In the Name of God:  Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Amen.

What a glorious day!  We celebrate both the anniversary of the dedication of our church – on November 11, 1868 – and the feast of St. Martin . . . also traditionally celebrated on November 11.  That’s the first link between Grace and St. Martin, the date of November 11.

But, as many of you know, our association with St. Martin involves more than this date.  Some years ago, our pantry took Martin as its patron, which led us more recently to dedicate our chapel to Martin . . . and now we have icons and banners and chasubles all dedicated to Martin!  This past Thursday, preparing for today, we had a very interesting discussion about the saint.  We heard a version of the most famous story about Martin . . . which, with apologies to those who heard it on Thursday, I’m going to repeat this morning, as it helps to explain the association between Martin and Grace for those of you who are not familiar with the saint. 

But first, as a bit of background, you should know that Martin lived in the 4^th century, and as a young man was a Roman soldier.  After he left the army he became a monk . . . and eventually was made a bishop – against his will!  There are many spectacular stories about Martin, but in brief, it’s helpful to know that he continued his monastic practice as a bishop and never ceased caring for the poor.  He is now one of the patron saints of France.  The story I’m going to tell you takes place in Gaul – now essentially France – when young Martin was a soldier and studying to be baptized a Christian.

Once in the middle of winter, a winter more severe than ordinary, so that the many were dying in the extreme cold, Martin, having nothing except his weapons and his simple military dress, happened to meet at the gate of the city a poor man destitute of clothing.  The man was begging all who passed by to have pity upon him, but no one would notice the wretched man. 

Martin, that man full of God, realized that he was responsible to help one to whom others showed no pity.  But, what should he do?  He had nothing except the cloak he was wearing, for he had already given away his other clothing to the poor.  Taking the sword that he wore, he cut his cloak in half, into two equal parts, and gave one part to the poor man, and wrapped the remaining piece about himself.

Some of the by-standers laughed at this, because he was now a ridiculous sight, and conspicuous as only partly dressed.  Others however, who were wiser, groaned inwardly because they themselves had done nothing for the beggar, although they had many more possessions than Martin and could have clothed the poor man without reducing themselves to nakedness.

The following night, when Martin went to sleep, he had a vision of Christ dressed in that part of his cloak which he had given the poor man.  He gazed on the Lord with great care, and was asked if this was his own garment that he had given away.  Before long he heard Jesus saying with a clear voice to the crowd of angels standing around:

“Martin, who is still only a catechumen, has clothed me with this robe.”

The Lord, remembering the words he said on earth (“Inasmuch as ye have done these things to one of the least of these, ye have done them unto me”), bore witness that he himself had been clothed in the poor man, and showed himself in the very garment which the poor man had received.

Martin was 18 years old at this time and now he hastened to be baptized.

This is the story illustrated in our new banner and chasuble . . . and on the icon at the entrance to the chapel.  This care for the needs of the poor – and the desire to see Christ in all who come to us – is what makes Martin such a good patron for our pantry.  And, of course, a model for all of us.

Part of our discussion this past Thursday was about this desire to see Christ in all whom we encounter.  We all agreed that this is a noble and holy goal to strive toward.  Some of those present shared a story or two of times when they felt that they had, in fact, encountered Christ through another person.  I, however, kept quiet during this part of our discussion, because I was thinking about how very hard it is to do this . . . to see Christ in everyone we meet . . . and perhaps especially to see Christ in those coming to us in need, and to respond to them appropriately.

Years ago, before I went to seminary, I lived in Manhattan in East Harlem.  At one point I had a job in the West Village – very west – and this required a somewhat complicated commute.   A portion of this commute involved a transfer between subway trains . . . from the Lexington line to the E train in the morning, and vice versa in the evening when I was going home.  This particular change involves escalators and stairs and a tunnel . . . and at rush hour it’s just about impossible to reverse course and fight the tidal wave of people rushing from one train to another.

One evening, returning home after a long and grueling day at work, I heard a voice calling out – an elderly, high-pitched woman’s voice – “Help me.  Please help me.  I’m hungry.”  Now, I’d been living in the city for quite a few years at this point.  I was a seasoned New Yorker.   I was used to hearing pleas for help.  And as a seasoned New Yorker, I had tried out various responses to the almost constant demands for help. 

When I first arrived in the city, I gave to some who asked for help but not to others depending, essentially, on my mood and how I reacted to the person asking.  But over time, this began to seem unfair to me, so I began to give a little something to everyone who asked.  But doing this, I couldn’t give enough to anyone to really help with anything . . . and at the same time, I was in danger of going broke because the demands were constant.  So, I stopped giving anything to anyone.  But that wasn’t very satisfactory, either.  Oh, I tried all sorts of things.

By the time I heard that women in the subway, I’d reverted to my old ways of giving to some but not to others.  Although I must admit that over the years my “New Yorker shell” had gotten pretty hard, and more often than not I refused to respond to the almost constant requests for help.  Nevertheless, there was something about this woman, about her voice, that pierced my shell . . . pierced my heart.  “Help me.  Please help me.  I’m hungry.”  It was a cool autumn evening.  She had no coat on.  I remember she wore fluffy pink bedroom slippers, as if she’d just stepped out of her apartment.

I was on the move, of course, during all of this.  I was part of the tidal wave of people moving from one train to another.  This woman – a single point of stillness in all this commotion – was on the other side of the tunnel from me . . . how I managed to see her feet through the crowd, I’ll never know.  But I can still see her.  I can still hear her voice. 

I was tired.  The rush of the crowd was relentless.  And how much money did I have in my wallet, anyway?  Probably not enough to do much good.  I let myself be carried away.  But even as I rode the escalator down to my next train I regretted my choice.  It came to me in a flash.  I knew, I KNEW, that that little old woman, with the high-pitched voice, was Christ.  I turned around and fought my way back to where she had been . . . but she was gone.  I had left Christ standing alone, hungry, in that tunnel . . . and now Christ was gone.

It still pains me to remember that moment . . . that opportunity.  Although, it doesn’t hurt as much now as it once did . . . all this happened nearly 20 years ago.

And the lesson in all this?  Don’t be like me!  Yes, the needs of this world are endless . . . the requests for help unceasing.  Yes, some of those needing help are not very attractive . . . sometimes not very pleasant . . . sometimes even ungrateful.  Yes, there are scams.  Yes, there are people who will take advantage of your good will.

But don’t miss your opportunity!  Who knows how, or when, or where Christ will appear to you?  Keep your eyes and ears open.  And most importantly, keep your heart open!

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