“For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.” — Matthew 18:20
There are some things we learn in seminary.
And then there are some things we learn standing next to a vending machine.
During my time at seminary, I was required to complete a unit of Clinical Pastoral Education—CPE. I ended up doing mine at St. Anthony’s Residence in St. Paul, Minnesota, a residential program for men living with severe alcohol use disorders. Many of the residents had experienced homelessness and had been through multiple attempts at treatment. Often, this was their last home, before succumbing completely to the disease of addiction.
It was not an easy place to do pastoral care.
But I was drawn to it because I believed—and still believe—that if anyone needed to hear the good news of Jesus Christ, it was these men: the good news that God’s love is not something we earn, that grace is not reserved for people who have their lives together, and that no human being is beyond the reach of God’s love.
When I began my four-month CPE experience, I had a rather lovely picture in my head of what pastoral care would look like.
I imagined a little office. I would decorate it with inspirational posters and Bible verses. I would have a nice appointment calendar, and men would come through my door one after another seeking spiritual counseling, prayer, and guidance.
I even bought the appointment book.
Then I arrived for my first day.
After meeting my supervisor and getting a tour of the facility, I was shown a little lounge with a television and two vending machines—one for snacks and one for pop.
“We don’t really have an office for you,” I was told. “But we figured you could probably just hang out here.”
So that’s what I did.
Five days a week. For four months.
I sat in that little lounge and tried to figure out exactly what I was supposed to be doing.
I remember telling my CPE instructor how frustrated I was. I didn’t have an office. I didn’t have appointments. I wasn’t doing what I thought a “real” chaplain was supposed to do.
She simply told me, “Do the best you can do.”
As it turned out, the vending machines became my pastoral office.
The men were constantly coming in to get something to eat or drink. I began to recognize them. I’d say, “Hey, how are you doing?” Sometimes they would stop for a few minutes. (Not to make an appointment with me – just to chat for a moment!)
They told me where they were from.
They told me about their families.
They told me about jobs they had once held and dreams they had once had.
And sometimes they told me how they had ended up at St. Anthony’s.
I heard stories I will never forget.
There was a man who had operated enormous construction cranes—the kind used to build skyscrapers. After his wife died of cancer, his life began to unravel. What started as a few beers to numb the pain eventually became a devastating addiction.
There was a young man who was only a couple of credits short of earning his college degree. His family had tried one treatment program after another before eventually bringing him to St. Anthony’s.
There was a man who spoke several languages and had an astonishing intellect, but who had lived for years with mental illness and eventually became dependent on drugs and alcohol as a way of trying to cope with his suffering.
There was another man who had once been a drummer with a well-known rock band. (Sorry – can’t tell you which one!)
Their stories were remarkably different.
But there was one thing none of them ever said:
“I woke up one morning and decided I wanted to become an alcoholic and end up living in a place like this.”
They were people.
People who had experienced loss, trauma, illness, grief, mental illness, addiction, disappointment, and circumstances some of us will never fully understand.
People whose lives had taken turns they never expected.
People who, like all of us, wanted to be seen and known.
And my fancy appointment book?
It remained almost completely empty.
As the months went by, some of the men would tell me that they wanted to make an appointment with me “one of these days” to talk about spiritual things.
But “one of these days” never seemed to come.
Eventually I became convinced that I was going to fail my CPE experience because I hadn’t really done any pastoral care.
I went to my instructor and showed her my empty appointment book.
I told her I had no idea what I was going to write about in my final evaluation.
She looked at me and said something I have never forgotten.
“Jane, you know those people.”
She reminded me that I had spent four months listening to their stories. I knew their names. I knew where they had come from. I knew about their families and their losses. I had become a familiar and caring presence in their lives.
“You’ve been giving them Jesus all along,” she said. “Right there at the vending machine.”
Maybe this is what Jesus meant.
In this week’s Gospel reading from Matthew, Jesus says:
“For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.”
We often hear those words in church.
They’re comforting words when there are only a handful of people gathered for worship. They’re comforting when a Bible study has three people instead of twenty. They’re comforting when we wonder whether our little congregation matters in a world filled with enormous churches and seemingly limitless resources.
But Jesus wasn’t talking about church attendance statistics.
He was talking about presence.
Jesus is reminding us that God’s presence isn’t limited to sanctuaries, programs, pastors, worship services, or perfectly organized ministries.
Christ is present whenever people gather in love.
And sometimes “gathering” doesn’t look particularly religious.
Sometimes it looks like sitting beside someone at a vending machine.
Sometimes it looks like having coffee with a friend who is struggling.
Sometimes it looks like listening to someone tell the same story for the third time because they simply need someone who will listen.
Sometimes it looks like checking on a neighbor.
Sometimes it looks like sitting quietly with someone who is grieving.
Sometimes it looks like putting down our phone and giving another human being our full attention.
And sometimes it looks like two people who disagree with one another deciding that the relationship is more important than winning the argument.
That last one may be especially important right now.
We live in a time when it is remarkably easy to divide ourselves into “us” and “them.” We can find people who think like us, believe like us, vote like us, worship like us, and see the world the way we do.
And when we encounter someone who doesn’t?
It is very easy to stop seeing a person and start seeing a position.
But Jesus calls us back to something deeper.
See the person. Listen to their story.
Remember that there is a human being standing in front of you.
And remember that Christ is already there.
“For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.”
What if we consciously remembered this every time we encountered another person?
Christ is here.
The person in front of me is someone God loves.
Christ is here.
I don’t have to fix this person.
Christ is here.
I don’t have to win this conversation.
Christ is here.
I can listen.
I can be kind.
I can offer grace.
I can simply be present.
That little lounge at St. Anthony’s taught me something I could never have learned from a textbook:
Pastoral care doesn’t always look like pastoral care.
I went to St. Anthony’s thinking I needed an office, an appointment book, and a plan.
Instead, God gave me a vending machine.
And somehow, that was enough.
Because Jesus was already there.
And I have come to believe that Jesus is still there—wherever we are.
A Little Light for the Way
God is not waiting for us in some perfect future moment. God is meeting us in the ordinary places of our lives—in conversations, relationships, interruptions, and encounters we might otherwise overlook.
For wherever two or three are gathered in love, Christ is already there.
God's Yes + My Amen 