I went to mass on Sunday. This should not be a surprising fact, but it was the first time I had been to mass in over a month. Granted, two of those weeks I was traveling, and one I was caring for an injured friend, but still. I had fallen down hard on my Catholic obligation and it felt good to sit in a pew.

In Sunday’s gospel, Jesus commanded his apostles to go out in pairs to cast out demons and cure the sick. He instructed them to take nothing for the journey save a staff and the sandals on their feet – not even a spare tunic. Because I keep it real here at Talking to Strangers, I’ll be honest with you. It was a short gospel and I spaced out during the whole thing. It was stiflingly hot in the balcony, and I was preoccupied thinking about the dinner I was going to later and the baked goods I had left in my car that at that moment were melting in eighty-six-degree heat. I sat down as Father finished the reading, fanning myself with my liturgical guide, but when he started his homily I started listening.

There are homilies that make me think, there are homilies I tune out, and then there are homilies that take hold and burrow into my psyche. Sometimes I think about them days or weeks or months later. Generally, the ones that really stick with me are close or theoretical readings of the gospels – those that demand more of me as a thinker and consumer of a sacred text. They are usually the homilies that focus on an obscure detail, a startling turn of phrase, a single word, or counter-interpretation. Sunday’s homily was a very good one.

Father began by suggesting that this was a deceptively simple gospel and that we all must think he should be able to wrap it up quickly. Go out, cast out the unclean spirits, take nothing for the journey, cure the sick…..yadda, yadda, yadda. But, he suggested, we should look at ourselves, not as the apostles who are sent out, as we are likely inclined to do. Instead, we should look at ourselves as those who are sent for, and keep our eyes open for those who are sent to us. We must be alert to those unlikely prophets – those dressed poorly for the journey, devoid of purse or coin, bread or spare tunic.

No, we are not the apostles, but those who have much to learn from the unlikeliest of people – those who are cast out, ignored, abused, or neglected. I nodded in my seat, thinking.

Yesterday, I left my home to go downtown around noon. I’d just posted my blog about Jameson, and I was feeling really raw. A couple good friends texted me their condolences and I found myself choking up as I walked to the train in a fog of memory, weighed down by the summer heat and the heaviness of my own grief. I got on the train and I’m sure I looked like – well, I’m sure I looked my dog just died. I kept my dark sunglasses on and my head down.

A few stops into my ride, likely at Morgan or Clinton, an older man pushing a narrow cart full of belongings boarded the train. He had poor mobility, was slightly overweight, and was dressed in clean but well-worn clothes – a powder blue polo with a logo from a San Diego sailing club tucked into dark, belted slacks. His forehead was slick and beaded with sweat and his glasses slipped down his nose as he clumsily took a seat to my right. I couldn’t hear what he said to the man on the other side of him, but I heard that man’s answer, “Well, you’ll have to ask someone else – I’ve been riding this train for thirty years and I still get lost.”

A man across the way, traveling with a young boy, spoke up, “You’re headed to the Thompson Center?” “Yes,” the gentleman next to me replied. “Well, that’s Clark and Lake. Two more stops.” The man next to me answered, “Thank you, can I transfer to the red line there?” Another man spoke up, “No, that’s at State and Lake.”

The train rumbled forward, as trains do, and as we neared State and Lake, the man next to me stood up with some difficulty. As he made his way to the exit, it was clear that he was uncertain of getting off at State and Lake. He confusedly said something to the young woman seated next to the exit. She confirmed for him that he could transfer to the red line at the next stop.

The doors opened, people crowded behind him, and the elderly man froze. Someone barked at him to get off the train- he was blocking the door. He didn’t, in fact, it seemed he couldn’t move and the streams of people flowed around him on and off the train. As the doors closed, he collapsed into a seat to the left of the exit, wiping his brow and I looked up to check the map, hoping I could help him in some way.

As we neared Washington and Wabash, the girl who had spoken to him earlier got up and leaned over. I heard her tell him that in two stops, at Harold Washington Library, there was an elevator and a red line transfer. “Two stops?” he asked her, and she assured him, and then exited the train.

I stood up and moved toward the exit well in advance of my stop, Adams and Wabash. “Are you ok sir? Do you know where you are going now?” He seemed startled that I was talking to him. Slowly, his eyes focused. “Is there an elevator?” he asked. “Yes,” I said “One more stop. There is an elevator, and you can transfer to the red line” He thanked me, and struggled to explain himself. “I don’t move well,” he said “And with this,” he added, motioning vaguely to his cart. I told him I understood, and that it was also very hot today. I told him to have a good day and I got off the train.

As I navigated the stairs down to street level, I couldn’t stop thinking about that man and the tears that pricked the back of my throat had nothing to do with my dog. I thought about how impossible it would have been for him if he had gotten off the train at State and Lake – that transfer is a beast. There are stairs, and a quarter block walk, and more stairs, and more stairs. When I make that transfer, I’m winded by the time I sit down on the red line – if there is a seat on the red line.

I wondered where he was going and if there was someone waiting for him when he got there. I wondered what was in his cart, and if he had a deadline to meet. I wondered if he had access to a phone or someone to call, and I wondered how he had made it onto the train without a clear idea of how to make the rest of his journey. Then I thought about how the man with the small boy and the girl near the exit are not the apostles. I am not the apostle. We are not those sent, but those sent for. Those who are meant to learn from the most unlikely prophets – prophets without a phone, or a map, or an able body, or a sharp mind. Those who are meant to teach us to look up, look around, think outside ourselves and be kind and compassionate.

I am hopeful that the elderly man encountered others who helped him on his journey, and that he made it to the red line and to whatever his final destination might have been. Me, I’m thankful I was reminded that, while we all suffer, life is so very hard for so many people, and it is my obligation to pay attention. My weight is so much lighter than that of so many. I am also thankful I was reminded of why, far beyond my romantic pursuits, talking to strangers is so important. If we don’t talk to one another and listen to one another, we will miss the unlikely prophets.

Until next time…