In the vibrant Greenwich Village of Manhattan, within the serene walls of Saint Joseph’s Church, an ordinary routine turned into an extraordinary encounter. It began with daily weekday masses at 5:30 PM, led by a young priest known for his insightful homilies. Leaving the church one evening, a simple walk turned memorable as a friendly dog bounded towards me, its paws playfully reaching up. The owner, apologetic yet warm, continued his stroll with his canine companion. This charming interruption repeated itself day after day. Around six o’clock each evening, as mass concluded, the man and his dog would pass by. Cinnamon, as I later learned the dog was named, seemed to have a particular fondness for me, greeting me with joyful enthusiasm every time.
One day, curiosity sparked a conversation. The man inquired if I lived or worked nearby, noticing my consistent presence at the Village church. “Neither,” I replied, “I work in Midtown.” He then asked why I journeyed downtown for mass. My answer, though now a faint memory, clearly resonated with him in some way.
For a couple of months, this pleasant routine continued. The man, whose name remained a mystery, remarked one day, “Cinnamon always seems to know when you’re coming out and pulls me in this direction.” It was a heartwarming connection, a small moment of daily joy.
Then, as suddenly as they appeared, they were gone. Almost a year drifted by without a sighting of the man and Cinnamon. Just as I had almost forgotten, one day, emerging from mass, there they were again.
“Oh, hi!” I exclaimed, “I haven’t seen you in so long!”
He replied, with a hint of urgency, “I purposely came here this time, waited for you. I have something to tell you.”
“Sorry,” I responded, glancing at my watch, “I’m meeting friends for dinner, I need to get going.”
“No, please,” he pleaded, “I really have something to tell you!”
Relenting to his earnestness, I agreed, but asked him to be quick. He then began to unfold the story of his past year, explaining that whatever I had said about my reasons for attending mass at St. Joseph’s had deeply affected him.
He confessed to a downward spiral: job loss, a staggering $6000 debt to his landlord, and months of fruitless job searching until his unemployment benefits ceased. Despair had taken hold, leading him to contemplate a horrific act – taking his own life and that of his beloved Cinnamon.
“I went to Our Lady of Pompeii,” he recounted, referring to another Catholic Church in Greenwich Village, “to make peace with God. Because I remembered what you said.” He had planned to end his life that very night. “But as I was leaving,” he continued, “I saw this man standing in the back of the church. I went over to him, and he said he was the man for hopeless cases. There was a prayer there, and I knelt down and said it. When I got home, I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t kill myself. But the next day, I made up my mind to go through with it. I went back to the church, and the man was there again. I said the prayer, told God, ‘I’m going to do it tonight, forgive me.’ But again, when I got home, I just couldn’t. This went on for days. Each day, I’d go to the church, stop and talk to the man. He said his name was Saint Jude.”
At this point, a realization struck me. “That’s not a man,” I interjected, “that’s a statue!”
He paused, then continued, “Well, man or statue, he said his name was Saint Jude. Every day I spoke to him, and every night I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Then, I found a job. The best job I’ve ever had, making more money than ever before! I paid back the $6000, I’m getting back on my feet. The only problem is, the job’s in New Jersey, I get home late, walking Cinnamon is difficult. So, I’m moving, you won’t see me anymore.”
“I’m sorry to hear you’re moving,” I said, “but I’m so happy for you! Wonderful news. Thank you for sharing, but I really have to go, people are waiting,” and I began to walk away.
He then grasped my arm, his voice filled with urgency. “No, I have something else to tell you! I told you I had something to tell you!” A flicker of apprehension went through me – was this man unstable? But I stopped, urging him to be quick.
“The company I work for,” he revealed, “is called SJ Industries.” He paused for effect. “One day, I asked my boss, ‘What does SJ stand for?’ He cursed at me, told me it was none of my business. I felt terrible, didn’t want to get on his bad side. But later, he called me in, told me to close the door. He apologized for yelling. Then he said, ‘I’ll tell you what it stands for, but you better not tell anybody. It stands for Saint Jude.’”
This powerful encounter occurred in the late 1990s, before the tragic events of 9/11. Over the years, I occasionally felt a compelling urge to share this story with someone specific, and each time, the listener was captivated. Yet, I never shared it publicly, until Pentecost Sunday of this year.
Normally, I avoid scheduling anything on Holy Days, but a prior commitment to a lecture meant missing my usual Sunday mass. Instead, I attended the 11:30 service at St. Joseph’s, the very church where I first met the man and Cinnamon. After mass, I greeted the priest and stepped outside. But an undeniable inner voice urged me to go back, to share my “Saint Jude Story” with the priest.
That priest was Father Gabriel Gillen, O.P., Director of the Rosary Shrine of St. Jude. Upon hearing the story, he immediately invited me to share it with you, the Friends of St. Jude and Our Lady. I know, without a doubt, this story was meant for you.
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