Opening Day and Another Brother

12/17

The day begins with a rush of activity. Craftspeople and artisans ready to get underway. Some lights out and I have to figure out how to get them back on without making everything go dark. Judith Hooper has done the hard work of organizing all this. Over 40 tables from a wonderfully eclectic multicultural group of exhibitors from New York Creates, including my member Leila Elias who has made me some amazing clergy stoles over the years, including an Advent one, an Easter 9-11 one and a rainbow one in honor of More Light. There’s Jamaal doing general support work and a professional looking security guard. I’m doing whatever’s necessary to help people load in before the 10 am opening time. Some exhibitors complain about their location,the lack of heat, but that was all part of the deal. Meanwhile, up in the balcony Piano Dan is getting Amanda’s Balcony Music festival underway. Stalwart Piano Dan will fill in whenever necessary over the course of the day to keep the music going. The musicians love the Bohemian feel to the whole festival.

In the middle of all this, I hear the doorbell ring. There’s an elderly African-American man, bundled against the cold. Thin, full beard, glasses. He asks if I’m the pastor. I say yes. He tells me that he read my story in the Daily News and felt he’d found “another brother.”

I invite him into my office. He tells me he’s the Reverend James Delasand, the Pastor of Mt.Moriah Baptist Church in Jamaica, Queens. Read our story at his buddy’s house after church. Felt God had shown it to him. He tells me of his own struggles. The third pastor of a declining Church. A leaky roof. Repairs needing to be done, not many people, less money. How do I do it? Well, I actually haven’t. Or am still in the process. I tell him my strategy. He said when he read the article, he admired my faith, my courage. The courage to step out and make an offering to God to see what would happen. Well, yes, and i still have no heat and only portasans outside. But it feels good to have touched him. He tells me he’s got skills in “repair work” and wanting to help when he can. Before he leaves, he asks for a prayer. I hold his hand and pray, and ask for his continued prayers for us. Everything’s now underway.

My former intern Eleanor has come to donate a couple of Macs. She remembers what it was like back when she worked here and produced a performance of a white and a black actor sharing their stories of growing up in “parallel lives” of opposite sides of the track. And then she had led a series of follow-up dialogues exploring the dynamics of race through our personal lives.  My Team member Mim has dropped by to show support. I duck in and out of the music festival. RL from the P&G is holding forth in his own unique style.

A team of church folk has arrived to set up our food table. Hot chili for cold folks. Hot dogs, baked goods, soup. Arcadia, Lilly, Samantha, Brandy, Hope all lending a hand. And later Marsha, too. And Luis, and Nirka, and...They’re here. (Next time, I’ll have to talk about styrofoam and our emerging commitment to green and sustainable.) And we’ve set up a table with pottery made by Andrea’s late mother Pat.

As the afternoon gets late, Amanda’s set starts and my son Micah plays Juan’s electric stand up bass and Piano Dan does his inimitable stylings. A bunch of the P&G musicians have shown up to hear her set. Andrea has come, as well as my cousin Nancy and her husband David. It feels good to have them all here to share in this event with me. Amanda has a pot of hot mulled white wine going as well as lots of candles on the stage steps. It reminds me of the Spiegelhall in former East Berlin. Seeing the musicians framed by organ pipes and our Tiffany window is a a great scene. Meredith Kaye Clark and Eric David close out the afternoon. Both are Broadway veterans, Wicked and Jersey Boys, with stage presence and a clear connection to their Missouri roots even closing with a Dolly and Porter number, Last Thing on My Mind.

Time to close up, lock up, turn out the lights until tomorrow. I do the lock up. It’s been a long, good day.

A day of preparation

12/16

Le’s call it a day of preparation. We’re getting ready for the Crafts Fair that will open tomorrow. Ted and Amanda arrive first. Later, Judith from New York Creates will arrive bringing multiple trips to her car to unload. It takes Ted and I many trips to get all the chairs into the places they will be needed. My son Nate arrives to work with Jamaal in taking care of the difficult tasks like hanging the banners announcing the festival on the scaffolding and trimming the sanctuary with white lights.

When I see the white lights that have been hung up, I can’t help but remember what it looked like in here "back in the day" when we had the lights and garlands of green and a forest of Christmas trees filling our sanctuary. It was like a magical reality had taken over our space.

In the late afternoon, Amanda’a musician friends arrive to start setting up the stage and the sound system for the music festival that Amanda organized. Hugo, Micah and I are getting ready to go the Venezuelan consulate’s holiday reception.

I'm told a story. Of a father who after 50 years --and many years of child support-- has discovered by DNA tests that his son actually had another father. (A bit ironic this time of year when we study the Matthean genaologies.) It's going to take awhile to sort through the ramifications of this. He's going to talk to him. His son is still his son.

That’s what it was, a day of preparation.

All You Need is Love

12/15

Still in the twenties when I get to the church to open the doors for the electricians. All day long, they’ll be installing new emergency lights, exit signs, everything needed for safe lighting in case of an emergency. The crew chief has his ipod set up for all Beatles all day.

I open the doors to do the steps. It’s still in the twenties. A guy who wants to come off as a hustler with his cap at a jaunty angle spots my Steelers stocking cap,one of the things that keep me connected to my roots, and calls out, “Yo, the Pittsburgh Steelers. The Steelers in it, man...” “My hometown, man, hometown" I respond.

I pick up coffee at Barney Greengrass and head across the street. Francois has been joined by Max from Montreal, a raft guide on the River Rouge. He’s got a Brad Pitt kind of handsome face with ruddy cheeks and eyes that seem to dance. We share stories of Quebec, my trips there when my son Micah spent summers at the music festival at Le Domaine Forget about 90 miles up the St. Lawrence from Quebec City, where the river gets wide, salt and fresh water fish coexist and whales come in to play. We talk of poutin, the classic Quebecois roadside staple of french fries, cheese curd and gravy. Francois complains that you cant get real poutin in New York City. He goes on to say that he 's promised to deliver a free tree to anyone who can approach him with a real taste of Quebec.

I go back to close up. The electricians will be there awhile. “All you need is love” is playing as I walk out. The three electricians are singing along.

Later,Ted will come by and we will meet with a representative of Housing Works, a non-profit group that started as a kind of thrift shop to support the homeless and has now branched into antique furniture and bookstores, cafes and wine bars. We’re going to give them a tour. They would be a perfect partner for us.

They love the raw space of the church house. It’s open funkiness. But it’s not really inviting as a “retail” type space with the one door on 86th Street. “But let’s get creative,” I tell them. “Follow me.” And I take them to the tower room. The space with its own door that Amanda, who started with an expresso cart and wound up building her own cafe, says would be perfect for a coffee bar. She even knows where she would get the beans. The space seriously needs to be cleared of pigeon guano.

The woman from Housing Works lights up. “This is great, “ she says,”I never thought you’d consider opening up the sanctuary space.” We go upstairs. The late afternoon sun is pouring through the stain glass windows like caramel and butterscotch. And she can imagine it...the cafe, downstairs the book and table space in the balcony “boxes.” It could work. A long road from a moment of imagination to a reality. But the possibility is there. Amanda’s spot was right.

I let everyone out the front. Then I get ready to lock up.The electrical guys are still there. Beatles still going strong. “Still have the Beatles,” I say. “Been going all day and no need to stop,” the crew chief says.”Didn’t want to bring anything too offensive,” he says.

‘You don’t exactly look gangsta” I say, we both laugh, I crawl over the guy on the ladder, out the door and begin to head home. There’s something Dickensian about what we’re trying to do here, what it feels like at Christmas.

But not like the Yukon

12/14

The temperature is down to 20 degrees. There’s a dusting of snow on the parked cars and street. Ted has brought banners for the crafts fair. He’s headed to COSTCO for supplies. I remind him not to forget the first aid kit. A young Latina mother and her daughter come in from the cold to wait for the bus and look around. I share a brochure, talk about the church. I sit in the cold, worrying about the negotiations around the agreement with Landmarks West! About the incredible gap in understanding that still remains. They are adamant about reassurances there will be no attempt to reverse landmarking. Our folks still feel that after the cost of that process to us, there’s a debt to be paid. Hopefully attorneys can work this out and stress levels won’t rise too high. I take cards for the crafts fair to Gary Greengrass and to Francois across the street. He’s sitting in his shelter, cheeks red, reading the paper, no gloves or mittens. He agrees its cold, and laughs, “but not like the Yukon.” Well, there’s that. Christmas songs running through my head. Eleven days to go.

A can of Cobra and homemade cookies

12/13

Gray and cold. An empty 40 can of Cobra and a plate of homemade cookies. That’s an interesting touch. I take down the posters advertising Clean Up Day. As I’m in my office planning my week, a woman comes in and asks if this is the church that gives out food. I direct her down the street to SPSA. I look at Jim’s poster for our Christmas project inviting people to bring food for WSCAH or pennies or children’s pajamas. I look up at the beautiful backlit Tiffany window of Jesus the Shepherd, child in his arms. At the old wooden manger scene. I‘m thinking about the arduous, complicated task of getting the heat back on. And I’m wondering if this is the last gasp of this old church. The last romantic effort. Or the birth pangs of a new beginning. Closing up the doors, I say “Hi” to Gary Greengrass on his way home from his shop. Eleven days to Christmas.

Advent III: Life is sad, but beautiful

12/12

Today our neighbors are celebrating El Dia de la Virgen de Guadalupe.

There was no rain as I left our house, but halfway to the church, it was all torrential rain and swirling wind. I stop at Barney Greengrass to shake off the rain and get coffee. I nod to Gary who’s busy taking orders.

As I start to open the doors, I see them move from the other side. It’s Holly, first one there to help set up. As the doors swing open, I see Marty sitting there. I tell him I’m glad to see him, ask how he’s doing. He looks up at me, “Reverend, the wind is whirling wild. You don’t mind if I sit here awhile?” I tell him no and that people will be coming in a little while. To make himself at home.

Back inside, setting up. Another man comes in. Overflowing shopping bags in his hands. Wearing a leather jacket. Under one arm is a boom box wrapped in a black plastic garbage bag. Muffled sounds of Christmas carols make their way out. I can only make out every third word or so of what he says, like “food.” I tell him that we have none. I offer him a bottle of water. He asks for another. “Change.” I empty my pocket, give him what I’ve got. He mumbles something, points to a dime on the floor. I bend over, pick it up, give it to him. “Raincoat.” We don’t have. “Jacket with hood.” I tell him to wait. Go check out our supply. Nothing that works. When I come back to tell him, Holly is giving him directions to St. Paul and St. Andrews down the street where we’ve been for three years. I tell him we’ve got nothing and open the door to see him out, point him to SPSA.

Our folks are slowly gathering. We notice that it is warmer outside where the wind is warm, nearly 50 degrees, than inside where the cold of the week has soaked in and stayed. We light our candles and sing Advent songs.

Today’s passages seem to have the theme of “seeing is believing.” John is in jail and wants to know if Jesus is the one. And Jesus answers in terms of Isaiah, blind seeing, lame walking, lepers cleansed, deaf hearing...And I talk about the beauty of the image but issues with the seeming connection between physical condition and spiritual wholeness. Our need for “people first” language, difference between healing and curing. And I share Barbara Lundblad’s rewrite where the woman who is blind processes with her dog, the deaf man sings with joy in sign, the veteran in a wheel chair prays for all and the girl who cannot speak dances in with the bread.

And I’m surprised when Hope breaks in and says that in this passage she hears something profoundly liberating. That in Jesus there is a way of relating that transcends every condition or circumstance, deeper than everything else. And Andre speaks of Jesus being God in human form and that we see Christ in the face of others and hope to reveal his face to those we meet.

I say that Jesus concludes with the “Good news being preached to the poor.” That the bottom line is do we preach good news to the poor. Especially as we engage in new relationships around us. And I mention the advice attributed to St. Francis of Assisi I used at Melissa’s installation: “Preach often. Use words when necessary.” That this ministry of incarnation is what this season calls us to and that if we are true to that calling, our project will succeed. That our key words are presence, relationship, action. What do we see? What do we hear? What then must we do?

Philip sings “Sleepers Wake” and we sing a Latin American gloria and finish with “Soon and very soon...” Andre says the gloria made him think of the Underground Railroad.

Arcadia is organizing food for next week’s crafts fair. We find the church’s old coffee urn. And miraculously, our old wooden creche set, a gift from Mary. And we’ve found another set of gourds painted as the Three Kings and the Holy Family. Perfect for a Dios de los Tres Reyes Magos celebration in January.

Arcadia sets up the creche. The urns are heading out for cleaning. We go outside where it’s warmer, in the wind. P_____ shows up. She stayed at SPSA this morning. Lessons and carols. The music was beautiful. There was a film crew. I feel a twinge of pain at how full their life has become,how far we have to go. P____ looks at me. “Reverend Brashear, you look sad.” I shrug. "Life is sad. But beautiful,” she says and kisses me on the cheek. We talk about her case. Gary, other attorneys, it’s always confusing. She has appointments. I ask her to give me a call, keep me posted.

At the corner, there’s Pat, a deacon. She’s been waylaid by a knitting issue, preparing for a future grandchild. I remind her about the crafts fair. It’s raining again.

Walking north on Amsterdam, there’s a crowd in front of Saigon Grill. A picket line. There is once again conflict between the Vietnamese owners and the Chinese and Mexican delivery people. The Chinese organizer has a bullhorn, “Boy-cott --Sai-gon- grill...Boy-cott...” And then call and response,

”Que queremos?”

“Justicia!”

“Quando?”

“Ahora!”

I ponder the Chinese workers chanting in Spanish. A little further up, strike breaker delivery guys, also immigrants, sit and smoke, looking anxious.

It’s raining harder.

A Thousand Daily Graces

12/10

The coldest day yet. around 25 degrees. Signs of someone having been sick. Haven’t seen that for awhile. While I’m sweeping, the 11 bus pulls up. A heavyset woman stumbles out the backdoor and falls to the curb. Most people exiting simply step over her and walk on. But very quickly a group of three incredibly diverse people gather around. An African-American businessman in a fine gray wool coat and stylish glasses, a younger working class guy in jeans and a Northface down jacket, an attractive young woman in a pea coat and pullover hat, all bundled against the cold. The young woman takes charge. They help her up, bring her to the steps. She’s very shaken up. I come over to see if I can do anything, but everyone is just checking out the situation. Just a scrape, no bleeding, a bruise quickly appearing. I go in and get water, offer it. After a few minutes, they help her up. She’s still shaken. She wants to go to the Westside Campaign Against Hunger down the street. Together they head down 86th. That’s why I love this city. We take care of each other. We hold together by will, not by force or law. A thousand daily graces we extend to one another to choose to keep it working. Note: we need to have a first aid kit handy.

I’m inside waiting for an electrician who never comes. A husband, wife and young adult daughter come in. They’ve been by many times, never seen the door open. Want to look around. I give them a mini sanctuary tour. Talk about last week’s clean up day. They’re touched by the channukah menorah. I explain our dream of a Centre where all can come and share and grow. Tell them about the upcoming crafts fair. Note: we need to keep a stack of brochures and a donation box handy.

I call our attorney friend for an update on P____’s case. Back outside, I greet Gary Greengrass as he passes on his way to work. There’s a heavyset bearded man in multiple layers and a hoody, in sandals and socks, bumming cigarettes. Across the street, two more Quebecois reinforcements have arrived for the last big push for the peak of tree season. It’s two weeks until Christmas Eve.