Guests in the House

Annual Posting            

                           

                                    Guests in the House

 

                     The 747 circled lazily through the patterned array of clouds that framed the blue of the Atlantic Ocean and the gray of the concrete canyons, on the small island beneath us. We were on final approach for LaGuardia Airport in New York City.

 

It was early December and we were looking forward to seeing the Big Apple in all of her Christmas glory. We could already imagine the enormous, decorated Christmas Tree in Rockefeller Center. It would be shining brightly, as skaters swept by gracefully on the ice below.

Thoughts of shopping and dinner in fine restaurants filled our heads like delightful illusions in a child’s fairy tale. We were in the Land of Oz and bursting to see its many wonderful curiosities.

 

New York City is more than impressive to the casual visitor. It is magical and other worldly. As you wander down its many grand boulevards, you can see buildings and places that appear larger than life. The Empire State Building, Lincoln Center, Grand Central Station and The Metropolitan Museum of Art are just a few of the imposing bastions of commerce and culture on display every day in this magical city.

 

People walk hurriedly across the broad Manhattan Avenues in teeming throngs. The outlanders gawk skyward at the unfamiliar sites. The natives are grim and determined, resigned to the battle of living and working in such a tumultuous and fast paced environment.

 

And then, there are the homeless. They appear as unwelcome apparitions, wandering bundles of old clothes carrying their life’s possessions in a shopping cart or beat up duffel bag. Begging for spare change or wandering about, they seem pathetic enough in most seasons. In the winter they are downright tragic.

 

Some few lie on steam grates to capture the underground warmth of a building’s heating system. Others lie in doorways to sleep or shelter themselves from the harsh winds that blow in off the East River. They are a tribe of outcasts that struggle daily for survival.

 

The natives walk around these semi-invisible vagabonds, not seeing them. They are long inured to the daily tragedy that is everywhere about them. The tourists cringe in horror and walk rapidly around the prostrate forms. People do not act like this in Dubuque or Silver City or Bumblebee.

 

I too once thought this way while visiting New York, though we have our own share of homeless in Buffalo. I still avoided the wretched ones. Perhaps, it is an age-old fear of contagion, bred in us from a harsher, long ago time, when the sick and the lame and the old were forced from the clan and abandoned to die alone and bereft.

 

These thoughts passed through my head as I walked up the magnificent Camino D’ Oro or “Golden Way.” The natives call it Fifth Avenue, but that is much too plebeian a name for this magical boulevard that is lined with the riches and wealth of the world. The Plaza Hotel, Gucci, Saks, Fao Swartz, Rockefeller Center, The Metropolitan and Guggenheim Museums all stand as glittery testimonials to the wealth and glory of a civilization at its zenith.

 

My head and imagination were awash with these impressive visions of modern prosperity as I walked along. In front of me, and just across the street from Rockefeller Center, stands another of the City’s more memorable landmark’s, St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

 

Built of gray limestone and weather-darkened from years of exposure to the elements, it appears as a slate-gray and smaller version of the magnificent Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris. With its massive doors and graceful arches, St. Patrick’s Cathedral is an imposing edifice. We were chilled from walking in the twenty- degree temperature and bitter winds, so we decided to enter and pay our respects.

 

As we walked through the vestibule of this storied church, we were duly impressed with the massive vault of the ceiling and the colorful array of stained-glass windows high above us. The magnificently appointed altar and the polished rows of wooden pews bespoke of a faithful who worshipped here regularly. The church has the aura of order and serenity that is conducive to the quiet contemplation and reflection on the mysteries of heaven and earth.

 

As I looked around me, I was mildly surprised at the relatively large scattering of men and women sitting peacefully amidst the long expanse of wooden pews. It was unusual for me to see this many worshippers in church, sitting in contemplation on a winter’s afternoon.

As we finished our prayers and walked up the aisle towards the exit, I slowly passed the length of the church. I began to notice that several of the worshippers were of a scruffy appearance, attired in many layers of cast-off clothing. Some were unshaven and looked ragged and unkempt. Others appeared merely sullen and resigned. Each was alone with his thoughts.

 

I began to realize that they were a small part of the legion of the city’s homeless. They had wandered in to St. Patrick’s to seek warmth and safety from the frigid temperatures. If they sat still and caused no ruckus, they were usually assured a day’s sanctuary from the elements and the unsure danger of life on the city’s streets.

 

At first, I was somewhat taken aback that such ragged people would defile the house of God. They were in here to get warmth and sleep, not pray for forgiveness. All of the early Catholic training in me rebelled at such casual irreverence. As I stood at the back of the church in confusion, the sun broke through the clouds outside, A wonderful array of sunbeams splashed through the linear rectangles of stained-glass windows high along the walls. The color and light were beautiful. At the end of each light beam, as though illuminated in an ethereal aura, sat one of the poor unfortunates. They sat with a forlorn dignity, in all of their wretched misery, spotlighted like fabled figures in a child’s storybook.

 

For a brief second, to my mind’s eye, their ragged clothes and scruffy appearances were stripped away. The smooth, unwrinkled skin of smiling children surfaced fleetingly upon their tired faces. It was as if the lightning strike of Saul of Tarsus had come upon me. The veils were lifted from my eyes, for I realized, in one of those epiphanies of blinding insight, that these men and women around me were indeed the children of God.

 

I saw each of these “children” differently now as they sat quietly in their wooden pews. Who more than they were at home and welcomed here? A loving and merciful God would want them to take shelter in his house.

 

A donation to the poor box and a whispered prayer was all that I could manage, as we edged uncertainly from this magnificent limestone edifice. From across the street, I looked back at the weatherworn structure. The building was gloriously bathed in the bright afternoon sun and I now saw it in a new and flattering light. It is a place of holy refuge, where even the outcast are welcomed. For the remainder of the day, we were thoughtful as we walked amidst the frenetic hustle and bustle of this great city. We had much to think about.

 

The following day we checked out of our hotel and returned to our homes on the far shores of Lake Erie. The images of wealth and splendor still competed with thoughts of the poor and homeless in our minds. It was troubling to me as I reflected on the contradictions that I had witnessed. A line from a favorite Dicken’s novel comes to mind, “It was the best of times and the worst of times.”

 

After our experience in St. Patrick’s Cathedral, I look around me carefully whenever I enter a church or cathedral. And when I see some unfortunate homeless huddling for warmth and safety in a dark corner of the church, I smile to myself. For, I know then that these are invited guests and that this must truly be a House of God.

 

                                                                -30-

                                                      (1,362 words)

                                                  Joseph Xavier Martin