A barbershop births a church of drug users, ex-cons, and homeless folks

James Rainey, who goes by the name Rusty, has set up his barber shop in Durham, England, to be the ultimate man cave. Leather lounge chairs ring the place. Quentin Tarantino soundtracks loop on iTunes. Video games are free. Ads for Jack Daniels and Marvel comics line the walls. It’s a frat house atmosphere without the beer. And it is a most unlikely place to find a church.

Rusty, named for his red hair, talks about his faith more openly than anyone I’ve met in England. Maybe that’s why he has a tattoo across his throat the way folks in prison and gang members do. His says Romans 8, referring to Paul’s chapter on hope. He has the tattoo, he tells me, partly to hold himself accountable.

He is an unlikely Christian. He grew up in one of the local villages, mistreated by his mum and dad. He understands why some young people choose homelessness, sleeping outside to avoid addicted and abusive parents. He joined the Royal Marines to spite his father, and being away from town made him persona non grata in the village. Locals believe one should be born, live, and die in the village, and if you leave, it must be because you think you are too good for the place. The local pub falls quiet when he walks back in.