Flying the Flag on Marginal Way

Flying the Flag on Marginal Way

"Hey, father, peace be with you!” 

Father Philip beamed, more comfortable navigating narrow dockside pubs than St. Pius’s nave. 

“And you, Bob; peace be with you this lovely Advent season!” He returned the phrase with a vigorous hand-shake.

“I almost didn’t recognize you without the robe. Hey Jimmy, get Father Philip a Guinness; it’s almost his birthday!” Within moments, two pints arrived, one to either side of the clergyman. 

“Thanks, Bob, but I need to leave soon; snow’s starting and you know those cobblestones on Fore Street.” Father Philip drained both pints.

 “Yeah, these Portland winters are tough. Take this, Father; get yourself a cab back to the rectory.” 

With a smile and nod, Father Philip pocketed the twenty-dollar-bill and departed. A taxi idled outside; he gave it a glance, then turned up his collar and walked into the tempest. After only a block, he darted into an alley and unzipped. As he did, a shrill cry arose. 

“What in the hell are you doing?” 

Stumbling over a pile of blankets, Father Philip shrieked, "Damn! Get out of the way you stupid drunk!"

"Screw you! The least you can do is give me a few bucks for pissing on me.” A crinkled cardboard sign reading, "veteran and homeless – God Bless America,” stood sentry against the wall.

"Get a job!" 

"I had one, making good money welding ‘til I burned my hands on an acetylene torch; not much use for an old pair of hands that don't work so good no more." He removed threadbare, fingerless gloves, revealing deep scars on the palms of both hands. “Thank God it didn’t kill me.”

“Sorry – maybe next time.” And with that, the confessor tripped back onto his uneven route.

Following next morning’s mass, Father Philip assembled his receiving line by the door – the frigid air felt good on his throbbing head.  An indigent man approached with a sign, “veteran and homeless – God Bless America.” The foggy-headed priest handed him a twenty. 

“God bless you, my son.” 

The pauper threw the money back, shouting, “Keep your money!” 

Exiting parishioners shook their heads; a well-dressed widow retrieved the crumpled bill, returning it to the trembling priest, reminding him that, “God helps those who help themselves.” The remaining congregants filed out in precise order, pretending not to take notice of the man right in front of them.