On the Steps

On the Steps

10/18

It was Amanda's idea. She said, "You have to sweep your steps." The first day we went together. While sweeping, an elderly African-American woman approaches. “so,” she says “you been landmarked. When is the work going to begin?” I explain that it doesn’t work that way. That no money comes with that. That we want to get back in. “So what can I do?” she asks. “Well, want to sweep? Or you can contact our city council member, Gale Brewer. Ask when the money comes.”

Our Deacon James Clifford approaches. A retired army vet who lives nearby. Hugs are exchanged. He talks about how he comes by every day to check things out. Except for his recent hospitalization. Clean up a bit. Last summer he spent a couple of days trying to restore an office for me inside the church. “We can do this together,” I say.

I pick up the cup filled with urine and take it to the garbage can. An older black man walks by. Sees what I’m doing. “That’s disgraceful, “ he says. “I was homeless once myself. Always took care of the place I was. Respected it. Kept it clean. These homeless these days. Just don’t know what’s wrong with them.” He shakes his head. Walks off.

10/19

I arrive at the steps and find a Mexican man whose age is hard to determine. He is still drunk. Cans of Cobra 40 around. I ask him his name. “Ricardo,” he replies. “Me voy limpiar las escaleras,” I say. “Me ayuda?” He declines my invitation to help. I notice trails of urine and sputum on the steps. Not sure what to do about that. Another Mexican man with a shopping cart filled with tin cans approaches. An animated discussion begins. Yet another Mexican man, better dressed and not appearing homeless, approaches and begins speaking authoritatively to the other two. My Spanish checks out and I can’t follow. They begin to leave. Ricardo unzips, wavering, and begins to relieve himself against the church. “Hermano,” I say, “Por favor...no se puede urinar en la iglesia..este es una iglesia, mi hermano..” He looks at me blankly and the three take off.

10/20

It’s a relatively quiet day. No signs of any activity. Has James Clifford been here and swept already? But as I sweep I notice, more red mud. That’s what started all this in the first place. Red mud. That’s how we discovered the outside of our building was washing away. It still is.

10/21

Cold, damp morning. Open doors from inside, find George sitting there, blocking the steps. George is a large African-American man with thick glasses. Wrapped in layers of robes and jackets and ponchos, with his bicycle rear view mirror attached to his hat, and his walking stick, he has the appearance of a desert character from one on the post-apocalyptic Mad Max movies. He lived on our steps a long time. We have a long history. He is diagnosed as a “highly intelligent schizophrenic.” At a community clergy meeting with the Department of Homelessness, George was proudly claimed as a success story. They had found him exactly the apartment exactly where he wanted it. And he was happily living there. Well, now he’s back. Clearly having spent the night.

I said, “Good morning,George. Excuse me, I’m going to sweep the steps.” He gathered his cardboard and other items and moved away as I tried to explain that we’d be doing this every morning. That we wanted to use the church again. I swept the steps. Removed the empty Cobra 40 can. I still don’t know what to do with human waste...spit, vomit, worse. But being here every day, I’ll have to figure it out.

As I finish, George is coming back. I ask about the overstuffed shopping cart near the steps. It’s not his, he tells me. Said the other guy left. I asked him to help keep an eye on things.

Another older lean African-American man with a white beard approaches. Staring at the church, lips moving. “Good morning,” I say. “Shhh...”he says, I’m talkin to the church. God bless the church” I tell him it’s my church. “So bless me, “ he says. So I do.

Walking back up Amsterdam Avenue, I call Project Reachout. “George is back,” I say.

10/22

Sunny mild day. I like to enter the church from the 86th street door so that when I get to the front door and open it up, what I find there will be a surprise. Today I find Ricardo and George on the steps. I wonder if he’s left his apartment or if this is just a visit to the comfort of the steps. I have two brooms. Offer one to Ricardo, asks if he wants to help. He shakes his head, gathers up his SUV shopping cart and takes off up Amsterdam. George has already left the steps and moved to the corner. Someone has left a large pile of clothes on the steps. I go over to George, asks if he wants the clothes. He scowls. “Who? What’s wrong?” I say, “the clothes, do you want them?” He scowls again. “No. Why would I want to do that? They’re small. I can’t wear small. I am not small.” I continue the clean up. Sweep up every scrap of paper, food, cigarette butts. Toss today’s lone Cobra 40 can. At least no human waste today. Wonder if my being here affects that. I think how I grew up in a tall steeple church. Spent my first ten years in the (then) largest downtown church in the US. Five associate pastors. Think about what pastors did and never did. I look at the beat up broom and dust pan. My downstairs neighbor Judy passes by on her way to work at Dorot, an outreach program for people who are elderly, Jewish and poor. We exchange good mornings. My fantasy is that some one will join me. Bring new brooms. We’ll see.

I go back to George. “You have a good day, ok?” He nods. No scowl this time.

10/23/10

I call Deacon James Clifford. He will take care of the steps while I am gone.

10/24/10

This morning I am on an early morning run in barrio in Managua. I smile at hearing the sounds of roosters in the city again. And then I see what I had forgotten. What I’ve seen in third world cities in Mexico, Nicaragua, Palestine. First thing in the morning, all over the world, poor women going out on the sidewalks, the streets, in front of their houses. With brooms. Refusing to be defeated by money, circumstance, garbage or power. Claiming their own power in their own space. Sweeping.

10/27

Today at 6 am in Managua I saw men sweeping the sidewalks...

10/31

Back from Nicaragua. A sunny and cool Halloween morning. The steps show signs of people having slept there. Folded up cardboard behind the gates. An old blanket and a sweater. I gather these things up and head for the trash can. Then I stop and think. Is it right to throw away the blanket? So I start to fold it up neatly and place it beside the steps. But then I think of the bedbug plague we’re going through. And other possibilities. So I place the blanket and sweater beside the can, not in it.

As I’m sweeping, Katherine approaches. She hadn’t been aware of where we’d be worshipping. Hadn’t seen my various ways of trying to communicate while I was gone. She will call others who might not know.

Then Holly comes. Begins decorating the outside of the church with Mexican paper cut outs and big colorful flowers her daughter Abie has made. And she’s building a Dia de los Muertos display on the steps. Amy and Juan arrive and begin setting up the electric piano and sound system. One by one, two by two the West-Park folk begin to arrive. Some in costumes.

I put on my white alb and green stole. Gather the folks on the steps. Holly takes salt and pours it around our circle and up the stairs, protecting our space. Talk about Martin Luther, 433 years ago. Why he picked this day. Explained about the 95 Theses. Then I pulled out my “15 Theses” and read them aloud:

FIFTEEN THESES

10/31/10

1. The church is the community of God’s children acting together as the Body of the Risen Christ
2. The church is the people of God, not the building
3. The building has been given to the church for the extension of mission and ministry
4. We are called to witness where we are...this corner in this neighborhood: this means engaging our neighbors
5. The church is not for sale
6. The building is not for sale
7. Our souls are not for sale
8. We left our building voluntarily as a step towards rebuilding and renewing
9. Bureaucrats and zealouts kept us out
10. We return here because we choose to
11. We will reclaim, renew and restore this building as we reclaim, renew and restore our mission, our ministry, our witness...and ourselves.
12. Our obedience is first and foremost to the God who created us
13. God has already given us all that is necessary to do the mission God has called us to
14. Neither government nor church council (Presbytery) can take that mission and ministry from us against our will
15. We invite any and all who would be partners to join us now.

We are West-Park.

Here we stand. We can do no other.

And I took out a hammer and nailed these to the church door....

We sang “A Mighty Fortress..” in English and Spanish and went inside into our narthex and the back of the sanctuary where Holly had built an ofrenda for El Dia de los Muertos with fruits, chocolates, photos of old confirmation classes, coins and a bottle of wine. After the service, all will share..

Philip goes and buys candy. We set up a table and sit to greet those walking up the street, lots of trick and treaters. Lots of parents. Lots of questions about the church. Wish I had flyers. And press. Take some folks in and show them around. Over and over again people ask “when does the work begin?” So any don’t realize that landmarking only gets you landmarked with no money to do the work. Over and over again I patiently explain.

One older man passes by and stops. “Pastor Brashear,” he says, “I see you honor the pagan as well as the Christian..” “It’s the eve of All Hallows,” I say, “All Saints.” He smiles and wishes us well.

We pass out candy and raisins. Talk to people. Wish them a Happy Halloween. We’ve been gone for three years. Will take awhile to convince folks we’re back.

We leave an ofrenda, a candle and candies on the steps as we leave.

11/1 All Saints Day

Sunny cool day. Not quite 50. Interesting to look at our altar. The candle’s gone. But most everything else still there. The skull, three chocolates,even the small cup of wine. (That is a surprise.) I start to take down the flowers and the rest of the display. Then I think, no, today is All Saints Day, tomorrow All Souls. I decide to keep it up through these days. And I add a flower or two to the gate where I had taken down a paper cut silhouette. When I see passersby stop and check out our doors, intrigued looks on their faces, I know this is right.

Someone has left a garbage bag of clothes on the steps. I open it and look in. All dirty, used up. This is not charity. At least they didn’t gift wrap anything. I take it to the trash barrell.

Once I ran a community ministry. We insisted gifts not be wrapped so that people could have a choice of what they wanted. One church member got bery angry. “Why is it so important for you to wrap this up?” I asked. “Because if they saw what it was, they might not want it, “ was the angry reply.

Los santos vivan....

Transfiguration

3/5
Quiet, warm, windy day. A one woman in a wheelchair, blanket across her lap, in front of Barney Greeengrass.

3/6

Walking up 86th, I see Marty. He’s holding his hand out, asking passersby for “tips,” as he puts it. I walk over and say, “hi.” “So, Reverend, have you had a lot of legal fees, with the building, you know?” I think, if he only knew. “Yes,” I say. “Litigation and all,” he says, “my brother’s an attorney. Specializes in real estate. I should have put him on your case.” “The whole landmarks thing,” I say. “Went on for years,” he says, “but thank God you’re back in, thank God you’re in.”  “Yes we are. We’re back in,” I say. “Hey, and they’re sleeping on the steps again, you know?” “Who,” I ask, “anyone we know?” “No, I went by there this morning at 6 am, there was some guy I didn’t know...” “OK, Marty, thanks, I’ll check it out. You have a good one, ok?” “And you , too, Reverend.”

Under the scaffolding I see one of those SUV shopping carts. Think it might be George. But then I see a giant plastic bag filled with aluminum cans and I realize it’s an independent recycling entrepreneur. Together, they keep the city streets free of cans. When I open the doors and begin to sweep, he gathers his cart, his cans and takes off down the street. 

It’s a mild, windy, rainy, typical March day. One that will be warmer outside than in.  

The line of people  waiting to get into Barney Greengrass winds in front of the church steps. Getting through the crowd to get to the restroom at Popover’s is like trying to get onto a crowded subway car at rush hour. I’m remembering what was in the Church Information Form when I applied for this job. On this block, the main Sunday morning ritual is brunch. Maybe that’s what we need, good coffee, good pastries,a warm place to sit and talk. 

I go back to the church and find Jim inside getting ready. An older African-American woman dressed for church has arrived. I welcome her, invite her in. She’s a soloist at a church in the Bronx just moved to the neighborhood. Juan comes by with his guitar, Amy will not be coming today. I see Rachel’s walker right inside the door. I’m talking on the steps with  Elder Philip. Then we see her, Philip drops to the steps in mock shock. An elder has returned.

She had left several years ago.  It  was in the midst of what felt like an endless church fight. The kind that make people ask themselves why they need this. They’re worse in a small church. Less of a buffer zone. It took me a long time to realize that in a church with a culture of conflict, you can change all the people  and the conflict continues. Until you change the culture itself. It’s sad when good, faithful, committed people get driven away. She’s heard good things are happening. Has come by to see.  

As Church begins, I share with the congregation my thanksgiving for the group that met at Stony Point last weekend to take the first steps in creating a new criminal justice network. For me, the issue has been primarily pastoral. I’ve performed the marriage of a relative in New York City’s Tombs. I’ve been to court with numerous members, have had members and members’ children incarcerated. Enough so that I’m always immediately dismissed from jury panels even though I’d gladly serve. The worst was a (then) teen age girl, victim of  fetal alcohol syndrome, who through a kafkaesque sequence of events has had simple arrest for shoplifting jeans turn into a 15 year state prison nightmare. This is part of the human reality behind the fact that the US incarcerates more of its citizens than any other western industrialized nation. And more proportionately than China. 

It’s Transfiguration Sunday. That final blast of light before the shadows of Lent begin. The season that began with a star shining over Bethlehem ends on a mountaintop.  The season of Epiphany ends. That word I love, that moment where like in a flash of light you just get it. It’s a portal, a door way Sunday, like Christ the King into Advent, this Sunday opens the doorway into Lent.

Our story begins on another mountain, with Moses. Receiving the Law. How the giving of the law created community. Made community possible. On the seventh day, like a new creation. Fire and smoke up on the mountain. Moses coming down, shining. And coming down to find the people already dancing around a golden calf. Mardi Gras run wild. 

Paired with Moses is the story of the Transfiguration. Jesus appears in his one shining moment with Moses and Elijah, the law and the prophets. But since it’s the end of epiphany, we need to be on the lookout for ongoing  epiphanies, moments of getting it. And allowing ourselves to be and changed by the experience. Ongoing epiphanies. It leads to the question, are you born again? In our tradition, we don’t have a particular day when we met Jesus. We don’t make a decision for Christ. It’s a gift of grace. And the reality is, yes we are born again--over and over and over again...

It’s a daily experience of dying and rising again. In the Jewish tradition, the first thing you do when you wake up is to give thanks for another day of living.  Daily. 

I’m thinking of the song from the movie 127 Hours: 

If I rise, one more chance

All our dreams, more than this  

It plays as Aron Ralston frees his pinned arm from the rock in the cave that holds him and comes back into the sunlight, back into freedom. At the cost of leaving part of himself back in the cave. For us, to free ourselves, to move back into light, back into life, we may have to leave part of ourselves behind. Not something physical, like Aron’s arm. But maybe something even more painful, something from inside. 

Our church is moving into the light, vote by vote, into the world of full inclusion for lgbt folk at every level of church leadership. Don’t forget, that started here, in 1978. We called it More Light. Because in our tradition, the scriptures are not frozen, they are a living word. The Holy Spirit can always shine  more light on the word and lead us to deeper understanding. 

So, the voice breaks through the clouds and says, This is my son, my beloved. Listen to him. Just like at Jesus’ baptism. And what happens? The disciples fall to the ground in fear.  And what’s important is what Jesus says, and in what order. He says Get up...do not be afraid..and touches them in their fear.

Make sure you hear that, it’s rise first, then not fear...Living in  fear is a form of death. To be afraid is to be controlled by that fear. To be afraid is to bring what you fear closer into being by the power of your fear. And the way to get out of it is to rise up, get up, get moving, even as you tremble. Think of how we’ve begun to do that. And maybe you get a little taste of what it was like to be in Egypt as people got up and step by step stopped being afraid. 

Christ has risen...and we are int the process of rising. We called our old project rebuild for rebirth. Now, we’re about being reborn to rebuild. And the way we do that is to take on concrete actions towards transformation. Specific, real, visible steps. Like when we committed to coming back here. 

Years ago in this sanctuary, there was a controversy when we used the Battle Hymn of the Republic in this service. Too martial. Too militant. But it was these words that drew me:

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me:
As He died to make men holy, let us live to make men free;
While God is marching on.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah! While God is marching on.

Julia Ward Howe. Abolitionist. Seeing in the midst of the Civil War a transcending cause, the freeing, the liberation of people. And in that transfiguration...

That’s where it has to be lived out, not on a mountain top, but here right where we live. As we rediscover our own call, our own witness in this place. 

Deacon James and Elder Ana help me serve the communion. Philip sings Let the light of the lighthouse shine on me. And then we all sing Canto de Esperanza (Song of Hope) and its time for our circle of blessing. And Ana’s coffee again.

Out on the steps, Jim is relating an incident at Presbytery. A trustee talking about West-Park having spent all its endowment and now trying  to hang on. In a totally unrelated meeting.  Where do such narratives come from? Get told  until they’re accepted as true? Become the basis upon which people make decisions without our even knowing it? And how much damage is done? In PHEWA, we have a principle we learned from our Disabilities Concerns Network, namely,  nothing about us without us. At every level of the church we need to stop talking about and start talking with.

...and champagne

9/3

Arrive to find another disaster on the steps. The worst yet. I go inside. Danielle has not opened up the doors yet. Came in the side door, never noticed. Teddy’s unavailable, so I call Steven who’ll be there in a minute. I need a plan. When Steven shows up with a large glass container of water,no buckets to be found,  I say, No, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m buying us new gloves. And a new mop. The old one died Sunday. And new garbage bags. You’re going to get the bleach and check the hoses downstairs. And the we’re going to deal with this.

I head to the hardware store. Buy my supplies. Back at the church, Ana has come in to sit and talk. I tell her I’ve missed her. She tells me the heat’s been too great. And wants to get into a discussion about Ched Meyer’s Binding the Strongman. You didn’t think I read it but I did. 

Never doubted that Ana.

Now I’m not an atheist, believe it or not. But it seems to me he’s trying to make Jesus out to be a Che Guevara....

I tell her I’d like to talk with her, engage the discussion, but I’ve got shit to deal with, literally. Ah, someone’s been pooping there? she asks. Yeah, that and more, I say. 

Steven and I go downstairs and find all the hose connections. Push the hose up through the hole in the street grate. We drag it. Need another length. Find it. Finally have enough hose to reach all the way down 86th and around the corner at Amsterdam. Next issue is to figure out how to turn the water on.

Finally. I reach down and gather up all the blasted papers. Steven brings a garbage bag, I hold my breath, dig down and toss it all into the bag. They don’t teach this at Yale, I say. Pepperdine neither, he says. And then pours bleach. His first container of water. Then as the hose is turned on, I take the new mop and scrape and mop until it’s all gone. We keep the water flowing until the steps are thoroughly clean. 

And then for good measure, pick up all the papers and cigarette butts all they way around to the 86th Street door then hose everything down. While I’m sidewalk sweeping and picking up butts, my old friend and neighbor Elle, the old fashion designer, stops. Looks. Has it come to this, Pastor, that you have to do this yourself?  I consider telling her she doesn’t know the half of it. But don’t. And that I’d give a lot for our neighbors to know how much we do care about this place.About being neighbors. But I don’t. I just say, I’m not alone, and, we all have to take our turn.  She thinks a minute. I think that’s admirable, she says, then heads to her home. 

Steven says, You’ve got to do something.

 I know, I say,  Soon as I’m back inside, I’m calling the precinct. And I do. And as expected, get an answering machine. Then I call Reachout who say they’ll take a note. 

Danielle is talking with Miriam, a young striking Ethiopian-German. She was the artistic director for Playing With Fire. She wants to do another play, here, on her own. I share my reflections on their performance of ....Fire. She’s surprised I saw it. She saw me outside with the mop. Am I an actor? A theatre person? No, I say, I’m a minister. The pastor of this church. What I do is sometimes a performance.  But it’s never acting...

I share with her the vision of the Center. And how I prefer groups interested in collaboration, not just renting cheap space. Tell her I’m glad she’ll be around. 

While I’m putting the hose away, Luli is coming into the church with a tray, glasses and a  bottle of cava. It’s Soledad’s birthday. Martin invites me to share a glass of champagne, watch some rehearsal. I sip the cava as Soledad dances to Miguel and his ululating gritos born from el Andaluz.  That’s what it is here, I think, shit and champagne...

Teddy is up and into the office.  Tells me Edward was on the steps when he got back from work. Soaked from the waist down.  Asleep in his own. I tried to wake him, he says, he gets up, weaving, gets in my face. I called the ambulance. Didn’t know what else to do. They showed up. I left when they came. Don’t know what happened. 

I tell Teddy what we had to deal with. That there was blood on the steps. That we have to call 911 on sight. 

Bob, he says, and making his arms go like an umpire’s safe sign, says, the dude is cooked. He’s cooked. His body is shutting down. He’s got no control.

I know. But we’ve got no choice. He’s not going to die on my steps. 

And I tell Teddy and Danielle the story of Arthur Cafiero, who froze to death on the steps, back in 2003, despite my efforts to get him in. The New York Post blamed my bleeding heart for his death. There’s more, but another story for another time. Still hurts. 

In the late afternoon, the Center Board gathers in Mc Alpin Hall for a post mortem on our late lamented lost deal. There is sadness. And anger. We are going to make this deal, we’d been told. And we had begun to live into it. The moment is grim. But we have to use every moment we’ve got. Melisa’s proposal is back on the table. Chris, who had been working with us back when we had a developer, as their rep, has found another possibility. We have our assignments. We’ll play this out to the end.  

While we’re meeting, Teddy texts, Edward is back. But when he sees Teddy, he takes off. The sounds of voices and feet of flamenco filtering up through the floor. I ponder the mystery of Edward. My therapist says, someone has to want to change. And I say, I know, but it’s not enough. He knows what he has to do to live and won’t (can’t?) do it. So do I. And there’s a lot I don’t do. And I think I  I know why but I don’t. All that DNA/genes what not. It’s like genetic Yahtzee. The cosmic dice get rolled. Maybe you get all sixes. Or maybe just a bunch of random dice that don’t add up to nothing. I’m on the inside, a struggling pastor in a struggling church.  He’s on the outside, slipping away.

The sounds of flamenco getting louder through the floor. The voice, the feet, dancing together. Shit and champagne.

At Large

11/29

Perfect cool sunny November day. As I near the church, I see a young, perhaps African-American, woman pacing back and forth near the 86th Street door. She’s watching me. As I begin to unlock the door, she says, with a heavy French accent. “Excuse me, do you work here?”

I tell her yes, that I am the pastor.

“I am looking for Tracy Dixon,” she says.

I invite her to come around front, to come into my office and talk. I ask her if this is part of her job. “No, it is because I am Christian,” she says. She too had found him on the steps and gotten to know him. She tells me she has located Tracy’s daughter in Indiana and wants to reconnect them. She tells me her name is Laila. “So you’re the one George told me about,” I say. And she smiles and says, “yes, George.” I tell her that Tracy was the first other person I ever heard George show concern for. She tells me how she had found Tracy’s former wife on Facebook and then just before Thanksgiving his daughter. She was very excited. Said that back in September, Tracy had a birthday and she and her siblings had wondered “if dad was still alive.” And Laila hasn’t been able to find him since.

I share with her the story of Tracy and our days together. And how the Common Cause reachout people had taken him away. I hope, we hope, he’s okay. I need to find out. I promise to stay in touch with Laila. I ask her where she’s from. And she tells me France. And that she’s a nanny on the Upper Westside.

While we’re talking Amanda comes in with Bill Tripp, an architect from Portland who will be speaking on ritual space on Thursday here. Amanda too has had her friendship with Tracy. I’m amazed at this network of friends he has established in this neighborhood. And the interesting variety of women.

As I see Laila out the door, there’s an older, distinguished woman with white hair looking in the church. She says that she’s been here 30 years and never seen inside before. Always wondered about it. She lives on 105th and West End. And she too, has a French accent. She tells me of her life. How there was a study of different nationalities and what their priorities were. Some wanted security. Others freedom, human rights. Others more social rights higher. “I am French,” she says. I grew up in a socialist regime. Human needs taken care of. Still, for us, we French, it is pleasure and esthetics.”

She tells me of her religious life, raised Catholic. But always questioning. “They called me mademoiselle pourquoi” she said. And how she eventually came to move away form an organized religion. Too many questions she had. “I have been at large now for many years,” she says in a construction I like very much. “I eventually became a humanitarian,”she says. Tells me that she is 81. A retired nurse.

“Pleasure, esthetics, humanitarianism..., I like that..I tell her that she’s missed another French woman just moments ago. And that the guys across the street are francophone.

“Ah yes, “she says, “the tree men from Quebec..” she smiles. “They are near me too..”She says she used to go to 5th Avenue Presbyterian for the preaching or to a Catholic church for the ritual, Episcopal for the choir. She says I might see her some Sunday. I smile back and say I hope so. “Yes, I am at large,” she says.

Amanda and I go through the church with Bill. It’s good to see it through his eyes. I look forward t hearing what he will say on Thursday night.

Back outside, we go across the street. I introduce Amanda to Francois. He is carving a little sleigh. It’s something the tree people do on slow days, carve from scrap wood. I ask if he does reindeer. “No,” he says, “my friend over on Broadway, no, everybody makes reindeer. I need a different idea.” I tell him another one I saw on Broadway had gotten into carving Hannukah menorah for both small and large candles. That is, as they say, knowing your territory. I promise to think of new ideas.

We say goodbye to Francois, head up the street.

11/30

A day that looks on the verge of rain. All clear on the steps. Take coffee to Francois, check on his carving progress. His sleigh project continues. He needs a new knife. On the way to the subway, Ji Young is concerned about her work come January but happy for her daughter Miranda’s school. We’re on our way downtown to the mayor’s office to talk about green issues and our project.

A guy with an SUV shopping cart nodding out on the steps. I ask if he’s ok. Eventually, he looks up, says, “I’m good.”

****

Meetings to plan the Columbia University Preservation Alumni work day coming up Saturday. Talking with folks from Landmarks West!, it’s hard to set aside hard feelings from the landmarks struggle. On the one hand, I’m touched by the appreciation by the smallest detail of historic design and its beauty. On the other, I want to know that the beauty of each human being on the steps, each person who worships here is recognized as equally beautiful and important. That’s our struggle, our call.

Solstice: Making Music New York

6/21

Early part of the day spent in getting ready for this afternoon and evening. In the midst of preparations, the mumbling man comes in. That needing look again. When I tell him I/we have no money, I wish he could actually believe it. They just assume an open  church keeps a stash of money around. He of course wants to show me the edema  around his badly swollen ankles. No money. No food. No metro cards.We end our conversation, our negotiation? by my giving him enough for one subway ride. (It was Danielle’s turn last time...) He asks for a Bible. And I give that, too. 

Andre arrives. Almost time for our Rush Hour Concert on the Steps to take our part in Make Music New York.  Jeremy arrives with his keyboard and mics. Aaron is here to sing, too. And also Teresita. I’ve learned to accept her for the authentic person she is. Her smile, her spirit, is real. 

Rush Hour Concert
Aaron, Andre, Teresita, Jeremy, Bob

So there we are on the steps. Deacon James sitting there for support.  Singing for those getting off the buses, coming home. Those walking up and down the street. Classic gospel songs. Sanctuary, the signature song we share. My answer will be yes.... Through it all.... This little light of mine..... We’re all taking turns taking the lead. Jeremy gets me to do my Rest awhile...Aaron leads on Any day now. Teresita with What if God were one of us? (...like a stranger on a bus...) I take Pharoah’s army got drownded, with the Arlo Guthrie verse:

Moses was the first to get the notion 

That the world is safer with the army in the ocean.

Pharoah’s army got drownded....

And the Jeremy brings us home with And I bid you goodnight...

I’ve enjoyed the looks on peoples’ faces. The thumbs up signs. The child who is completely taken by Jeremy’s keyboard. The people who stop and stay awhile. people taking iPhone videos. Being in touch with the street. From the steps. Feels good.

And now, just an hour. Before open mic....but, then  I see him. Edward Green.(for Edward's story seehttp://west-parkpress.blogspot.com/search?q=edward%27s+story) On the steps. Got there while we were singing. I walk over, speaking softly. Edward, you know you’re not supposed to be here. He gives me a quizzical look. There have been issues, that make it impossible for you to be here. 

Ah man, what you talkin about, I’m just here to hear the people sing...

Don’t you remember, Edward?

Ah man, I remember everything....

I don’t think so. Two summers in a row, Five days each time. Cleaning his waste from the steps.  

...Just here to hear the people sing...

You can’t stay here, OK?

And I go back inside.

I hear Andre’s voice. Edward’s voice raised. Andre comes in. He says you’re persecuting him...And I tell Andre the back story. Well, you might be having to call 911. He seems adamant....I can’t be dealin with that up in here anymore...

I go back out. Edward is gone. I wonder what I would have to ask in order to re extend welcome. Some awareness, some understanding....

The chapel is all set for open mic. Martin has removed his construction materials. RL has done some redecorating. Marc has the sound system set up. Stephen the bar. A couple comes in, sees we’re not ready. Leaves. It may be a night of mainly musicians.

Before it’s over, Pat and Larry will show. My son Dan. And Damarius brings two friends. Who answer my question with the information that they are from a men’s cell group at a super conservative megachurch that causes name brand confusion.

Cara’s old friend Andy,

Andy

from Queens, opens with some decent songs. Then Jeremy. Who after his opening, moves over to our old piano. The one with the pedals not yet reattached. That has made its way from Andrea’s childhood home in Freeport to our home on 93rd and now to the chapel. It’s well worn. But still has a warm sound. He moves into his neo-Brechtian Let’s waste this year...And then invite me up for my new I’ve reached my limit with you...we just worked out this afternoon.

Then there’s Mandola. And RL in and out. David S has his set of surprisingly good originals. And Pat O’ playing his originals. I do a set of my own with Pat joining me on my ...Well....song. Playing Marc’s electric Fender for a change.  Marc shows his accomplished skills on the guitar. And RL finishes with his Stay awhile...and we all join in....It’s been a good night.

Mandola Joe

Somewhere towards the end, Beppe comes in. Sits down, shares Stella and conversation. Good to have him there.

Time to clean up. And then it begins. Is it the solstice? Anna comes in with puppy to report on her rounds. Next comes the #OWS lost boy to complain ... that woman with the dog is harassing me.... I look at him square in the eye. She’s very protective of this place you know? You know the rules. Follow them , you’ll be OK.

Awhile later, I go outside. The suburban Samaritans of the Midnight Run have arrived. People are gathering around for the sandwiches. A smiling man approaches, Hello there, would you like a cup of coffee? A sandwich? I consider telling him I’m the Pastor. Don’t.  It used to embarrass me when the Midnight Run crew first showed up on my steps during the peek of #OWS.  Now I just accept it.

David

Then I look around and see George is back. I walk over and shake his hand. Hello George, it’s been awhile. He smiles, shakes my hand. The Samaritans approach. They seem to know each other. He is soon lecturing them on the state of the world. 

Beppe takes this all in. Amazed? Amused? Or just accepting. Must be the solstice.

6/22

No one’s around while I’m in to do my service. Or later when I come in to write. Outside, the steps are completely  empty for the first time in a long time. Walking up Amsterdam, I see los Rodriguez and the #OWS lost boy encamped in the semidarkness of Baptist doors. 

Bob

Thanks to Marc Stager for Open Mic photos