Is this a Rectory?

Ever notice how who you think you often isn't what you turn out to be?

Is this a Rectory?

Are you ready?
Who believes believes in
  the service of the extended hand,
  the retrieval of a sentient soul,
Sure you know what it means,
  yet are you ready?

Glorious morning,
  I delight in greeting on the front steps, I jest
"Good morning, program? Can’t tell the sinners from the saints without a program…"
  and, "Good morning, program…?" see?
Sunday morning smug is fun!

And we get them too,
  several appear just before the service ends,
  there’s cookies and coffee,
So when she walked up,
  her weathered sunburned face,
  her unwashed hair in need of Prell,
  the plastic bag under her arm,
She seemed no exception to me

"Good morning…"
  she interceded, verging on tears,
"I’m homeless, I’m hungry, Is this a Rectory?"
"There’s a mass about to start, a coffee thereafter, come back in a hour,"
   I watched her back as she turned and trod back the sidewalk, chiming
"God bless you, bless you," her voice a Victorian urchin,

Not until she was past the Post Office did I have the thought,
   I could have given her $5 dollars,
   pointed up the street where’s Dunks and Mickey-Dee’s,
I could have told her - there’s a food pantry, here, open Fridays, for Seniors,
   she likely was one,
   I could have… I'm standing here alone,

Over crackers and cheese I described her to the Warden,
   watching, attendant, though she didn’t come back…
I still believe I could have…
I know next time, be ready…

Now, forlorn, my Sunday smug bygone,
   may I see my self anew? 
For no poem is a moral,
   but the pain of self assessment, and
     the shrive of all conceit