And rush past they do, because this is not a corner where people choose to linger, at least not good, decent, God-fearing folk. This is a corner where two murders have been committed in the past five years. During the daytime, this is a corner where the smells of stale alcohol, urine, cheap tobacco and unwashed bodies come together in a sticky sickening paste. It’s a smell you catch as you cross Sixth Avenue headed westbound, and even after you pass the scores of people lined up outside the doors each morning, the scent stays with you for a block or two.

It doesn’t smell like a church.

There’s no steeple, no manicured garden. No parking lot, and not even much in the way of signage is present to indicate the purpose of the facility. The only distinctive features of the concrete building are the bright red steel doors that open onto the street.

It’s at those doors that upwards of 100 people congregate each weekday morning, waiting to get inside out of the incessant Oregon rain.  It’s through those doors in the afternoon that residents of the SROs in the neighborhood come, hoping to pick up their monthly bag of donated groceries. On Friday afternoons, guests from the morning hospitality center and a few others come through the doors to head upstairs to watch a movie. Later that night, a long line forms at those doors – people from the neighborhood, the bridges, the streets coming by to get a warm bowl of soup, a sandwich, and to sit down for a few minutes without fear of the imminent arrival of the police to force them to move along. Then, even later, one or two folks may stretch out a thin blanket or a worn sleeping bag, knowing that as long as they're pressed up against the doors, they'll stay out of the worst of the rain. They're on church property then, not the city street, and those few square feet may shelter them 'til the morning comes.

Some in the neighborhood know those doors as the best place to score drugs. Others use them as a slightly sheltered urinal. For a few souls, the doors represent their "office", the base of their livelihood - a place to stand and wait for the next trick to come by. They never have to wait too long.

And then on Sunday mornings, a hundred or so people stream through those doors to spend an hour inside at Mass. Perhaps another thirty will have attended Mass the evening before, a Mass that's a little more solemn, a little more raw. Many have little direct contact with the goings-on at those doors other than during the one hour each week that they're in the pews, but regular parishioners are kept appraised of the work of the community through posts in the bulletin and announcements at the close of Mass.

Finally, there are those who are visiting Portland, staying in some of the finest hotels in the city, mere blocks away. Those hotel concierges offer directions to the church along with informing their guests of Mass times. Sometimes those guests approach the building, look around anxiously, and turn and quickly head back across Burnside, never even reaching the doors, nor experincing the grace that is found within them. But sometimes ... sometimes curiosity or the simple need to fulfill their Mass obligation brings them in, and in the course of the next hour, their hearts are touched by the Spirit that watches over those bright red doors, and the souls who've walked through them.

Tonight - the first night of our novena - we hold all of these people in our thoughts here on Prophecy Street. In the case of this little parish, the metaphorical doors from Las Posadas are so very real. In all of our communities, there's a place like this parish, where seekers present themselves at doorways in search of a shred of kindness or dignity. All too much of the time most of us find ourselves part of the crowds that rush by, never seeing the outstretched hands of grace, neither opening the doors to our Brothers and Sisters, nor admitting our own brokenness, our own needs, and entering in with them hand in hand.

Tonight's meditation comes from that little parish on that cold, wet corner here in Portland. On the First Sunday in Advent, the beginning of the liturgical year, those who have come to Mass gather in the church's lobby. It's a small area, and the hundred or so people are clustered closely together. Associate Pastor Ron Raab, CSC leads the community in the blessing of those doors, sprinkling them with holy water and naming the truth of those who come to them. After he proclaims each category of people who approach the doors, the assembly sings the response with one voice: Bless us O God! In the words of the Litany, each one present hears a reflection of their own life, and acknowledges their common humanity with all of the others named.

(Response: Bless us O God!)

For the homeless, seeking shelter, we pray*...  Bless us O God!
For the forgotten, believing in companionship, we pray...
For the mentally ill, longing to be understood, we pray...
For the abused, hoping for a safe environment, we pray...
For the angry, expressing trust in community, we pray...
For the hungry, knowing God satisfies, we pray...
For the suffering, struggling to find compassion, we pray ...
For the dirty, searching for acceptance, we pray ...

For the new born and catechumens, walking toward the waters of baptism, we pray...
For the hungry of heart, desiring Holy Eucharist, we pray...
For the restless, hearing God in Scripture, we pray...
For the weak, discovering the Holy Spirit in Confirmation, we pray...
For the ill, touching God’s strength in Anointing of the Sick, we pray...
For the sinful, believing in the power of reconciliation, we pray...
For the lost, finding their place at God’s table, we pray...
For the marginalized, resting in a new home of peace...
For those asking for marriage, believing in God’s covenant, we pray...
For the dead, entering the doors for the last time, we pray...

For all the staff, volunteers and parish community entering the doors in faith and service, we pray...
For people afraid to enter...
For those peering into our windows...
For those urinating on our doors...
For those selling drugs at our doors...
For those prostituting themselves...
For those we ignore...
For those we can not help or console...
For those who sleep at our doors...
For those entrusted to God alone...

And for all God’s people...
And for all God’s people...
And for all God’s people...

(*meditate, hold in good and active thought)

Where are the places like this in your city or town, and who are the people who gather outside their doors, seeking acceptance, a kind face, or a warm pair of socks? How do we approach these places in our midst, and the people who we encounter there? Do we join those going through the doors, or do we rush past, hoping to get past the smell, hoping nobody stops us to ask for change?

Las Posadas are a time to open our doors, and to be the shelter and warmth that others seek. Our peregrinos (pilgrims) tonight may not share our ability to try to hide our suffering through our possessions and income and education. They are our Brothers and Sisters no less, and may we welcome them through our doors in from the cold and see in their faces the Incarnation of peace in our midst.

Pax - and Amen.