THE HOLY TOUCH
by: Fr. Glenn Sudano, C.F.R

"Sweet" wasn't the best word; it was the only word to describe the silence which pervaded the garbage-strewn street that early Sunday morning. The noise the night before didn't die down until 4 am, so getting up at 6 was particularly painful. I had to be up and out extra early to celebrate Mass at a nearby convent. My legs felt like lead and my head full of mud as I stumbled out the friary door and down the street to the car. Those of you who have a barn in your backyard or view majestic mountains from your kitchen window have probably never experienced a summer Saturday night in the inner city. While you're lulled to sleep with the steady cadence of crickets or bull frogs croaking in the distance, some city dwellers stay up wide awake thanks to boom boxes and bottles breaking. To experience a hot summer night in the bowels of the Bronx is something else.

After visiting just one night, believe me, the next day you would pack up and pull out without even stopping to buy a postcard! If you did buy one, it would read: "Been to the Bronx. Be home soon. Glad you're not here!" Although I was born and bred in Brooklyn, even I found it difficult to deal with this one Saturday night. Besides your average party sounds like music and laughter, I was also treated to an "invigorating mind massage". As I was lying wide awake, I was convinced that someone somewhere was sponsoring car alarm competition. I also deluded myself into thinking I discovered a new theory in psychology: Simply put, cops and fire fighters actually regress and become kids who get giddy as they race around with screaming sirens - even if they're only heading for Dunkin' Donuts'. Well, as I was making my way to the car, walking down the silent street glittering with green glass, thoughts of my night time torture session annoyed me.

While my neighbors were enjoying their rap music, I was wrapping my pillow around my head! By 3 am, my pool of patience went down the drain and became bone dry. That's when I got up and phoned the President. He, in turn, called out the National Guard. Thank God, they arrived almost immediately. How I enjoyed seeing the tanks rumbling down the street sending all my noisy neighbors scurrying for cover! What a joy it was to see those boom boxes being crushed into flat piles of plastic! Even the bottle breaker was duly arrested as everyone else was ordered to bed at gun point! Well, my fantasy ended with a "Crash!" - right outside my window. As I was walking to my car, surveying the damage of the night before, Iheard someone, somewhere scream: "Kar-roteee!"

I flinched a bit, then quickly turned around in the direction of the voice. There, in the distanceI saw a man, a small frail figure wildly waving his arms. I turned around looking in the other direction; maybe he was calling someone else? No, there he was, waving and smiling and screaming at me - "Kar-roteee!"

Then he broke into a lazy jog heading towards me looking somewhat like a boxer warming up before round one. As he came closer, I saw that the man was shabbily dressed, wearing baggy pants and a grease-stained suit jacket. I thought: "Great, he's drunk and homeless, and now I'm late"! Then another thought jumped into my mind, "I bet he's the bottle thrower". I could almost hear the sound of smashing glass. As he was now approaching within earshot, I was tempted to greet him with: "The Bronx Bomber, I presume?" But as I was aiming to hit him with my caustic comment, a broad smile full of tainted teeth completely disarmed me.

When he was right in front of me, he greeted me in a raspy voice. This time,he questioned me, "Kar-rottee??" Making little effort to disguise my annoyance, I said sternly, like a school teacher, "I'm sorry, I don't understand you!" Then again, that stained smile, "Kar-Roteee? He pointed to my habit and said, "hey, you inta kar-roteee?" All at once his cryptic message became crystal clear and Icouldn't help but laugh and say, "Karate? No, I'm not into karate, I'm a Franciscan friar, a Catholic priest!" Now it was his turn to look puzzled. Then, I asked him, "Ever hear of San Francisco? Well, it's named after Saint Francis".

He smiled and said, "Cool".As he stood there I discretely eyed his dirty and disheveled hair and noticed his second hand clothing was wrinkled and worn. He probably spent the night somewhere on the street. I quickly glanced at my watch, then decided I would take ten minutes to talk. My initial annoyance melted away as I began to talk about Saint Francis. I spoke about his love for the poor and homeless Christ, the love of God for the least, and about God's providence and protection even for a single sparrow. He concluded every one of my sentences with a tarnished and toothy grin, and a raspy, "cool". He also had a curious way of laughing - not a sound, just a looking down and a rapid shaking of his shoulders.

As he had nowhere to go and little to do, I knew our time together would only end by me calling it quits. I glanced at my watch again and grimaced knowing by now sister sacristan was lighting the altar candles. So to securely close down our conversation, I said, "Listen friend, I gotta go". I then put one hand on his shoulder, narrowed my eyes, and said like some tough guy. " And by the way, I do know Karate!" Feigning fear, he took astep back, raised his hands up in surrender and said: "Okay! Okay!" As I was hopping into the car, he was looking down quietly laughing and shaking his shoulders.

I quickly pulled out from the curb and took off, but within seconds I could hear him shouting, "hey bro! Hey bro!" Looking in my mirror, I could see him running after me while wildly waving his arms. I emitted a groan, stopped the car and leaned out the window. When he saw me, he stopped dead in his tracks, puffed, pointed at me, and said smiling in his raspy voice, "Hey bro, Thanks for the holy touch!" I smiled, waved, and quickly drove away.

I was more concerned about the Mass than his message. Yet as I drove down the street his words echoed in my ears: "Thanks for the holy touch." At first I thought he was simply thanking me for my spontaneous friendly gesture of touching his shoulder. Certainly, being a priest, he saw me as "holy". In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he scraped up some change later that day and played the Lotto thinking his early morning meeting with a "holy monk" might bring some luck. Yet it would be much later on in the day, in fact, while waiting at a red light, it al became clear to me. While my friend in the street certainly appreciated my physical sign of affection, what he deeply appreciated was my time and attention.

It matters little how wealthy or how poor a person my be, we would rather have an ounce of human kindness than buckets full of cash. While it is true we can't always give everyone everything they want, shouldn't we give them everything they need? Somewhere Saint Paul would write, "the only debt we owe everyone is love". Yes, my friend was grateful for my love, not expressed in some great and grandiose way, but in a "holy" touch of simple respect.   I believe we're all well aware that certain very small things can make a very big difference. For example, if an architect misplaces one decimal point, a newly built bridge can quickly turn into a pile of cement.

While an athlete with just one slip can lose a game, and so too a surgeon lose a life. One small turn of a key can make a priceless violin sound like trash. A hat worn, pitched an inch or two this way or that, can make a person appear sinister, stylish, or silly. The difference? - a tiny touch!Both grandmothers and great chefs know that a mere pinch or a dash make their dish just right, while artists walk away from their work happy only after adding a few final touches. Yes, what applies to food and fashion also applies to families and friendships.

We would do well if we were more sensitive and discerning in how we behave towards others. Do we manhandle or give Divine touches? One wonders if the world would run better if we simply followed our Makers operating instructions invisibly inscribed on every human heart: "Fragile, Handle with Care"   So we should consider just how careful our Creator is, in making this world so balanced and beautiful - not only in the heavens, but also here on earth. The question is this: "If God gives us so much time and attention, should He not expect us to do the same for others - and for Him? The answer's in Matthew 25! Who knows, perhaps on the day of my demise, I'll awake and find myself walking down some trash covered street.

Then in the distance, a dirty and disheveled man wearing baggy pants and a grease-stained jacket will wave at me and shout in a raspy voice: "Hey, bro!" Ya made it"! His voice and feeble frame will elude my memory and I will nervously ask, "Who are you? Where am I?" He'll just smile showing his tainted teeth and say, "You know, you know", then begin to silently laugh looking down and shaking his shoulders. Then, without another word, he'll take my arm and escort me down a side street frosted white with mist. As we walk, I'll be shocked to see the drama of my life unfold, all of it, from the doctor's first slap to the priest'sfinal blessing. Each scene of my life will be bathed in the light of Truth exposing every corner, crack, and crevice of my soul. The journey will be painful but purifying, but my old friend will stay at my side, leading me along, nauseous, weak-kneed and soaking in sweat.

The final scene will be a tolling bell, a blessing, and small bands of sandaled friars silently walking away in the rain. Our steps will then stop before a great and glowing wall. Looking way up I'll see an arch, and running down the center, slight silver seam. Upon it's smooth and massive surface, ivory colored and incandescent, will be one word, deeply etched,crimson and moist - "MERCY".

It is here that my friend will turn to me and take me to himself. There, with my tearstained face flush to his breast, I will feel the silk and ermine of royal robes. As the silver seam expands, so too the sound of children, laughing and playing and leaping like little lambs. Then in a voice sweeter than any summer Sunday morning, I will hear whispered in my ear; "When you loved the least ones, you loved Me the best. My son, welcome home, and thank you for the holy touch".

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