It was a bone-chilling cold, pre-dawn Tuesday morning. The 5 a.m. alarm on my phone sounded, and for several minutes -- nestled in my warm bed -- and debated with just turning it off and drifting back to sleep.
But I got up, with a moan. It was the day for early-morning liturgy and
communion at Sts. Peter & Paul Orthodox Church in downtown Salt Lake City.
I knew I needed it, and needed to be there.
After the service, the guys would meet for coffee and scriptural study with
Fr. Paul downstairs -- a time that has become especially precious to me during
this season of prolonged Covid-19 related isolation.
Showered and dressed, I donned a heavy coat, scarf and gloves and bundled
myself into the car, first scraping a sheet of ice from the windshield. My
decades-old Honda Civic coughed to life, I turned on the heater full blast, and
drove down the road.
It's a 15-minute trip to the church, and to my usual morning prayers and
added not a few laments about life as we have come to know it in the age of
pandemic. Finally, as I drove on near-empty, slippery streets, I passed the
homeless camps of shopping carts draped with makeshift tents that regularly pop
up along the curbs of the Salt Lake County-City Government Complex.
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| Deseret News photo |
But I was so self-absorbed, irritated that the old Honda's heater was just beginning to warm the car's interior, that I hardly noticed the desperation and poverty of wrecked lives that have become part of the urban landscape.
Pulling into a dark side street and then the small parking lot behind my parish
church, I sat for a time behind the wheel, relishing a belated moment of
warmth. Then with a grunt I got out, put on my mask, shivered, and began
walking down the alley to the entrance of Sts. Peter & Paul.
The homeless, I'm ashamed to say, have too often become the faceless,
nameless backdrops of our lives today. If not ignored, then they only elicit a
brief thought or an occasional a few bucks quickly handed over to appease the inconvenience
of guilt.
But there is one denizen of the street many in the parish have come to know,
and some befriend.
"Michael," also the name of his patron saint, adorns the sleeves
of his arms and coat with iconic images of saints and angels, secured with
transparent plastic and duct tape. Slight and gaunt, his beard and graying hair
often seeming as wild and surreal as his thoughts, Michael has good days and
bad.
Some days, he holds forth on the warfare of angels and demons in the skies
above, where clouds may swirl, punctuated by thunder and lightning. "See?
There they are, fighting over the souls of the dead? Right there," he once
told me on a summer day, pointing and nodding.
On other days, he seems to have the simple clarity of a saint. That is the
case on this particular frigid December morning, as he steps out from behind a
plastic tarp draped over his nest of blankets and sleeping bags near a
building's steam vent.
He won't do the shelters. He has horror stories of sickness, bed
bug-infested cots, drug use and violence inside them. He's often been robbed of
his few possessions. Over the years, our priest and parish have tried to
arrange other housing and psychiatric care, without success.
So, one does what one can, meeting this brother where he is, and with what
he needs -- warm clothing, food, a few dollars for coffee or a snack, and
friendship, to the extent this gentle and enigmatic man allows that.
So, on this morning, I just want to get inside to the warmth, comfort and
spiritual refuge of the church. Michael recognizes my voice, this time, and
hurries to my side. I'm grumpy; he is ebullient, and our pace toward the open
iron gates of the entrance slows.
"It's a good day," he rasped. "It's a
cold day," I grumbled back.
He either didn't hear me, or ignored my reply. "God is so
great! He provides what you need. Even a hot shower!" Michael
pointed to the steam coming out of a head-high pipe. "They shut
down the showers where I was going," he explained, vaguely waving
toward an undefined downtown Salt Lake City location, "But then
God provided this!"
He went on to list a few other things he attributed to Providence. A place
to fill his water jug. People cared enough to check on him, feed him, take him
to the free clinic, even just talk for a few moments.
Then, Michael grinned, pointed at the church where he, like me, received baptism
a few years back, and said, "And we get to go inside His house and
have communion! Hey, it's the Breakfast of Champions!"
And we did that. We climbed the steps inside to the candle-lit darkness,
venerate the icons of the saints and stood for the ancient prayers of the
liturgy, culminating with the Eucharist.
I watched Michael approach the chalice, a look of awe on his smudged face as
he received the mystical Body and Blood of Christ.
As he made his cross and silently walked away, I sighed, ashamed at first,
then humbled, and then grateful for the lesson.
For Michael.
Lord have mercy, indeed.
