Grand Blanc — Church of the Holy Family recently had some vigil candles torn down in the sanctuary. Vandalism like this has been happening with some frequency, approximately every six months. Four times in the last two years. Curious.

So I went to mass. The weather on the drive was horrible. The rain fell so heavily that I switched from my typical moody pop music to Gregorian chant; a plea to heaven.

Slipping in two minutes late, the sanctuary was dotted with old women (who succeeded in bringing many of their old husbands) and a handful of homeschooled children. I knelt, crossed myself, and shuffled into a pew near the podium. 

The church was incredibly clean, with white walls and shiny altar pieces. After mass, parishioners told me the church had recently been remodeled. Andy Cocagne, a former teacher and deacon in training who has been part of the parish for over two decades, told me there had been four instances of vandalism in the past two years. That’s a lot for a small-town parish. 

Surely these acts must be targeted, an attack on Catholics or Christians generally, I thought. In a world seemingly torn between progressive ideologues and traditional folk, the Church has increasingly been faced with violence. In August, a statue of the Virgin Mary was beheaded at a Catholic church in Kansas City, and in September, an angel statue was pushed off its pedestal in St. Louis. But not here, apparently.

The church, along with the police, know who committed this act. He’s just a disgruntled drunk with a penchant for late afternoon strolls through downtown. He even tore up flower beds and the pay phone of the Grand Blanc police. According to the department, he has been involved in domestic disputes and is currently awaiting trials for multiple violent and nonviolent offenses. 

The previous Sunday, Father Joe Krupp relayed the damage done and asked that the congregation pray for this man. When the priest had met with the police, their suggestion was to lock the church. A simple and straightforward solution, a precaution most other churches take. But Father Joe said no. The church is a place of prayer and worship. A place where we can meet God. No vandals will stop that work. 

Leaning against my car, trying to light my cigarette in the wet haze before I drove home, I spotted a rough looking old man with an umbrella limping across toward the church. He slowly curved his path so that I would be a stop on his way. And he smiled at me brilliantly—all gums save one large, slightly green snaggletooth. Around his neck lay a dirty towel covering a plastic, yellow rosary. He held a book of prayers. 

I wasn’t sure what to make of him, but after I said hello, he offered an unsolicited, slightly disjointed, yet profound and eloquent defense of the perpetual virginity of the Blessed Virgin Mary (one of the finer points of Catholic doctrine). I was confused, but intrigued. I followed him, listening attentively to his Catholic apologia, all the way back to the church, where he sat on the floor by an outlet and plugged in his phone. 

I planned to visit the police station after to talk about the crimes, but I was absolutely transfixed by this man. He quoted scripture from memory and recounted the lives of the saints, all while I sat on the floor and his phone charged. 

Eventually I had to leave, but I am almost certain that I met a saint that day. And I understood why the church was vandalized and why the priest and parish permitted this violence: It’s all for the sake of their God and a fierce belief that all should freely access Him. It might seem unreasonable to leave the church vulnerable, but that is the radical work of love and mercy that the church teaches. The commitment to open doors allows for the lost to find hope, for the homeless to charge their phones, and for vandals to find God.

So the Church of the Holy Family stays unlocked, open to sinners and saints alike.

Caleb Wallace Holm is a contributing writer for Michigan Enjoyer. Follow him on X @calebwholm and Instagram @calebwallaceholm.