Every so often someone comes to the door of the Rectory. It’s always a whole parish occasion and is something to be celebrated, even if it doesn’t feel like it at the time. It’s not just about the priesty guy, it’s about every member of the congregation and community when this happens. Ultimately it is the priest and parish who come away the wealthier and more blessed.
This is how I would write up one of these ‘parish events’. I have fudged some of the details to protect the innocent.
You would have to call him a crumpled man. Dishevelled in appearance, his posture was stooped and not just because of his physical ailments. He had that hangdog droop because of the emotional weight that was cast like a lead coat over his shoulders.
We chattered for a while and he told me his story, or part of it. Can you ever really tell your whole story in the space of one conversation and are we ever really completely aware of our own story? Others will always see things we can’t see.
Impoverished is another word to describe this gentleman. It wasn’t just dollars or lack of them, it was also a dearth of family, friends and community. He’d been addicted, bashed, ignored and incarcerated. There was nowhere left to go. This was the absolute bottom of the pit. With every pretence and facade stripped away, things had never been clearer or more sharply focussed for him. And all that seems sad, and it was, but there was also a chat about tomorrow.
When our concrete certainties lie demolished around us and we are left to play in the ashes and rubble of our humanity, then the work of our redemption can begin. May it begin with me.