It’s around 10pm last night. I get back to the rectory from a visit home with the folks and am gathering a few things out of my car. I look up and next thing I know there’s a guy I’ve never seen before walking up to me. Ask if I can help him. “You work here?” he asks. I answer in the affirmative. “You a priest?” he asks. No, I’m not, I reply, and again ask if he there is something he needs.
My guard is up slightly because the other day someone came by looking for the pastor upset about some letter received regarding a tuition matter, and apparently being asked to schedule an appointment when he stopped at the office wasn’t good enough so he thought he’d just come over to the rectory and try to talk right then. I think a few people received such letters, so there may have been a few less-than-happy people out there. Fortunately, another priest was home at the time and got stuck with fielded that gentleman’s concerns, but right now it’s just me and this dude in a dark driveway.
The guy is wondering if he could be let into the sacristy. He thinks he left his cell phone in church after “the last Mass” and wonders if he could look for it. Smells fishy to me. I suspect if I ask him further he won’t remember what time ”the last Mass” was, or who the celebrant was, or where he sat, or what brand his cell phone is. But if I open up the church, and he goes pew by pew and finds a phone, he’ll suddenly remember exactly where he sat and what kind of phone he has (though he probably couldn’t tell me the names of anyone in the address book). Okay, so I’m cynical, but people who are trusting and nice are the ones who get ripped off. Anyway, I politely ask him to go to the parish office in the morning once it’s open and ask if anyone turned in a missing cell phone.
Not good enough; apparently, he needs to look for his phone NOW. Can’t I get someone to let him in? No. The church is all locked up, there’s nobody there to let him in. Well could one of the priests let him in? I said I’m not sure if anyone is home. He sort of calls my bluff as he looks at the four cars in the driveway and the lights on in the house and asks if one of the priests might still be awake.
Finally I start to show my irritation and lay it out. It’s 10:00, the church is locked up, there’s nobody who can let you in, come back in the morning when the office is open. I wanted to add, you didn’t care during the daylight hours about your missing phone, so why do you suddenly care about it at 10:00? Do you really want me to go wake up the pastor to ask him to unlock the building for you? Would you like me to call you in the middle of the night to go open up whatever office you work in because I might have left a paper clip somewhere in the building?
Meanwhile my guard is still up: one hand is in my pocket wrapped around my cell phone with my fingers ready to dial 911; the other has a hold of my key fob with my finger on the red panic button. Fortunately, this guy realizes that I’m not letting him into the church, asks what time Masses are in the morning, and turns and walks away. Whew.
(Post script. This morning I asked the custodian to keep an eye out for a phone while he mopped the church. He told me he didn’t see one. Interesting.)
