“The Church is a home with open doors, because she is a mother… a Church that serves… goes forth from its places of worship… to accompany life, to sustain hope…
Pope Francis
There’s a homeless woman who comes to the church I attend. She’s not there for the liturgy or the bulletin. She comes because she needs a place to take a shower. She needs to eat. She needs a quiet moment to refresh herself. Sometimes she asks for food from our parish’s drive.
I recognized her immediately the first time I saw her at church, not because she stood out, but because I’d seen her before. At the convenience store I go to often. I had bought her food before. I remember her eyes. There was something in them that I couldn’t shake. It was familiar. The same look I’ve seen in my own reflection when my mental illness flares up.
That’s when I knew she wasn’t just homeless. She was in pain, deep, internal, often invisible pain. I later learned she struggles with addiction too.
But that’s not the hardest part of the story.
What stings is that some people in our parish confronted her. Told her she shouldn’t be coming to our church just to ask for things. I didn’t need to hear much more. I’ve also heard whispers about used needles found in the grotto. One person mentioned building a picnic shelter. Another responded, “But the homeless would take it over.”
My answer, always, is the same:
“But we are Catholic. This is who we are. This is what we do. We look out for these people.”
The Prophetic Challenge
It’s easy to speak of the poor in the abstract, to say we care, to nod at food drives, to put loose change in a second collection. It is far harder to face them when they knock at our parish doors. When they come with their scars and their addictions. When their need feels messy, uncomfortable, or even dangerous.
But this is the moment that tests whether our faith is cultural or cruciform. Whether our Church is a clubhouse or the Body of Christ.
Jesus doesn’t make it vague. In Matthew 25, He tells us plainly:
“I was hungry and you gave me food,
I was thirsty and you gave me drink,
a stranger and you welcomed me,
naked and you clothed me,
ill and you cared for me,
in prison and you visited me.”
Matthew 25:35–36
And when the righteous ask when they ever saw Him in need, He answers:
“Whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me.”
So when we turn away a homeless woman in need of a shower, a meal, a safe place to rest, we are not just turning her away, we are turning Him away.
The discomfort we feel in the face of addiction, mental illness, or poverty is not a signal to tighten our boundaries. It is a summons to loosen our grip on control. It is the Cross, inviting us to stretch beyond what is neat and safe and convenient.
But What If We Actually Lived This Out?
What if we didn’t see that woman, or anyone like her, as an interruption to parish life, but as a living invitation to become the Church Christ calls us to be?
I’ve heard the concerns. People are scared. Some of those fears are not unfounded: addiction can be chaotic. Needles were found in the grotto. No one wants their kids to stumble into that. And yet, the answer cannot be to close the doors. The answer cannot be to build a picnic shelter only if we’re sure “those people” won’t use it.
Instead of retreating, we need to prepare. Not just for what might go wrong, but for what could go right.
What if we did build that picnic shelter, and designed it as a sacred space for rest and recovery?
What if we created a hospitality team that welcomed guests the way we welcome families for a funeral luncheon?
What if our parish offered regular access to a clean shower and hot meal, not because we solved homelessness, but because we recognized Christ in the homeless?
The Church has never been afraid of the poor. Saints like Vincent de Paul, Mother Teresa, and Dorothy Day didn’t wait for ideal conditions to serve, they built beauty and holiness in the middle of human suffering. And we can too.
Let’s stop pretending that holiness is about keeping things clean and orderly. Holiness is about presence. About mercy. About love that enters in, even when it costs.
This Is Who We Are
She’s still coming to our church. I hope she keeps coming.
I hope she knows, despite the stares, the whispers, the quiet judgment, that someone sees her. That someone believes she belongs here. Because she does.
She belongs not because she’s clean or sober or mentally well. She belongs because she is human, made in the image of God. And because this is the one place that should never turn her away.
I don’t know how her story ends. I don’t know if she’ll ever find stability or healing. But I know this: if she ever knocks on our church doors and finds them closed, locked by fear or respectability, then we haven’t failed her. We’ve failed Christ.
So when someone says, “We can’t let the homeless take it over,” I say it again:
But we are Catholic.
This is who we are.
This is what we do.
We wash feet. We welcome strangers. We feed the hungry. We open the door, even when it makes us uncomfortable. Especially then.
Because when we do, we are not enabling sin. We are making room for grace.
Closing Prayer
O Christ, our wounded Lord,
You came to us homeless, rejected, hungry,
Misunderstood by the righteous and embraced by the broken.
You knocked at the doors of hearts too afraid to let You in.
Forgive us when we turn away from You
in the face of those who need love the most.
Open our eyes to see You in every stranger,
our ears to hear You in every cry,
our hands to serve You in every soul.
Break down the walls of comfort and fear
that keep us from living Your Gospel.
Make our parishes places of mercy, not judgment—
of welcome, not suspicion.
Let the poor teach us generosity,
Let the addict teach us trust,
Let the mentally ill teach us compassion,
And let the marginalized lead us deeper into Your heart.
We ask this in Your holy name,
You who were cast out that we might be brought in.
Amen.