When needed, comfort from unexpected source

And the sign said "The words of the prophets

Are written on the subway walls

And tenement halls

And whispered in the sounds of silence."

- Simon and Garfunkel, "The Sounds of Silence"

It was a little over five years ago when I first heard the preacher on Market Street.

After 17 years of working in the Philadelphia suburbs, I was starting a new job and returning to the familiar confines of Center City, where I had previously worked for 15 years, as well as attended high school and college.

As I emerged from the subway station that late summer morning, the preacher stood at 16th and Market loudly barking like a Wildwood boardwalk pitchman seeking players for his rigged game. I'm paraphrasing, but he was shouting something like, "Jesus welcomes all to his kingdom, saints and sinners alike."

His powerful voice could easily be heard over the considerable traffic and construction noise of the city.

"Christ is the way and the truth," he would continue. "It is only with Him and through Him that you can attain true happiness."

I smiled as I heard it and thought to myself, "Wow, I forgot about all of the kooks down here. Welcome back!"

My fellow subway denizens and I shuffled past him like a herd of sheep as he continued to loudly ramble on - some nonsense about the Bible, wickedness, the light, and judgment day. He appeared too well dressed to be homeless, so I assumed that he was just mentally ill.

I continued to walk toward my office building, and the preacher's voice began to fade. As I looked back at him with mild amusement, several people bumped into me and gave me angry looks. Apparently my navigational skills within a rushing Center City crowd had diminished, and it was one of the many things that I'd have to learn again. As it turned out, I'd eventually learn much more.

The preacher was still there when I headed home from work that night, as well as the next day, and the day after that. As a matter of fact, he's been preaching there just about every day since I've been back downtown, and probably a lot longer. He's become something of a permanent fixture of the Center City landscape.

Over the years, I heard him preaching on that street corner on blistering hot days, bitterly cold nights, in the rain, the wind, and the snow. I developed a certain admiration for his perseverance, even though I thought his preaching was a waste of time, as nobody ever seemed to listen to what he was saying. Every time I saw him or heard him, I would think of the old phrase: "Heart of gold, head of wood."

All of that has changed now.

Just a few days before the recent snowstorm, a close friend and mentor unexpectedly died. His death was the latest of many among my family and friends that have darkened my world over the last 18 months.

I read of my friend's passing while at work, and I accomplished very little that day. That evening, in the bitter cold, I walked in a semi-daze toward the subway entrance. Suddenly I heard the voice of the preacher.

I don't know what prompted me to do it, but I walked up to him. He stopped preaching and looked at me.

"My friend, Joe, just died," I said to him in a quivering voice. "Everyone seems to be dying."

He clutched my hand, closed his eyes, and said, "Pray with me, brother. Jesus, comfort this man, as he has lost another dear friend. He needs your strength, comfort, and blessings during this time of great sorrow. Let him know that he is never alone and that you will always be there for him. Let him see your light in this temporary darkness. Amen."

Then he opened his eyes and said, "Bless you, brother."

My personal views on God, religion, life after death, and the universe are heavily influenced by science and very much different from the preacher's. But I have to admit that I was surprised at how much comfort his words had given me. His messages of being kind to one another and helping those in need are values that we should all live by, regardless of our religious views.

I now have a greater admiration for the preacher, who, I have learned, is named Gregory Stroman, a member of St. Matthew's Church in North Philadelphia. On a recent evening while on my way home, I waved to him. He waved back and said, "Have a blessed evening."

I slowly descended the subway stairs, and the preacher's voice from above gradually diminished with each step. This time, however, I was actually listening to what he said.

I've come to the realization that the words of the prophets aren't always written on the subway walls but often resonate within them. And the echo of these words, like the voices of lost loved ones, should be remembered, for they will inevitably fade to a faint whisper until they're lost forever in the wells of silence.

Chris Gibbons is a Philadelphia writer. gibbonscg@aol.com@CGibbons2244