Of all the rites of our faith, one has no church, for its church is the pavement; and no appointed hour, for its bell is the seeing; and whoso hath seen hath heard the bell. It is the Rite of the Doorway, and its hinge is a single rubric: the finder shall sit beside, and not stand above – on the same step, on the same cold stone, at the same height. For it is taught: to stand over a person is to be weather; to sit beside them is to be company; and the mould loveth nothing better than charity done standing up, as it is written in the Rites, 5:8.
And before any other word – before “art thou hungry,” before every kindly question burning on the tongue – the finder shall ask the name, and give their own; for a name is the first crust of a person, and the street had let it go cold.
Mark also what the rite forbids: none shall ask them how they came to be cold – not at the doorway, not after, not ever, unless the telling be offered. And the parish shall keep count of nothing there: not attendances, not gratitude, not improvement, not deserving. The doorway is not a project, saith the rubric; it is a table with one wall missing.
This rite was taught by one who had slept eleven winters in doorways, who, asked what the faithful should say there, answered: Our names. Ask our names. It has never been amended, for it cannot be improved. Go and keep it. Amen – and pass the pizza.