TLDR: A long morning at the food pantry turns into an unexpected lesson in humor, humility, and belonging.
The line extends for several city blocks, and some people have been waiting for hours. All the volunteers are doing several jobs at once—taking the demographic information needed for city and state reports, bringing water and hot coffee to those in line, providing security, and distributing food as quickly as they can. Inside, a small army of volunteers assembles food packages in conveyor-belt style—some handling produce, others grains, and others dairy or meats.
I return with a van full of food, which the volunteers quickly unload. I take a brief break before heading back out for the next pickup. Looking for coffee, I make my way to the main area of the pantry. Carlos sees me enter, turns to his assistant, and smiles.
“I have the right job for you!” he says.
I want to protest—I’m cold, under-caffeinated, and I have a hunch this “right job” involves standing outside on the line.
He continues, “An inspector from the city just stopped by. We’re in violation of the ‘no proselytizing’ rule. There can be no preaching, loud praying, or any religious activity inside or outside our buildings. We serve people of all faiths and some of no faith at all, and we can’t promote one religion over another. There’s a young pastor on the next block who just set up an impromptu stage and is evangelizing those in line. Normally I’d handle this myself, but I’m swamped. You’re the theologian—go take care of it!”
To say that I hate this kind of job is putting it mildly—but what can I do? Everyone is juggling multiple tasks, and I am on break.
I approach the man cautiously and wait for a pause in his impassioned sermon about the sins of the flesh and the tortures awaiting sinners in hell. When he takes a breath, I step forward. “Brother, can we talk?” I hand him my St. Dunstan’s card, and he seems impressed by the title.
“What’s your doctorate in?” he asks.
“Theology,” I reply.
“Cool, brother!” he says.
“Listen, brother,” I continue, “we have a small problem. The city doesn’t allow any preaching inside or outside this building because we receive state and federal funds. I’m going to have to ask you to move across the street or down to that block over there.” I point to a nearby area.
He looks stunned. By now, some of the people in line have begun to gather around us. One shouts, loud enough for all to hear, “These f@&$ Catholics think they’re the only ones who can preach the Gospel!” Another yells, “F@&$ them!” and yet another cries out, “Amen and hallelujah!” One of the security guards steps up behind me, anticipating trouble.
I hold my ground. “Look, I’m an Evangelical, same as you. This isn’t about Catholic or non-Catholic. Either you help us out, brother, or we’ll have to shut down the line and close the pantry for the day. We don’t have a choice.”
The pastor looks at his crowd and raises his voice again. “This is what I’ve been telling you, brothers and sisters! Beware the anti-Christs who can’t tolerate the truth! They are whitewashed tombs—sons of Beelzebub!”
The security guard gently touches the young pastor’s shoulder, and the pastor freezes. He knows this guard—they’ve had one or two run-ins before. Quickly, he packs up his portable altar and moves on, cursing under his breath. The crowd cheers him on.
“I’ll see you soon, Pastor!”
“You’re the Baptist in the wilderness—keep your chin up!”
Someone glares at me and says, “This is why I left the Catholic Church!”
I’m frazzled and feel guilty. Honestly, I don’t think he was doing anything terribly wrong, but the good of the many has to prevail. If we get shut down today, hundreds will go without food.
I walk slowly back to the pantry. Carlos and the volunteers stop what they’re doing, turn toward me—and burst out laughing. That’s when I realize this was Hazing 101. They’ve dealt with this pastor before. The usual procedure is simply to send the security guard to move him along. No inspector from the city has been here today, and Carlos certainly doesn’t have time to handle such things. They just wanted to see what I’d do.
I find the humor in it and join their laughter. Somehow, the whole episode endears me to the rest of the staff. I’m now one of them—colleagues in the trenches. Without a bit of humor, most of them would have gone crazy long ago. Levity, even at my expense, is a healthy thing for the team.
I pick up my coffee, the van keys, and my backpack, and head back to the loading dock. It’s only 9:30 a.m., and I still have three more pickups before lunch. Driving along Route 46 on my way to Wayne, I replay the morning’s events—and suddenly break into hysterical laughter.
Blessings to all,
Fr. Roman +
