One of the good things about a Catholic church is that it isn't respectable. … You can find anyone in it, from duchesses to whores, from tramps to kings.
— Rumer Godden, In This House of Brede
My parish is served by a curmudgeonly homeless gentleman named Dick Kent. I say "served" because he is the closest thing we have to a sacristan. He makes sure the sanctuary is kept in order, and I often find him fussing about the church, cleaning this or that, when I stop in for a brief prayer.
The Christmas blizzard of 2004 crashed into Cincinnati on the Thursday before the Vigil. All of the regulars at the Thursday 7:30 AM Mass — including yours truly — failed to show up save one: our curmudgeonly sacristan. Since it was only Dick and our parish priest, Dick said the responsorials and antiphons in Latin.
On another occasion, I walked into church for daily Mass and instead found a communion service whose presider was an alb-wearing woman. As I turned to exit, Dick said, "I don't blame you. Not at all."
Last week, when I showed up late just before Communion was to be distributed — trust me, there was a legitimate reason — Dick scolded me, "You're too late to go up, now aren't you?"
Dick was taken to the hospital this evening. Please keep him in your prayers.
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