The streets of Sydney hold many secrets and surprises. Breakfast at a café in Hyde Park revived us on a chilly winter morning. I chose the steaming porridge with caramelised banana and walnuts. Served with a strong cappuccino, it was warming and delicious – with a delightful sweet syrupy crunch.
Setting off along the path into Hyde Park, I was surprised by the number of homeless people. The crisp winter air, invigorating for us, our bellies warm and full, was no doubt a living hell for those sleeping rough.
On our way to St Mary’s Cathedral a dazed young man in ragged clothes approached us.
“What’s that around the corner? Tell me what’s around the corner!” he spat at us, looking panicked.
We peered around the corner of the path and saw a council truck parked under a tree.
“It’s a truck, mate” answered my husband in his usual relaxed fashion.
“No it’s not a truck!” shrieked the man “It’s a Brontosaurus!”
Unsure of how to respond, we continued on our way stifling a chuckle, but I felt a pang of sadness for this young man, alone in the park, and most likely alone in the world, plagued by his delusions.
St Mary’s Cathedral took my breath away as it always does, with its majestic architecture and mesmerizing stained glass windows. I’m not Catholic, but I lit a candle and said a prayer anyway, and popped my donation into the little wooden box.
People sat in reverence, gazing at the golden grandeur, the sweeping roofline, the candles, and the depiction of past holy men in the stained-glass windows, dressed in their finery with halos above, lit brightly by the winter sun.
Filled with awe, I tiptoed around this holy place, breathing in the peaceful air, and reflecting on all that we suburban Protestants miss out in our places of worship. Many thriving Protestant churches meet in old warehouses and plain little buildings. Rather than flowing robes and impressive head-pieces worn by Catholic priests, Protestant ministers often wear jeans and sneakers and are hard to distinguish from the rest of the congregation.
Jesus was depicted in the stained glass, holding an expression of aloof holiness, the Son of God, the saviour of mankind. His face was a mixture of serenity and humility, and perfect in colour and form. His clothing was regal and he stood amongst the saints, his halo glowing above him. Jesus in the stained glass bore little resemblance to the Jesus I’ve read about as having “… no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.” (Isaiah 53:2b).
As I gazed at Jesus in the stained glass, I had a strange sensation that his eyes, dark like deep pools of water, were meeting mine with an expression of alarm. As I moved around it was as if those dark eyes were following me, with a plea for escape.
Surely this is what is expected whilst viewing the Mona Lisa, but not Jesus… I shrugged and smiled at my crazy thoughts as we headed for the exit.
After leaving the quiet sanctuary of the Cathedral we walked through the City to the new gardens in Barangaroo and then onto the historic Rocks area. I counted another twenty or so homeless people along the way, most of them lying under their blankets, trying to stay warm. I noticed a few homeless women, with an odd assortment of treasured belongings gathered around them, making a street corner their home – a far cry from the home they dreamt of having when they were little girls. I wanted to rescue them all, but the task was too daunting, so I just kept on walking.
Time raced by as we explored all the wonders of Sydney. Our last port of call was the Fortune of War Pub in the Rocks, where a guitarist was just starting to play. Sipping my chilled Sav Blanc I smiled into the eyes of a dishevelled elderly lady perched on a stool beside me, dressed completely in purple, each item a different shade of my favourite colour. We connected on our love of purple and no small talk was necessary.
Somebody requested “American Pie” and the guitarist quickly obliged, and we all sang along. I danced as much as my legs would allow me after a day of walking the city. Somewhere at the back of the crowd I noticed a man with long dark hair and a beard, unshaven and rough-looking, peering through the hazy light. His eyes were dark and deep and full of kindness, and they followed me, curious but not creepy, like an old friend I’d forgotten.
Conversations paused as the song reached its climax and we all swayed and sang along to the well-worn lines:
And the three men I admire most
The Father, Son and Holy Ghost
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died
I turned back to the hazy crowd, but the man with the dark eyes wasn’t there. I wondered where he had gone.
His eyes had looked so familiar – following me, beseeching me without words. Just then I remembered the stained glass window and I was struck with a wonderfully ridiculous thought.
Had he escaped from the confines of the stained glass after all?
Had he left the lofty heights to sit beside those who were hurting out on the streets, to comfort the young man who was afraid of the Brontosaurus?
Was he walking beside us still, a humble servant, undeterred by our flaws and brokenness – at home amongst all the mess of being human?
Be still:
There is no longer any need of comment.
It was a lucky wind
That blew away his halo with his cares.
A lucky sea that drowned his reputation.
— From When in the Soul of the Serene Disciple, by Thomas Merton