Psalm 145

All

Hello, Poetry Friend

Normally John sits on the front row when I cantor at church, but on Transfiguration Sunday the first several pews were reserved for a group of men preparing to make a spiritual retreat. All was well until, in the middle of the homily, while we’re imagining lunch because it’s practically noon, a man opened the door at the back of the church, speed-walked down the center aisle, and came right up to Father while he was preaching.

Now we were all paying attention.

The man wore an old T-shirt and shorts short enough to offer no concealment for a weapon, if he had one. A police officer was among the retreatants, and he slipped out the side door and called for assistance. I later learned the man had stopped his truck in the center of the road, without parking. He was in earnest.

The man spoke to Father, but no one could hear anything. Father listened briefly, then gestured for the man to have a seat on the front row. The man sat. Father preached on, didn’t miss a beat. When he finished the homily, he took a seat beside the man, to listen to him. My job, as cantor, was to help the congregation carry on. And so the pianist and I began the offertory hymn, “Transfigure Us, O Lord.”

I appeared to be the only person singing, and not just because the hymn was fairly new. Everyone was trying to watch Father and the man on the front row. Poor John, trapped all those rows back, told me later he was going crazy — every protective instinct in his body firing. 

The hymn’s verses mention the hungry, the humble, the ill, the sinner, those in darkness. All of us in need.

My spiritual director once said, “I don’t know how anyone can read Psalms and not feel loved.” I sang that day, knowing I was loved. The man calmly left during the final verse.

I know what it’s like to feel a need so great you park in the middle of the street, wear inappropriate clothing, and barge right into church.