heart meets heart, the external trappings fall away. We no longer see the shabby clothes, the brokenness of an aged body or the confusion of the mind. These become irrelevant and we suspend judgment.

Mercy sees that each person we encounter has a history and a story to tell.

Rodriguez’s lyrics were the first encounter that many South Africans had with him some four decades ago. They connected with his desire for a more just and equal society that doesn’t build its power on the back of the disenfranchised blue-collar worker.

That first generation of Rodriguez fans connected because they sensed this man was singing from his own personal experience. He was one of the forgotten masses.

What makes his story so poignant is that he would have remained forgotten in his own country if it hadn’t been for the quest of two people to find the man behind the songs. A connection of the heart. A connection of mercy.

Personal connection elicits a personal response. The audience at the concert reacted with such gentleness and empathy to the man who had borne hard labour and the broken dreams of a lifetime because they knew his story and it resonated with the inbuilt desire for justice and recognition.

This is what the Holy Father is calling us to in this Year of Mercy. He urges us to reach out to those we would normally disregard, simply because they are nameless faces on street corners or the forgotten masses in the squatter camps at the fringes of our cities and towns.

It’s about more than dropping a coin in a hat or placing a cup of hot coffee into cold hands. It’s about making a personal connection. Listen to their stories, their long-forgotten dreams, their frustrations and disillusions—even their anger.

As we journey into the deep heart of Lent we reflect on the many occasions when Jesus turned outwards to the fringes of society and personally touched the lives of those who observed him from afar, not even daring to think he would speak to them.

Zacchaeus, the reviled tax collector, hidden in a tree; the unclean woman with a haemorrhage; the adulterous woman about to be stoned; blind Barimaeus who called on “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me”; the man possessed by demons; the leper who came back to say thank you…

In each of these stories, the person touched by Jesus receives hope, the chance for a new life. I know that Christ’s mercy—through the audience —was present in the concert hall in Cape Town when Rodriguez called out: “South Africa, you give me life.” Life because we gave him an opportunity, late in life, to live out his dream.

If the people of this nation can give life to an impoverished manual labourer from Detroit, how much more can we do for the millions of South Africans who live on our doorstep, if only we would reach out to them in mercy, one person at a time, one heart at a time?