There was quite a bit of activity that day. Most of the tables were full of people enjoying coffee and conversation.  A group of volunteers was assembling bag lunches to be handed out at the neighborhood food bank the next day. I’m sure Jesus was pleased by the fellowship and outreach swirling around him as he hunched over his plate of cookies.

He likes to come to our coffee hour.  I’ve seen him there quite a bit.  Ordinarily, one or two of us stop to say hello – introduce ourselves, welcome him, offer him coffee before we move on to another table.  When all the tables are full, we join him.  We look his way after someone makes a comment, wondering if he has any input. He usually doesn’t.

Sometimes, though, he won’t stop talking and monopolizes the conversation.   We listen – for a while; then we turn to the person on our other side or leave to get another cup of coffee and visit another table.

The thing is, Jesus shows up quite a bit.  More often that not, he smells, is dirty -- sometimes he’s been drinking.   Jesus, of course, can assume the form of a woman, and she comes by sometimes to wash her hair in the restroom sink.  We worry that Jesus will walk off with our purses, like someone walked off with mine a few weeks ago, as it rested on top of the piano while I ducked in the choir room to put on my robe.  I’d seen him on the other side of the parish hall when I’d come in, eating cookies left over from the eight o’clock service.

I saw Jesus once more that Sunday.  I passed him on the stairs as he was leaving, clutching a bag lunch that someone had given him – or maybe he’d taken it.  I didn’t say hello; he was still hunched over and didn’t seem to want to talk. 

A few days, later I was preparing for a meeting with my spiritual support group.  The format we follow has us describing our “Moment Closest to Christ” since we last met.  Hmmm.  Maybe I could describe my encounter with Jesus at church.  I’d gotten pretty close to him – three or four feet.   Or maybe I should describe my encounter with the Jesus who was selling copies of Real Change, “The Newspaper of the Poor and Homeless,” outside of the grocery store.  He’d told me how good the poetry was in that issue. I’d stood beside him chatting for a minute or so and given him $2, twice the cost of the paper.  Jesus made me feel good that day, and I’m sure he really appreciated the extra dollar.

Early one morning, I got a call from the downtown police precinct.  Someone had turned my purse in.   Another Jesus had returned it -- or could it have been the Jesus who stole it, but who took only the cash and left everything else: my identification, bankcards, new sunglasses and the pretty little cosmetic bag that was a gift from my husband. 

Godspeed, Jesus, as you live the life you were given on the downtown streets, in the shelters, the soup kitchens, the alleys, the church basements. 

We love you.

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