Early morning before he unlocks the church gate the rector kneels before the gridiron fence surrounding the Cathedral, not in prayer but to collect empty wine bottles, snack bags, and used condoms.
After shoving them into a bag he turns the latch key and enters the churchyard shutting it behind him. The hollow, thunderous deadbolt echoes through trees like the voices of ancient saints.
The garden before him remains a sunlit shrine to the transfiguration of Christ, and, when open to the public, serves as a refuge for the homeless and despairing.
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