A homeless man, down on his luck and looking like he’d lost a wrestling match with a dumpster, walked into a Catholic church one Sunday morning. Now, this wasn’t just any church—this was St. Expensive’s Cathedral of the Holy Sweater Vest, known for its fine stained glass, high-society parishioners, and cappuccino machines in the foyer. The kind of place where people tithe using platinum cards.
As the man shuffled up the steps, wearing tattered shoes, a coat that looked like it had been rejected by a scarecrow, and a beard that had enough crumbs to feed pigeons for a week, two well-dressed ushers sprang into action. Their job was to offer bulletins and smiles, but today they activated security mode.
One usher stepped forward and said, “Excuse me, sir… may I ask where you’re going?”
The man looked up and said, “Inside. I thought maybe I could sit in on the service. Haven’t been to church in a while. Figured it was time to check in with the Big Guy.”
The other usher forced a tight smile. “Of course, but… you see… this church has a certain standard. Perhaps you might try the chapel two streets over. Very… welcoming.”
The homeless man blinked. “But this is God’s house, right? Pretty sure He doesn’t care if my socks match.”
The usher stammered. “It’s just… some of the congregation might be… distracted. You know. And the bishop… he’s very particular.”
The man sighed, nodded politely, and turned to leave. As he wandered back toward the sidewalk, he sat under a tree, leaned back, and muttered, “Maybe I’ll just talk to God out here.”
Suddenly, an old man with a long beard and sandals appeared and sat next to him. The homeless man didn’t flinch. After all, this was the city—people in sandals showed up everywhere.
The old man said, “Rough morning?”
“Yeah,” replied the homeless man. “Tried to go to church. Got bounced like I was sneaking into a country club.”
The old man chuckled. “They didn’t let you in?”
“Nope. Said I wasn’t dressed right. Didn’t meet the ‘standard.’ Apparently God requires a tie now.”
The old man stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Strange. I’ve been trying to get into that church for years myself.”
The homeless man looked over. “You too? They kicked you out?”
“Didn’t even get that far,” the old man said with a grin. “Every time I try, they tell me they’re not sure who I am.”
“Who are you?” the man asked.
The old man smiled. “God.”
The homeless man blinked. “Wait… THE God? Beard, sandals, all-knowing presence?”
God nodded. “Yep. But hey, at least you made it up the steps. That’s progress.”
They both laughed.
God patted the man on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I don’t live in buildings anyway. I hang out where I’m invited.”
“So… where do you go to church?” the man asked.
God grinned. “Wherever the hearts are open—even if the doors are closed.”
Later that afternoon, a rumor spread through St. Expensive’s that someone had seen a divine figure outside talking to a homeless man. The ushers rushed to find him—but the bench under the tree was empty. Just a few breadcrumbs and a sense of holy awkwardness lingered in the air.
From that Sunday on, St. Expensive’s added a sign to their front steps:
“All are welcome. Even God in sandals.”
