A man is struck by a bus on a busy street in in New York City.He lies dying on the sidewalk as a crowd of spectators gathers around.“A priest. Somebody get me a priest!“ the man gasps. A policemanchecks the crowd—-no priest, no minister, no man of God of any kind.“A PRIEST, PLEASE!“ the dying man says again. Then out of thecrowd steps a little old Jewish man of at least eighty years of age.“Mr. Policeman,“ says the man, „I’m not a priest. I’m not evena Catholic. But for fifty years now I’m living behind St. Elizabeth’sCatholic Church on First Avenue, and every night I’m listeningto the Catholic litany. Maybe I can be of some comfort to this man.“The policeman agreed and brought the octogenarian over to wherethe dying man lay. He kneels down, leans over the injured and saysin a solemn voice:“Under the B, 4. Under the I, 19. Under the N, 38.Under the G, 54. Under the O, 72. . .“
