In the years I have had a ministry to the street people, I cannot say I have cured a single person. But I do believe that with the presence of Jesus, many have been healed and have managed to get off the streets because they have received new hope and courage to fight their addiction.

This is our challenge, to listen intently to those who are suffering, and rather than impose our pre-conceived solutions or opinions, try to hear the cry from within and bring hope into their darkness. Not a hope that says, “Christ be with you, good luck and goodbye,” but a hope that says, “I am with you on this journey.” 

Bishop Ken Untener, in what has come to be known as “The Romero Prayer,” wrote:

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“We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that. This enables us to do something, and to do it very well. We may not see the end results, but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker. We are workers, not master builders, ministers, not messiahs. We are prophets of a future not our own.” 

We have just entered a jubilee year, and with great joy we have proclaimed the year ahead as “Jubilee 2025, Pilgrims of Hope.” There will be pilgrimages to the Holy Land, and Holy Doors being opened in dioceses throughout the world for pilgrims to obtain plenary indulgences. But the questions still haunt me: Who is going to announce this jubilee year to the poor of the beatitudes: the homeless, the addicted, the widow, and the orphan? Who is going to make it real for them by promising to walk with them on their difficult journey? Who will be their witnesses to hope?  

These were all the thoughts that filled my mind when, on a cold winter’s evening, I once again walked the downtown streets of Toronto. I reached the corner where most of the violence and addiction is usually on full display and heard a voice call my name from a doorway. 

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Sitting huddled in the doorway was a man that I have known for many years. I first met him in 2014, and I remember it well. He was tall, elegant, and his long black dress coat gave him an aristocratic look. When he saw my collar at that first meeting, he enthusiastically told me that he had been educated by the Jesuits and had a great respect for them and for Christianity. He was Muslim, but said religion should not be a barrier to all people getting along. 

He went on to tell me that Thomas Becket was his favourite saint in history. He respected how Becket stood up to King Henry of England, and because of that was a martyr for his faith. 

It was three years afterward that we met again, and I was surprised he remembered my name. He was sitting with a lady who is well known on the streets and who has the habit of randomly shouting out scripture verses, intermixed with a few “alleluias.” Somehow, I was not surprised by this inter-generational friendship. 

My next meeting with him was in 2019 when I saw him walking along the street in an area where many addicts hang out. I stopped to talk with him, and once again he remembered my name, but he looked bedraggled, and his speech was slurred as if he was on drugs. Soon another man joined us and the two of them went off on their own. 

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Now, here he was in front of me, wrapped shivering in a blanket to ward off the deep winter’s chill. No sign of the former aristocracy that had graced his presence, and yet his greeting was gentle, with a warmth that betrayed the chill of the evening. I asked if he would be okay, and as he slowly lifted his hand to point to the sky he said, “I think it is in Matthew’s gospel that he says, “God blesses those who mourn, they will be comforted.” 

With that we said goodnight. In Luke’s gospel, Jesus said to Peter, “Put out into the deep.” This is the call of the jubilee year for all of us, that as pilgrims of hope we rekindle our desire to put out into the deep rather than stand in shallow, safe waters and shout to those who are drowning, “We are over here. If you can reach us, we will save you.”