The Rev. Jerry Cradleman zipped into Westminster Presbyterian Church’s back parking lot for his first day at work. He cut sharp into a parking space, killed the engine and remained still. He stared straight ahead; his hands clutched the steering wheel. After a deep breath, he opened the door and pushed his lean six foot frame out. 

 He adjusted his tortoise shell glasses. Before him, next to the church, stood a bedraggled bunch of homeless men in various modes of inattention, some standing, some squatting, some leaning. One gaunt man sported a shirt, tie and business jacket, yet the jacket bore snot stains, the tie was impossibly knotted and the shirt splayed open at the belly. With a hollow stare, he listed to the left, propped up by the church wall. Next to him a man with a soiled yellow bandana tied around his neck bent over his grocery cart. He rummaged though a bag of empty cans. A third man squatted, holding a small dog in his arms, a short haired mix, Chihuahua and something. He shared his water bottle with the dog. 

About 30 men, no women, homeless, stared at Jerry. Awkward moment. 

Jerry’s first instinct was to slowly back into his car, lock the doors and haul ass out of there, but then he reminded himself that this was his new job and this was his new flock. Taking another deep breath, he steeled himself and strode forward. One by one, he sought out their eyes, as best he could since most averted theirs, shook their hands, albeit as briefly as possible, and bid them good morning. 

When he got inside the church, he bolted for the nearest bathroom and scrubbed his hands. Recomposing himself, he returned.  A tall, lanky, older man, sporting horn-rimmed glasses and a baseball cap pulled down low, carried grocery bags. Patches of scaly, raw skin covered his arms. 

He leaned in, up close and personal. “You the new boss?” he rasped conspiratorially. His eyes darted about. 

“Me?” Jerry said, starting, “Uh, no, unless you mean am I the new assistant minister and, in that case, yes, I am.”

“Jack Hawkins.” He grabbed Jerry’s hand and shook it vigorously, eyes still glancing all about. “They’re ready for you.”

“Who?”

“The gents outside.” 

“Me?”

“Yes. Feed your sheep. Here’re the bags. Let’s get going.”

“What do I do?”

“I’ll let them in. They’ll each get one of these bags of food. That’s it.”

He shoved the door open and toed down the stopper. In well-rehearsed fashion the men shuffled in and took their seats on the pews situated on either side of the wide hallway. A gag-inducing odor rolled in with them, a complex bouquet of sweat, urine and vomit, with sweet upper notes of cheap alcohol. They sat quiet, passive, yet expectant. 

“Captain.” Jack nodded towards Jerry.

Jerry turned his hands out and mouthed, “What?”

“Grace?” he hissed.

“Oh, yeah.” 

Riiiight. Of course. Prayer. That old thing. He sucked in some air and held it. If this wasn’t the most repellant bunch of congregants he could have imagined back at Princeton.

“Let us pray.” Hands folded and heads bowed. “Father, you know each of us by name. You watch over us every day. Your love is boundless. We thank you for this food. In Jesus’ name. Amen.” 

That wasn’t so bad, Jerry thought. Not the usual, self-conscious discomfort. Must be the crowd. No judgment.

As they raised their heads, Jerry spotted an innocence in their eyes, borne from infancy when their little tabula rasas held hope of a good life to come. Then the clean slates vanished, muscled out by who knows what kind of abuse followed by addictive patterns of self medication.

Jerry handed a grocery bag to each man, pack of English Muffins, can of peaches, can of beans. All mumbled thanks and shuffled out into the blinding hopefulness of a new day.

“We’ll be doing this on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays,” said Jack. His eyebrows bounced up and down as if on a trampoline; his nose snorted like he was trying to dislodge something. “Well, that’s it. Good work.” He wrung Jerry’s hand once more for good measure and with one more that-ought-to-do-it snort scooted out the back door.

Jerry let out a giant exhale as if he’d been holding his breath the entire time. After washing his hands again, he headed for the office. The pretzel lady and another shorter woman bustled about. As usual, neither one acknowledged him. 

“I’m Jerry Cradleman, the new assistant pastor,” he announced to the room.

Now seated at a desk, the shorter, stout woman studied Jerry through her cat-eye glasses. “Huh,” she said. “Well, I got some bad news. The head pastor left. Said he had some mental issues, and we’re scrambling to find a new one, so you’re the new guy in charge until we do. I need to get your sermon title, scripture passages and hymn choices by tomorrow for the bulletin. I’ll take you to your office. FLORENCE!” Jerry jolted back. “Say hello to the new pastor. I’m Betty.”

Florence, younger, thinner – These two made a good Laurel and Hardy duo. – whisked into the room, smiled, said “Hello,” and exited without breaking stride.

“Follow me,” Betty said. 

He scurried to keep up. The stairs creaked as they marched upstairs. They continued down a dark corridor, took a left, then entered a wood paneled office with an enormous walnut desk. Its steadfast virility could have withstood a siege. Betty cranked open two windows with latticed leaded glass panes. Gardenia from the courtyard below perfumed the room.

“I wouldn’t get too comfortable here, not sure how long you’re going to be occupying this office. But might as well use it, since no one else is.”

And she tromped back out, leaving him alone. 

Jerry slipped into the leather swivel chair behind the desk and spun around. He luxuriated in the office’s inherent privilege, and then he panicked at the thought of preaching a sermon Sunday. Better get on that, he chided himself. 

He caught his reflection in a mirror on the wall and averted his eyes. His cheeks flushed. He felt like such a fraud.