THE MOUNTAINS OF DENVER MOORE

Some mountains are too high to climb.

For a man named after the city by the Rockies, Denver Moore never figured he'd get a leg up in life, much less a mile-high.

Denver started out valleys-low and remained there long enough to keep him from seeing anybody worth getting close to.

He used to disappear from people, not so much to refresh his thoughts but to escape anyone who tried to get to know him or his name.

Besides, how could he refresh himself after boiling under the sun for many years in the Louisiana bayou, as life cut his hands and heart through endless cotton-picking and watching family and friends disappear like rain in August?

How could he sing after having his life silenced behind the bars of prison and the crumbled hope of homeless life, where the cost of living often matches the expenses of sickness, addiction, or even dying?

What could make him smile after scraping through half of his life without an identity to grab onto, and fearing to give out his identity at all?

Ask Denver Moore for the answers to those questions, and he'll tell you not to worry.

None of those things enslave him. Not anymore.

After all, Denver knows about slavery.

Growing up in Red River Parish, LA, without electricity, education, or information (Denver had no idea about World War II or the wars in Korea and Vietnam while growing up), he slipped through the cracks of modern social movements which may have helped him and fell hard on a life of indentured servitude.

Working for “The Man”, a collection of plantation owners prone to taking advantage of their indebted sharecroppers, Denver eked out a living until he hopped a train and ended up in Fort Worth, TX. Soon he found himself a slave to street-life, free to walk where he wanted, but bound by an untamed spirit which landed back in Louisiana and straight into Angola, the prison considered the most dangerous in America during his ten-year stint.

Having no option but to return to homeless life after prison, Denver kept to himself and made sure nobody got close to him. He'd seen enough people he cared about pass by in his life, and if up to him, nobody else would have that chance to hurt him.

Good thing it wasn't up to him, because he found out God's love won't remain outside a heart meant to contain Him.

In God's love, Denver also came to know freedom.

The full-detail of Denver 's story jumps off the pages of the heart-wrenching book, Same Kind of Different As Me. The book also chronicles the lives of co-author Ron Hall and his wife Deborah and their relationship with Denver. The Halls, a couple from the opposite end of society and well beyond their normal circles of doctors, lawyers, and art-dealers, initiated an uncommon friendship with Denver which impacted each of their lives along with the souls of many homeless people in the Fort Worth area today.

Recently, Denver Moore served as a guest speaker at 121 Community Church. Whether you read the book or not, he left each person with rich words of godly wisdom spoken by a man who paid a high price to speak them.

Denver took the stage, poised with eyes pouring humility, lit with a smile demonstrating a joy found beyond his own personal pain and loss.

When he told us to “Be joyful to know God is good. God still took care of me. Under the highways and the bi-ways, God provided”, his words brought new light to Matthew 6:24-34.

Hearing about God's provision sounds good from a friend sipping a latte across from you in an air-conditioned café, but when hearing about it from a man who knows one bad day or night on the street could mean not waking up to a new day, it seems to pound home the message.

No longer silenced by his circumstances or by his own doing, Denver challenged us to bridge the gap between the suburbs to the streets by loving people, no matter who they are.

“We try to accuse people of things to avoid doing what God asked us to do which is love the unlovable. When you have passion on those who are down and out, God will bless you. Don't use other people for stepping stones. Humble yourselves.”

Hearing a stern warning against the prison of pride from a man who knows the insides of one of the darkest institutions in America stamps an impression on you.

It's hard to believe that a man so unwilling to share his name (much less his life) with anyone else could now stand on a stage in front of a mass of people in one of the services and assert, “God will use me and make me as he wants.”

A loud thunder-crack punctuated the moment, affirming the statement and sending a cheer through the audience. In the aftermath of God's demonstration of power, Denver demonstrated his humility.

“I think I'll take a step back. Not out of fear, but out of obedience,” he said.

Reluctant to share the hurts of his life or speak much about the book which has catapulted his name out of the hood and into places he never thought he'd see on the inside, Denver offered, “God got Denver here. God orchestrated the book, and stopped him from being a crook. Go ahead and read the book, understand it, and know God will bless who He pleases. When God touches your heart to do something, take a chance.”

There's no doubt this once-homeless man still keeps his life centered on the knowledge of God's provision, slowing his Louisiana accent to a crawl to say, “It's about hearts and brains, not about money and thangs. ”

As he wrapped up, one got the sense that Denver could go on for the whole afternoon and that we'd be the better for it, but he didn't leave without telling us, “It's all good, even the sad stuff. Let the world know God is all good.”

After singing a stirring Negro spiritual a cappella, Denver disappeared from the spotlight like he had done many times in his life, but not before shining light on our need to let the joy of the Lord be our strength.

As in Denver 's case, God will get you over those mountains.

::Chris Howard

Editor's Note: For a bonus treat, listen to the message of Ross and Denver from July 8th mentioned in this article

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