Jesus found waiting on the clothes line
The part I played in the twice-monthly distribution of clothes to people living and sleeping on the streets of San Diego was a small one. I cannot take credit for the enormous miracle that Sharon Everett, a retired school teacher and dedicated Catholic Worker, pulls off twice a month at a breakfast cooked and served by the First Lutheran Church community in the heart of the city.
I happened to have a small pickup truck at the time, so my job was to meet Sharon at seven in the morning, and together we would load the clothes that Catholic Worker supporters had donated and she and friends had sorted during the week, then take them to the church plaza where the people were gathering for breakfast.
Homeless take over
When we arrived at the church parking lot, volunteer homeless people directed us into reserved places where a team of strong men were eagerly waiting to help. They unloaded the heavy bags and boxes, hoisted them up on their shoulders and rushed them down 20 or 30 steps to the far end of the plaza where tables were already set up to display the clothing.
There was nothing left for me to do so I wandered aimlessly through the maze of tables and chairs awaiting the diners. People were coming in off the streets, most of them in rags and tatters and looking as if they were not feeling the better for having slept out in the open air or in a makeshift tent on a concrete bed or a cardboard mattress. Some were greeting one another like old friends; others were solitary and as lost-looking as I was, a complete stranger, a misfit, awkward and struggling in my mind as to what to do next.
Out of the blue, a kind woman asked me if I had a number. I had no idea what she was talking about, so I said no. She gave me a card with a number on it, and told me to sit down and she would bring me breakfast. My first reaction was shock: ””Oh my God, that poor woman has taken me for a homeless person! Now what do I do?” Not wanting to embarrass her (“I’m not homeless. Can’t you see I ‘m the one who brought all the clothes here?” ), I put pride aside, thanked her and did as I was told; I took a number, sat at a table where a middle-aged, really homeless Asian woman was quietly eating her breakfast, and I began to contemplate. Strangely, I no longer felt out of place. It felt good to be accepted. I was one of them and It was a privilege. I tried a little small talk, but the lady did not chat. I knew from experience that homeless people are often fearful of strangers, even those bearing gifts, so I kept quiet. After a while another, younger, woman, also Asian, arrived, and they both chatted away in a language I did not understand
Then a man sat down, and we began to talk, about nothing in particular. I asked him if he had a number which I had discovered gave me a place in the queue for the clothes. and he said no, so I gave him mine, Because I had arrived early, mine was a low number that put him at the head of the line giving him a better choice from the garments stacked on the table.
Breakfast first
My breakfast arrived on a tray. Like everybody else, I got porridge, scrambled egg, toast, jam, and a fresh donut and a mug of coffee. I ate the donut and drank the coffee, and offered the remainder to the Asian woman who, having cleaned her own plate, took it gratefully.
People were already lining up by number, rummaging through the clothes, picking out what they found useful. For the women there were shoes, socks, underwear, skirts, pants, blouses, cardigans, jackets and handbags, everything spotlessly clean, some brand-new; likewise for the men, there were shoes, socks, new underwear, shorts, trousers, shirts, pullovers and jackets. There were blankets and sleeping bags (in limited supply), even a few coats for the dogs, Sharon being a lover of our four-footed friends.
After watching the action for a little while, I sat down to watch the people, many of whom were in small groups standing around chatting, some showing off with pride their new clothes, hanging out together to pass the time. As I watched, I saw a brought-to-life print by the 19th–century engraver Gustave Doré, whose reproductions of scenes such as Jesus curing the lepers, or raising Lazarus, or whatever, you see in old King James Bibles.
Jesus revealed
As I watched, an amazing transformation took place. I asked myself, if this were a scene from the Bible, where was Jesus? And then it dawned on me that everybody there —all the men, women and children — were Jesus. This was not a vision, or an apparition. It was a revelation. Nothing objectively changed. The people were the same, only freeze-framed in stark black lines. Each was reduced to his or her basic humanity, sons and daughters of God. Dorothy Day, among others had taught us to see Jesus in the face of the poor, but this was overload, preposterous — 60 or 70 homeless people, everyone all at once revealed as Jesus Christ.
The crazy part
Then — and here comes the real crazy part: If each person was Jesus Christ, who was I? It turned out that I, too, was Jesus. Totally ridiculous, of course, but that’s the way it was. I may have been doing his work for an hour or two, but I was not, no way —not even close to — Jesus Christ, and yet that’s exactly the way it felt. Crazy, of course.
Only some time later did I remember the words of Jesus in Saint Matthew’s Gospel: “I was naked and you clothed me. … Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me” (Matt: 25.36,40).
Many of us are familiar with the woodcut by Fritz Eichenberg of Christ of the Bread Line, standing in a queue outside a Catholic Worker House of Hospitality waiting for a bowl of soup. Well, I saw Jesus on the clothes line that morning.
As I drove home to a “proper” breakfast, the thought dawned on me that I had been given a special privilege to actually see Jesus in the guise of the poor, a revelation and a recognition that I hope I will never forget. Now when I see a homeless man or woman by the side of the street, it’s so much easier for me to say to myself with conviction, “There he goes again. That’s Jesus.”
Maybe you can do the same? Try it and see.
Denys Horgan is a member of the San Diego Catholic Worker.