< 1 min read
On a busy street in New York City, a man hustles across an intersection and just about makes it to the other side before he’s hit by a bus. He lies on the sidewalk as a crowd gathers around.
"A priest. Somebody get me a priest!" the man gasps. A policeman checks the crowd, but there is no priest, no minister, no man of God of any kind. "A priest, please!" repeats the dying man. Then out of the crowd steps a little old Jewish man of at least 80 years.
"Mr. Policeman," says the man, "I’m not a priest. I’m not even a Catholic. But for 50 years now I’ve been living behind the St. Elizabeth Church on First Avenue, and every night I listen to their prayers. Maybe I can be of some comfort to this man."
The policeman agrees and brings the gentleman over to where the dying man is lying. He kneels down, leans over the injured and says in a solemn voice: "B-4. I-19. N-38. G-54. O-72."