The church yard is worn brown and thin.
It's a sign, Leslie Isaiah Gaines says, that his ministry is working. A lot of people are stopping at the corner of Gilbert Avenue and William Howard Taft Road in Walnut Hills for warm hugs and free food.
"I am so proud that we have killed this grass. People come by and say, "Oh, you . . .' "
The driver of a 10-year-old, off-white Chevy honks his horn. The judge waves and calls out.
How are you this morning, my brother? God bless you.
He picks up with his story.
" . . . Oh, you killed the grass.' There are probably thousands of manicured church lawns in this city. If you ever come by and see that the grass on this corner is lush and green, then I don't feel like we've been doing the work I've been sent here to do.
"But if you come by and see that this grass is dead and matted down, like it is, then you know we are out here working and not inside the four walls."
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IF YOU GO
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What: Everybody's Tabernacle.
When: Non-denominational Christian services are led by former judge Leslie Isaiah Gaines, 11 a.m. and 7 p.m. Sunday.
Where: 2601 Gilbert Ave. (corner of William Howard Taft Road and Gilbert Avenue), Walnut Hills.
Miscellaneous: Services are broadcast noon-1 p.m. Sunday on WCIN (1480-AM). Call-in show 2-3 p.m. Sunday on WCIN.
Information: 961-1010. |
Mr. Gaines' ministry is called Everybody's Tabernacle. It's unlike most Tristate congregations but loosely resembles Vineyard Fellowship churches with its non-denominational, come-as-you're-dressed invitation.
Everybody's Tabernacle is housed in -- and beside -- a former Presbyterian church building. It represents the latest step in Mr. Gaines' very public evolution from lawyer to evangelist.
Well known as one of the Tristate's top and most colorful defense lawyers for two decades, Mr. Gaines stepped down from the Hamilton County Municipal Court bench in 1996 to become an evangelist and motivational speaker.
In June, he gave up the Sunday night radio talk show he had hosted on WLW-AM (700) for more than four years.
These days, almost all his time and energy is devoted to his ministry, which celebrated its first service on Mother's Day. Attendance, a few dozen in the beginning, is 300 on Sunday, he says.
"He's glowing," says his wife, Judge Deborah K. Gaines of Hamilton County Domestic Relations Court. "It's more than he had hoped it would be."
The banners affixed to the wrought iron fence that surrounds the church yard spell out Mr. Gaines' vision: The Corner Court of Love Judge Leslie Isaiah Gaines Enter for free hugs, free love, free advice
A second large banner announces Sunday services: All invited. Come as you are. No dress code.
Behind the fence, beside a cafeteria table covered with boxes of pastries and bags of cookies, Mr. Gaines sits on a high director's chair on this Wednesday morning. The sign on the back of the chair reads -- when Mr. Gaines moves his 6-4, 250-pound frame to the fence to hug a passerby -- "Court is in recess. Judge Leslie Isaiah Gaines, pastor presiding, will return soon."
Mr. Gaines, 53, can be found presiding over the corner almost every day. He's there from 8 to 11 most mornings and again from 4-7 in the afternoon. He gives out, as the signs advertise, free food and free hugs. He has been out there rain or shine, "just in case even one or two people come out looking for prayer."
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THROUGH THE YEARS
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1973: Leslie Isaiah Gaines and his wife of two years, Deborah K. Gaines, opened the law offices of Gaines & Gaines. Mr. Gaines practices law for the next 22 years.
April 1993: Appointed to Hamilton County Municipal Court bench by Gov. George Voinovich to replace retiring Edward Donnellon.
November 1993: Wins election for Municipal Court seat.
March 1994: Sees the face of Jesus in swirls of marble on a pillar at the Hamilton County Courthouse, which he calls a "wake-up call from God."
December 1995: Preaches first sermon at New Jerusalem Baptist Church in Carthage. Judge Gaines does not call himself "the reverend" because he has no formal seminary education.
February 1996: Steps down from Hamilton County Municipal Court to become motivational speaker and evangelist.
May 1998: Opens Everybody's Tabernacle Church, a non-denominational congregation, in Walnut Hills. |
There's no doubt whose ministry this is. Mr. Gaines cuts one of the most distinct profiles in town, so distinct that he has copyrighted his image: a large figure in a black suit, wearing a black derby and wire-rim glasses, white handkerchief in the suit pocket and a white shirt with no tie.
The figure is painted on yet another sign, which stands behind Mr. Gaines' table in the church yard.
It reads: U-R NO JUNK.
Behind it are a handful of grills, on which Mr. Gaines and church volunteers grill hot dogs for neighborhood children and passersby in the evening.
Mr. Gaines explains his ministry as he hooks the heels of his size 13-EE black cowboy boots to the director's chair support brackets. It's a statement broken up by a cacophony of honking car, truck and bus horns. The Mercedes and the clunker greet Mr. Gaines, and he responds with equal enthusiasm.
"Hello, my brother. How are you? Hope to see ya on Sunday. Like I said, come as you are."
"I had been given a vision of a ministry that "You are no junk,' " he says. He emphasizes words with a voice that rises quickly to a boom.
"That's the BASIC business of this ministry, to go into where people have been FEELING like junk, LIVING like junk, have junk in their lives, including ALCOHOL, DRUGS, VIOLENCE, just to tell them "You are NO junk.' "
He considered 15-20 Cincinnati sites, including several on Burnet Avenue in Avondale and Linn Street in the West End.
"I wanted to find people who were "throw-away' people, people having trouble with the justice system, living in poverty. We wanted to minister to people nobody else wanted."
Recycling souls
One of the people who say they've been recycled into productivity at Everybody's Tabernacle is Cecil Proffitt, 42. He is a homeless man paid in a free-will offering for playing the church organ during Sunday services.
"I'm not too proud to say I was incarcerated when I heard (through the jail grapevine) about Judge Gaines' church," says Mr. Proffitt, a former professional trombonist. "I called him collect from the Justice Center. I told him I needed help. He told me to come by. "When Judge Gaines says, "I love you, brother,' you start believing you are somebody. You start trying to get a grip on your life. This place already means the world to a lot of people."
Mr. Gaines is comfortable with "throw-away" people.
"He has always wanted to champion the underdog," says Mrs. Gaines, who lives with her husband in Amberley Village. They have two children: Leslie Gaines III, 21, who's taking a break from college and working in a Dayton, Ohio, auto dealership; and Deborah Denise Gaines, 20, who's studying computer science at Alabama State University in Montgomery.
To see the positive response from African-American men has been the most rewarding part of the ministry for her husband, Mrs. Gaines says.
Mr. Gaines wears his trademark black derby and a black T-shirt over his white dress shirt. He walks to the fence and hugs a woman. She ten birth to a son this morning.
"How wonderful," Mr. Gaines announces. "Another member of the family."
He pauses, then launches back into his goals.
"We are trying to tear down walls," he says. "We're reaching out to white, black, rich poor. Our congregation is beginning to reflect that. They enjoy the fact they can come as they are, T-shirts and gym shoes. Sometimes I preach in a T-shirt. We've got homeless people sitting next to multi-millionaires."
The effort has apparently struck a nerve.
In recent weeks, the owner of a Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise brought over enough chicken to feed 300.
A man from Pepsi brought a van filled with soda.
Every day, the neighboring Kroger gives cookies and pastry for Mr. Gaines to give out.
Giminetti Bakery gave him dozens of Fourth of July cookies for neighborhood kids.
Neighborhood churches have donated food for Judge Gaines to give away on his corner.
"On this corner, (lawyer) Stan Chesley has stopped by and expressed his support," Mr. Gaines says.
Mr. Chesley, a Cincinnati-based defense attorney, says his friend is a natural minister. He recalls an incident that took place soon after Mr. Gaines came to town.
"He talked a guy, who he knew, down from jumping off an apartment building in Avondale," Mr. Chesley says. "He's a master with people."
Carl Lindner, chairman and chief executive officer of Chiquita, has also stopped by to express his support, Mr. Gaines says.
"My admiration for Judge Gaines came about several years ago, not only because of his ability to achieve personal success, but because of his compassion and dedication to others, especially those who need guidance, inspiration and compassion," Mr. Lindner says in a written statement. "I think everyone should have a second chance, and Leslie is giving these people hope and perhaps a future."
Contagious spirit
A Metro bus pulls up to the stoplight. Its door is open. The driver smiles and waves to Mr. Gaines.
God bless you this morning.
"All sorts of people have bought into the spirit of love and peace," Mr. Gaines says. "A fella circled the block the other day and dropped off a package of hot dogs. It's a spirit that's contagious. "There's a lot of hostility. People have to deal with a lot, put up with a lot. People have come by who appreciate merely the fact that we were on this corner to give a hug. I feel so good and humbled to be sitting here."
As he speaks, a Forest Park man -- who asked not to be identified by name -- pulls his sport utility vehicle into the church parking lot and waves for some of Mr. Gaines' helpers to come over. A few minutes later, they carry up a grill fashioned from a oil barrel.
"Now," the man says to Mr. Gaines as they shake hands, "you won't have to grill up those hot dogs one at a time."
A woman comes to the fence. Mr. Gaines motions her in and they embrace the way people who know each other do.
"This is Karen, Karen Chatman," Mr. Gaines says. "I've known her for 25 years. I'm so proud of her."
The 44-year-old Walnut Hills woman, a supervisor with a Colerain Township health-care company, says she has been clean of drugs for six years, a recovery she owes in part, she adds, to Mr. Gaines. "Whatever I needed, he helped me with," she says. "He'll help a lot of people here."
There are two Sunday services, 11 a.m. and 7 p.m. Many worshippers say they haven't been to church in years and came in contact with the ministry through the street corner giveaways.
"One day a man came running over. He had been here before. He said, "Judge Gaines, I'm so glad for this corner. I was two seconds from blowing somebody's brains out around the corner. But I had been here before.' "
It's where the man had heard Judge Gaines preach: Just stop and think. Stop and think. Don't react. Stop and think.
"And he said, "That moment to stop and think saved somebody's life and saved me from going to the penitentiary for life,' " Judge Gaines says. "Little things like that -- you never know what a word might do. Everybody who goes by is part of the family."
A young man wearing a T-shirt walks north on Gilbert. His pace suggests he's in a hurry. He stops when Mr. Gaines calls.
God bless you. Good to see you. Give me my hug this morning.
Mr. Gaines follows the dirt path he has worn in the grass. The men embrace over the fence.
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