John Hardy Fleming

Every TIME I met Brother John he always had a flower and a card for me, whether at Congregation Beth Messiah, the Washateria or just on the street. Sometimes he would say this flower is for you because it matches your outfit. I kept (and pinned it to my wall) the card he gave me with the beach scene and 2 empty chairs in the sand, he hand wrote a reference that one chair was for Yeshua and the other chair was for Gale Storm. He nicknamed me Gale Storm after the actress and he would say with a smile “you know she played in the 50’s TV show My little Margie.” It made me laugh and I would tell him back -be careful you’re telling your age now-. I thank God for showing his love on earth through Brother John with every sweet smelling flower and every heartfelt card I’ll miss Brother John and his God given love.

Would love to talk to someone that was in touch with Brother John. He is my brother that I have not seen for over 40 years.

I loved brother John like a father. He was there for me during my darkest days sharing the gospel in all seasons. I will always remember him and the time he spent with me & my family.

I first crossed paths with Brother John in downtown Houston, Texas, one afternoon on a sidewalk between where I worked at a temp job at Exxon and where I parked (the Metro bus station now occupies that lot). I wasn’t sure what to think of this long-bearded oddly dressed person, all in white from hat to shoes, with the flag of Israel for a cape, large decorative belt buckle and bling on his hat and hands (lapis and gold). I don’t recall saying anything to him when our eyes met in passing.
A few days later I saw John again. This time he was conversing with and hugging the corporate folks at the bus stop across the street. …So maybe it’s okay to get to know this guy?
Turns out, John was giving more than hugs. He would visit nursing homes and hospitals, and give out flowers and balloons. He would leave gifts of sweets for me at the lobby desk of Exxon. He would hang bundles of bread on the doorknobs of residents at the old YMCA.
John would sit outside the YMCA at night and make peanut butter sandwiches for the local homeless folks. You could track his whereabouts by the flock of pigeons that followed him, and by the bits of bread that he left in various parking areas for them to feed on. Local law enforcement was not thrilled with these aspects of John’s generosity.
Brother John was never forthcoming about his past, not the least of which was “what is your real (legal) name?” My best guess came from the inside cover of his bible which had the name “John Jess” (the only thing missing is “U”)… nope, that’s not his name either.
By the time I met John, he was living on the streets by choice, and he had a few places where he was permitted to park his cart. He almost always turned down offers of overnight hospitality, and he didn’t carry a cell phone.
It was in the early days of our friendship that I was privileged at my congregation to
participate in an adult B’nai Mitzvah class. Meanwhile, John had a pastor friend who
came to the YMCA once a week to teach a bible study, and John would prepare the
chapel for the group. So, while waiting for Pastor to arrive, John would sit with me in the chapel and patiently endure my canting practice and drash rehearsals.

I invited Brother John to our group Bar/Bat Mitzvah ceremony, and he came. It was the first day of what would be 18 years of Sabbath attendance at Congregation Beth
Messiah (CBM). In those days it was John’s custom to arrive by sundown somewhere close to the synagogue and “sit vigil” for the night. If you beeped your horn when you drove past, he would wave with both hands in a priestly blessing. He also posed that way for photos (although sometimes he got his fingers mixed up). John brought balloons, candy and coinage for the kids, flowers for the ladies, canned olives and olive oil for me and another friend, and a safe listening ear for those with heavy hearts or relational difficulties. Often, he wrote notes of encouragement in his flowing cursive in which he included scripture references. Some notes he attached to gifts, others were cards that he hand-delivered.
During the week he would bring flowers for the office manager and pay visits to shut-ins that he was made aware of. He even attended evening Hebrew class.

During the various waves of the pandemic, CBM services were conducted live-stream either from off-site, or with a minimal minion and audio/video crew at the synagogue. John would come with his folding camp chair, station himself at the gate, arrange his bottle-vases of flowers against the fence, spread some seed for the birds, and light a stick of incense. In September, when I finally obtained my own car, I could regularly visit John at his Shabbat gate-station. We rarely talked for very long, and he always had a hug and a parcel of olives and olive oil for me. His frequent closing refrain (for at least the past year), was that he was using that time to catch up on his sleep. My closing retort was “your age is betraying you”.

It was a rainy day the last time I saw Brother John Jesus alive at CBM. The building was still COVID-closed. John was staying dry by the door under the valet and he was engaged in conversation with a fellow congregant who had also stopped by. I greeted and conversed with them both. John gave me a hug and yet another parcel of olives and olive oil. I offered the use of my cell phone so he could call a mutual friend who was “always on his heart”, but he declined. I teased John about his white boots (did you buy those from the women’s section?), and I left him and our fellow congregant to resume their previous conversation. Little did I know that he would die the day before on-site services were to resume at CBM the following Shabbat.

Some trivia that I already knew:
John would volunteer at the Houston Marathon, and he entered and ran it himself at
least once.
At one time he had managed a health food store.
A church group took John with them on a trip to Israel.
He kept the Sabbath, feasts and fasts, and he wore a kippah under his white hat.
Other details that I have received second-hand after his departure:
He had owned that health food store, and also an ice cream parlor, both in the Greens Point area of Houston.
That he had taken to the streets of Northeast Houston several years before I met him downtown.
To the end of his days John ministered on the streets of Houston, travelling its length and breadth by bus and metro-rail. Metro drivers were his travel-family.
John befriended the business owners and workers up the street from the synagogue.
On a rainy day about 10 years ago one owner gave him a key to the door so that he
could have a place to stay whenever he might need it. From that day forward, John
sheltered there every night, and it was there that John died, despite the staff’s efforts
and efforts of the EMTs to revive him.
Not too long ago, the aforementioned fellow congregant gave John a cell phone with “necessary” contact info. One of those key phone numbers was to “John’s Rabbi”. Credit goes to Rabbi and John’s friends up the street for taking steps to ensure John’s post-mortem dignity.
Brother John also had his passport. It is from this document that we learn his legal name
and age:
John Hardy Fleming, age 77.
Farewell my friend.
May you rest in the JOY of THE LORD.
I am among those who envy you,
Barbara Moore