The Gatekeeper of St. Matthew's
Written by DCist Contributor Laura Logerfo
For the central cathedral in a major city, St. Matthew’s somehow blends in. The Cathedral is surrounded by offices that stand nearly as high as the church, and its brick façade resembles that of adjacent buildings. It is situated near one of the busiest and trickiest intersections in DC, where Connecticut Ave., Rhode Island Ave., 18th and M Streets all meet. On weekends, city dwellers pass by the church en route to clubs, bars, lounges, resto-lounges, bars-slash-clubs, and strip joints, all of which are located in the "Golden Triangle." On weekdays, commuters lost in thoughts of reports and presentations rush by without a glance. Panhandlers appear at the Cathedral’s steps in tune with the timing of the mass schedule, but dissipate quickly as the churchgoers leave. St. Matt’s is not unnoticed, but not noticed.
Except for one person who always notices: the Gatekeeper of St. Matthew’s. Every day and every night, she stands guard at the doors to the Cathedral. She dresses completely in black, a simple elegant black dress and black ballerina flats. Her fashionably bright red lipstick stands out at night, painting an unforgettable picture. Her shoulder-length silver hair is pulled back in a bun or occasionally slicked back in a chic coif.
If you walk by in the morning and notice her, you assume she’s standing there to wait for the start of mass. If you see her in the evening, you guess she just attended the evening mass and perhaps is waiting for a friend.
Photo by vsPIC
On the twentieth glance, it becomes clear that she resides on the top step of St. Matthew’s entrance. She tucks away her bag to the side of the entrance during the day, but at night, her blanket, umbrella, and the bag emerge. The choice of top step feels like it's surely intentional -- as close as possible to the physical and spiritual warmth of St. Matthew’s. If only the church were named St. Peter’s, the metaphor would be neater. I saw her participate in mass one Sunday morning and felt comforted that she felt at home as much inside as outside the church.
Her constant presence has led her to act as though she, like the villager and his square in Cinema Paradiso, is the Cathedral’s guardian. If you pause to tie a shoe on the stairs, she glares. If you pause on a step to rest, she sternly shouts to you. If your purpose is to attend church, she permits you to pass unheralded. In between, she paces. And paces. Her vigil does not cease. She searches the front steps with an impatient, distrustful gaze. This is a sacred place, and it's her sacred duty to protect it from indignity.
When I fail to notice the Cathedral, she never fails to remind me that she is always watching. As the angel over my shoulder, she and I are fine if only I am respectful to the Cathedral. Otherwise any disrespect she pays me is due to my own disrespect of the place. And in that, St. Matthew’s could not ask for a better guardian angel.