By Monsignor Noel C. Burtenshaw

So Joseph set out from the town of Nazareth in Galilee and traveled up to Judea to the town called Bethlehem, since he was of David's house and line. In order to be registered together with Mary, who was with child. While they were there, the time came for her to have her child and she gave birth to a son, her first-born. She wrapped him up in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger because there was no room for them at the inn.

There is room at the inn if you go to St. Bartholomew's. It is a community out on LaVista Road. It's an Episcopal community that, this year, is challenging itself to be very (pardon the expression) non-Episcopalian.

That is how they put it to me, anyway. Star-starter of the project, Martha Evans, said, with a bright twinkle. "Episcopalians and Catholics are not into shelter programs very much. We wanted to try this one."

Two weeks ago, just as winter came tumbling in, St. Bartholomew's opened its night shelter project. There are others in the city, most are for men, some are for women. There are none for families -- men, women and children. That, decided St. Bartholomew's, was the project they would attempt. It would be an inn -- closed perhaps everywhere else -- but not at St. Bartholomew's.

It began with the involvement of Martha Evans down in the Central Presbyterian night shelter. She helped last year and wanted to do more this year. "We should be taking care of Christ when he comes to our door," says this gentle lady.

Her words were not lost on Bob Bevis, long a supporter of shelters in the city. "Open your own," he said. Ed Loring, head of the Open Door shelter also encouraged her. Martha told him she would like to help families. "Do it," he said. "It is our greatest need."

So too it is.

Men and women can somehow find shelter from the cold. A little money will get a bed with the Salvation Army, the Union Mission and other night shelters. But there is nowhere a family can go, to be sheltered and be together.

What do they do? They find vacant shacks, old cars, darkened doorways. They find friendly policemen who turn away to let them use benches in the bus station, until the bus company complains. Then the father goes to jail; the mother and children get temporary housing. The battle for survival on the streets continues. At night, the battle can sometimes be lost.

So, Martha asked her church. They agreed. "I told Ed Loring that we were maybe too far out from the city," says Martha. "But he said that would be no problem."

"Volunteers will be your problem," said Ed.

He was not altogether right. The support from the church was good. The money was donated. Five little Sunday school classrooms were cheerily converted and the project was ready. The classrooms are given back to the school on Sundays.

"We put mattresses on the floor, sent word around, but on the first night, nobody came." It was the only night they had vacancies. "It breaks our heart," says Martha. "But we do turn families away." Genuinely, sometimes there is no room at this inn.

The families are asked to be in St. Bartholomew's by 7 p.m. A hot meal is served at that time. Martha had two volunteers helping with the food. Angie Powell was busy welcoming the families and Anita Montelione, who is leaving her job as a college math teacher to go into the inner city work, was arranging the hot meal of chicken and vegetables.

We sat down to dinner together and talked about our day. One man was delighted he had found a job. He was proud that now he had some money for the family. Another, who is in construction, tells the horror story of hurrying after a job only to find 300 in line for that one position. "Sometimes there are 1,000 in line," he grins.

The women feed the children. An eight-month-old infant sits in a high chair watching his mother's plate of steaming food. Little Charles, about two years old, wanders into the kitchen and points to a jar to tea. Martha Evans pours it for him, to his delight. "Say please," she says. He mumbles it and is gone with eyes fixed on a donated cake. How family it all is, you think.

It is a scene of home. That is what St. Bartholomew's has become for those families. For this night, there will be no worry about the long, uncertain hours that are ahead. They are at home.

After dinner, it is time for talk around a cup of coffee. There is noise from the playing children, but it is happy, comfortable noise. Soon, they are ordered to bed. Mothers then gather in corners. Sweaters and clothes are admired. One washes her hair and then sits while the expert hands of another shear off the locks. They fall in a black heap onto the floor.

Martha looks on. "I really like your hair cut like that, pretty, it suits you." I take my camera to shoot the scene. One lady objects. She would rather I not do so. It is a moment to remember. They are here as guests of St. Bartholomew, but, at this moment, they are at home and I am a guest among them. For now, I put the camera away.

Not all of St. Bartholomew's parishioners are pleased with the project. "The poor are not always pleasant to deal with," says Martha. "It is hard sometimes to accept them. But we look at Chapter 58 of the prophet Isaiah and are reminded of the joy the Lord gives to those who house the poor. We have prayed about that chapter. It keeps us going."

Angie and Anita are the volunteers who will stay with the families until morning. In turn, one will sleep, the other will stay awake, watching over the safety and the needs of the guest-families.

At 7 a.m., they must be out. "We give them a light breakfast and two bus tokens each. One takes them into town and the other brings them back again tonight."

Some will find a job. Others will not. The women and children go to the public library and stay warm. Hopefully the children will be on their best behavior. If they make noise or play loudly, they are asked to leave.

Mostly, during the day, they will be unable to eat. "There is a good meal over at St. Luke's," one father tells me. "But they can't get over there. They have no many and it is too far to walk. They won't eat 'till evening when the bus takes us back to St. Bartholomew's."

There are hundreds of families who melt into the raw cold of the city each night. Many of them are abused. They are often the helpless prey of the unscrupulous and the unmerciful. St. Bartholomew's can only house five little family units. But they do it wholeheartedly, lovingly and with unconditional welcome.

Those fortunate enough to experience that shelter will long remember it. They will remember that this particular inn did indeed have room.