Me and St. Jude

When I wore a Toga the other day for the first time in my life, my friend Kenny Hill quipped, "There are so many comments ready to roll off the tip of my tongue." As Sarah wrapped me in a fitted sheet, holding a pair of scissors, I asked that she make me not look like a member of the Klan. Then I told her a story. Back in the early 80s as AIDS exploded gripping the nation in hysterical fear, I was the 24 year old Pastor of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky. I know, I know ... God works in mysterious ways and obviously has a sense of humor, hence my stint as a "Professional Christian." At Jeff Street we'd turned Sunday School rooms into apartments to house the homeless and the Baptismal Pool into a bathtub complete with candles and a boombox. Word on the street was it was a place to could go if you were in trouble and needed help. As people were diagnosed with HIV, frightened landlords immediately evicted them, not wanting their apartments and houses defiled by the unclean and dying. Uncertain of what else to do they sought out the church for help. Most clergy responded by locking the doors and for the most part the Church turned its back on people with AIDS. I'm proud to say that we didn't ... though honestly I was just as scared as anybody else. My friend Father Vernon Robertson called inviting me to a meeting at the St. Martin of Tours Catholic Church. When I arrived there were eight of us sitting in his Rectory ... four clergy, three prominent members of the gay community and the Mother of a son with AIDS. "We have to do something," Vernon explained the purpose of the gathering. "Why should we trust you," shot Paul, the owner of several successful restaurants? Over the next several hours we worked through lots of things and eventually hatched a plan to open a residential facility so people would have a place to live. "We need a name," Vernon pronounced as we were leaving that first night. "I propose The St. Jude's Guild." "Who the hell is St. Jude," I asked? "The Patron Saint of Lost Causes," he explained. Jack Kersy and I looked at each other. "Huh, Vernon," we both said at the same time, "we ain't losing anybody else." A scant three months later, Glade House opened, the nation's second program for people with AIDS. The celebratory gathering of the St. Jude's Guild took place at Paul's mansion. I'd never seen anything like it. Statues of Toga clad Greek boys spewing water out of their mouths, marble floors, candles hanging from the walls and a golden chandelier suspended above. I swear to God our dinner was served by two beautiful young men in Togas. Wine was poured in golden goblets and Paul toasted, "To hell with lost causes!" We all laughed except for Vernon who raised his glass and said, "To St. Jude." Sarah snipped the fitted sheet, jerked it tight and my Toga was complete, sans the underwear. Glade House is still there though now run by Catholic Nuns. It's a part of my past which is largely forgotten ... except by me. Later at the party, which was fabulous by the way, I raised my glass to an almost full moon and for a second thirty years melted away as I toasted the heavens ... "To hell with lost causes. And to you St. Jude."