"A priest told me this story. As a young deacon, he was sent to a parish in London to train for a summer. During his first week working in the parish, he found an old down-and-out man at the back of the church one evening. He was eating a burger and drinking a bottle of Guinness. The correct young priest to be went up to him and informed him that this was a church not a restaurant and asked him to leave. The old man took no notice of him and just continued to babble away to himself. The deacon went later in exasperation to the parish priest. He smiled and said, "Ah, that is David.' Years ago he had come over from Ireland with his young wife and family. He had a great job. They were very happy and had the prospects for a wonderful future. One day a car hit David. He lost his memory totally and could never again remember who he was or recognize his family anymore. He ended up on the street. He made the back this church his shelter during the day. This story changed the young deacon's view of the old man. Over summer he often watched him muttering away to himself at the back of the church. He had a very unusual way of praying. He would kneel into a pew and babble while milling the air with his outstretched hands. The deacon never heard him utter a clear word or a coherent sentence; yet the touching image of this haunted and forsaken man always at prayer at the back of the church began to move him. On his last evening there, he went down and knelt beside the man. He told him that tomorrow he would return to Ireland to finish his study and become a priest. He asked the old man to say something to him about what a priest should be. For one moment the old man focused, looked at him and said: 'The sympathy of God.' It was the only sentence anyone had ever heard him say."
photo: church lights by adsj (st patrick's cathedral, new york city, january 2011)
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