I see them. They are huddled in corners on side streets, laying prone on a subway platform, folded up on city benches. They never move, hidden beneath layers of rags, silent, still, sculpture. I pray for everyone. They could be angels sent to guard us, visible only as they rest, their war so violently swift we can’t see them working. But when they rest, we see them. They are much like their Master, “no stately form or majesty to attract us, no beauty that we should desire Him” so humans pass them by, ignoring them, caught up in our own majesty. We call them homeless or street people, but they are the Celestial Sentinels, warriors, keeping us safe as we busily go about; blind to the Divine.
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