Breaking Bread Together

I once attended a small, quirky parish that attracted those who did not feel comfortable at the cathedral downtown or the sprawling churches in the suburbs. On any given Sunday I sat among college professors and struggling musicians, soccer moms and tattooed high-schoolers. All were welcome there.

There were a couple of unhoused people who joined us each week as well, and in particular, a man I’ll call Ben for the purposes of this story. He was known to many in the congregation because they had reached out to help him on occasion. Although he was, for the most part, uncommunicative, he seemed to sense that the church was a place he could come for communion and community. Most Sundays, though, Ben did nothing more than sleep, slumped over a bit with his chin lowered to his chest.

One Sunday morning I saw the police talking to Ben as I drove into the church parking lot. He seemed agitated, and soon our priest ran toward the officers to see if she could help. They took Ben away, although I do not know why.

“Is he all right?” I asked the priest.

“No,” she said. “He is not.”

A few weeks later I found myself sitting near Ben, and he seemed as usual, to be asleep. What can he be getting out of this? I wondered. Maybe all he needs is an hour off the streets. Why does he bother? Maybe he comes for the coffee and bagels we enjoy after the service.

While I was being nosey and judgmental, the pianist began playing a familiar hymn. Like many of my old favorites, the song quite often brings me to tears. And on this particular Sunday, when I was missing my dead father even more than usual, a few simple chords had the power to make me weep.  As I reached for a tissue in my purse, I heard a noise coming from Ben. He lifted his head only slightly and his eyes remained closed. But his voice was sure and clear and strong. “Let us break bread together on our knees.”

And there it was. After I stopped crying, I realized I would never understand what brings Ben to church, and it is not for me to “reason why.” Quite possibly he’s driven by motivations I could never fathom, needs known only to God. As it is with many of the big questions in life, sometimes it takes me a while to clue in to what matters. As I was leaving the church, it hit me: I am not called to understand. Instead, I am called simply to make room on the pew—and in my heart.

—Amy Lyles Wilson, Writer and Spiritual Director