Often over the last few weeks, I have felt like a set up for the joke, "A priest walks into a bar," and yet, it is imperative to my job.
When I first started, I thought I would have a hard time going into bars and would just haunt the 24-hour donut and coffee shops. And yet, as the weeks have gone by, I have found it easier to sit and talk in bars.
There is one I usually stop in, and in one instance, a woman asked me as I was walking in, "Are you for real?" To which I replied, "Yes, I know I am a set up for a joke." We proceeded to have a good conversation. As I have made it a point to frequent this bar, I have gotten to know some of the regulars, and am known simply as "Fr. Thom."
Recently, it has been raining in SF, and after a reprieve, I visited a regular person the Night Ministry talks with. Over the course of the conversation, he stated the one thing he really needed was a garbage bag for his clothes. Instead of proceeding to a local supermarket, I stopped into a neighborhood bar and ordered a coffee and two garbage bags to go.
So, a priest walks into a bar...
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
Bitter cup of sorrow
Reflections on Matthew 20.20-28
"Can you drink from this bitter cup?" Christ asks James and John, sons of Zebedee.
"Yes," they reply. Christ Jesus in turn responds, "Yes, indeed you will."
Christ drank deeply from the bitter cup of sorrow, as did his disciples and believers through the centuries. Jesus drank deeply from the cup of sorrow; in doing so, Christ tasted what it is to be human -- to taste fear, despair, discouragement, betrayal, isolation, discrimination, abandonment, and death. Christ took all this, drank,and turned these bitter grapes into the sweet wine resurrection, hope, new life, and solidarity.
As is stands right now, I can hold the bitter cup of sorrow, but can only sip it lightly before I pass it back. In my work as associate night minister, I pass by several cups of sorrow each night. Sometimes the cups are held out to me to drink from as well; other cups are spilt all over the ground; and yet other cups are clutched so tightly out of mistrust so as not to be shared.
As I grow into my position as a night minister, I know part of my role is to commune with those on the streets and drink from each cup of sorrow as it is presented to me. At first I would merely sip just enough from a cup of sorrow to just enough to wet my lips with the taste of a particular brand of sorrow, and then quickly hand the cup back. Slowly, over the weeks, I have begun to linger a bit more, to saunter. Instead of sipping sorrow and passing the cup back, I am learning to hold the cup longer, sip, and at least sniff the aroma of bitterness.
Such is where I am as I grow into my role as a night minister. I think at least the other night I was able to help squeeze out at least one drop of the sweet wine of Christ's hope.
"Can you drink from this bitter cup?" Christ asks James and John, sons of Zebedee.
"Yes," they reply. Christ Jesus in turn responds, "Yes, indeed you will."
Christ drank deeply from the bitter cup of sorrow, as did his disciples and believers through the centuries. Jesus drank deeply from the cup of sorrow; in doing so, Christ tasted what it is to be human -- to taste fear, despair, discouragement, betrayal, isolation, discrimination, abandonment, and death. Christ took all this, drank,and turned these bitter grapes into the sweet wine resurrection, hope, new life, and solidarity.
As is stands right now, I can hold the bitter cup of sorrow, but can only sip it lightly before I pass it back. In my work as associate night minister, I pass by several cups of sorrow each night. Sometimes the cups are held out to me to drink from as well; other cups are spilt all over the ground; and yet other cups are clutched so tightly out of mistrust so as not to be shared.
As I grow into my position as a night minister, I know part of my role is to commune with those on the streets and drink from each cup of sorrow as it is presented to me. At first I would merely sip just enough from a cup of sorrow to just enough to wet my lips with the taste of a particular brand of sorrow, and then quickly hand the cup back. Slowly, over the weeks, I have begun to linger a bit more, to saunter. Instead of sipping sorrow and passing the cup back, I am learning to hold the cup longer, sip, and at least sniff the aroma of bitterness.
Such is where I am as I grow into my role as a night minister. I think at least the other night I was able to help squeeze out at least one drop of the sweet wine of Christ's hope.
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