Baptism of Jesus Sunday: Basta!

1/9

Today we moved our baptism basin back from SPSA and placed it again in the font. We took it as one of our historical liturgical pieces to connect us with “home” while we were sojourning down the street. The font itself has remained here these last three years. Too big and heavy to move, a classic Tiffany Art Nouveau treasure with a bowl filled with stones from the Holy Land. Or at least places for stones from the Holy Land, some having been lifted during the crack epidemic of the eighties.

Before the people arrive, there’s work to be done. Sweeping the steps, taking down the Kings, removing the crowns from the pews and putting the Advent wreath and candles away. The tall Christ candle will remain. The congregation will complete the “undecking of the halls” following the service.

As people arrive, what’s most on their minds is the Arizona shooting yesterday of Arizona Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords at a shopping mall in Tucson. Nineteen were shot, six died including a nine year old girl. Interestingly, I first learned about the tragedy from my city council member Gale Brewer’s Facebook post. Clearly any legislator would feel touched by such violence. The alleged shooter is a twenty-two year old with extreme political views and a history of mental instability. Congresswoman Gifford’s house had earlier been vandalized in response to political stands she had taken.

So that’s where we begin today, this day when we commemorate the Baptism of Jesus. I grew up in a time when I was taught, “sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me.” Not so true anymore. Words can and do become the occasion for real violence. They create the atmosphere where violence is given license by words and when words become translated into actions. Those in the political arena who use words like “second Amendment solution” have to be held accountable when someone actually does it. And a politician like Sarah Palin has to reflect on what putting up a posting with gun-site targets over elected officials’ places on the map might mean to someone who takes her words literally.

There needs to be accountability here, just like there needs to be accountability in conservative “profamily” churches for giving cover to domestic violence and how even our “decent and orderly” mainline denominations through our exclusion of gays and lesbians gives encouragement to those who bully. The church has more than its share of culpability.

Jesus had to get baptized as a way to be in solidarity with us. If this is supposed to be about incarnation, god/word made flesh, then he’s got to go there, enter the water just like us. When I think about the prophetic passages in Isaiah, the emphasis is never on who so much as what, what God’s servant does. I’m convinced, a few Bible verses notwithstanding, that Jesus was much more concerned with our following him than believing in him. ( Although I suppose the only true sign of belief is following.) It’s a path, not a doctrine, a way, not a theological proposition. Jesus is in the crowd with the wounded in the mall, not the sloganeers; the abused woman, not the self-justified male authority figure; the bullied gay not the smug preacher who “hates the sin but not the sinner.”

We also talk about how the Church is not a voluntary organization, but an organization of called people. Each of us received our own call at our baptism. That is the source of our respective ministries, not any subsequent ordinations. Of course the church is ultimately a human organization, subject to all the usual human issues. It’s only when we can own that, not believe we’re special or exempt just because we’re a church, that we can have the grace to move beyond that to what we can be. As we begin to act in ways that make our meaning, our content clear.

I pour water into the old basin. Tell the history of water from creation, through the flood, the Red Sea crossing, Jesus at the Jordan. I call on the members to remember their own baptism. Then each comes forward for the laying on of hands, a prayer for any special need. Then we gather in a circle around the font, lift up our prayers of the people, then sing together “Take me to the Water.” We hold hands for the blessing, The service ends. Even in a church without water, the ever flowing stream flows on.

A box is found to gather the pieces of the creche and put them away. The wreaths are taken off the doors. P____is kneeling by the Christ candle in prayer. Her case comes up this week. Ana opens her thermos of steaming hot sweet and strong cafe con leche.

I’m thinking about the cold. About politicians’ promises. About Arizona. And irresponsible political rhetoric. The arrogance of a dying church reality. And more. I have taken off the New Mexico silver Pueblo bracelet I’ve worn for years. I’m wearing a Guatemalan pulsera with the word BASTA! embroidered on it. Enough! it says, Enough.

Wet, large flake snow is falling

1/7

Hugo and I meet at my office to review our strategy. We’ve written a letter to our city council member, Gale Brewer. We lift up our appreciation for her presence at all our recent events, her personal contributions and words in our behalf. But the fact remains that eight months after having been landmarked, the promised public support has yet to materialize. There is of course, the offer of $100,000 to help with the heat and water. But we have yet to be able to reach an agreement due to the strings. So we sit without heat and with the need to prove ourselves solvent with Presbytery. Much is riding on the next two to three weeks. We need to move beyond moral support to the hard dollars it will take to move us forward. We need to be clear and direct without creating an adversarial situation. Certainly Gale’s political colleagues who promised support and voted for landmarking need to step up and deliver. What do we need to do to make that happen?

We decide the letter’s good enough. Objective, clear. So we walk up the snowy 86th Street and around Columbus to hand deliver it to her. Soon after we enter her store front office, she arrives. Asks about yesterday’s meeting with Housing Works, talks of their confrontation with former mayor Giuliani. Their success in service and advocacy. How well we match. We thank her. Hand deliver the letter. We must talk next week, see what the next step will be. It’s an action. Small, but critical, clear. An action none the less.

Hugo and I stand under a deli awning. We will have to delay our next event with his former Sandinista foreign ministry colleague until we’ve got heat. We’ve got to get a 100th anniversary fund committee together. Now. Get some visible, name people on board. I’m off to meet our bookkeeper, get our financial report together. We’ve cleared another hurdle. Barely, but cleared. There’s a long way to go. Wet, large flake snow is falling.

Note:

To the list from New Year's Eve....

Presence

Relationship

Action

add.....

Authentic

Epiphany: They get it

1/6

Today is Epiphany. I’ve always loved the idea that we have this separate time for the wisemen. And one more opportunity to light candles. Sing “We Three Kings.” More so, I like the idea, the linguistic sense of “showing forth,” or in Spanish, manifestacion, a word also used for political rallies and demonstrations. And how the word has migrated in meaning in English to the sense of “getting it,” how in an instant, like a flash of light, all of a sudden you get it, it makes sense.

So today I’ll be “showing forth” the building again to the Housing Works folks. Ted will be with me. And Jon, to be the real estate pro on the scene. And our neighbor Susan who set this up and whose sister volunteers at Housing Works shows up too. And Tom from the Belnord across the street, just to see what’s going on. From Housing Works, there’s program staff and executive leadership and board people. This is serious.

So I lead the tour. Again. Point out the two stained glass windows from 1890, from the Lightbearers and Seekers for Pearls. And the four windows never finished. The vaulted glass ceiling painted over in World War II, in case of air raids. The maroon and gold stenciling that appears as water washes off the paint. The original rose walls from what must have been a beautiful color scheme. The rainbow flag commemorating how this church was the first mainline one to welcome the lgbt community at every level of leadership. The original Tiffany rededicated at the height of the AIDS crisis to a man’s lover. The balconies where SANE and FREEZE officed and together with the Presbyterians from the Peacemonger Press planned the 1983 march against nuclear proliferation. I tell the story of the African American live-in domestics who integrated the church. The refugees from First Havana and First Chinese Havana who founded La Iglesia Presbiteriana de West-Park. I’ve done this so many times. Every time it still moves me. I point out the little flags from the time when our congregation of slightly under 100 had members from 36 birth nations.

We tour the theatre built by Joseph Papp. Abandoned. Excavated by my friends from Frog & Peach. And recently reclaimed by Amanda for the Balcony Music Festival. And I remember tending bar there when my son’s Brooklyn based neo-psychedelic band had their storied cd release concert here.

We go through the ruins of the church house. The stately chandeliered McAlpin Hall, exposed lath and all. The 1890’s gym with late afternoon sun and Germanic stenciled beams, perhaps the original chapel roof. The former office of God’s Love We Deliver revealing the paranoia of the crack-fueled ’80’s...a metal security grate protecting a fourth floor window. Crack-head ninjas? The outdoor security garage strength gate that guarded their fourth floor office. That was a different Upper Westside.

Matt the Vice-President has all kinds of thoughts. The director of programming is excited. We make clear that this is not about “space rental” but about collaboration, creativity, transformation. And the spot Amanda picked for a cafe still looks like the right one. Direct services, community programming, book stores...all seem possible.

They talk about the early days of Housing Works,the defense of and advocacy for persons with AIDS. Their work with groups like Act Up! , Gay Men's Health Crisis, God's Love... and more. They ask us again what the Centre’s vision is. As we describe it, heads nod, smiles.They get it. Like an epiphany. That’s what happens in these discussions: people get it immediately or they look at you like you’re crazy.

But then there’s this reality. No heat. No water. So, next week their guys and some Belnord staff will start to check out the pipes, the boiler, figure out the cost. It’s a step.

Who knows what will come of this conversation. At least another conversation. Information about pipes. Then? We’ll see.

Out on the street, we shake hands, part ways for the day. There’s a sense of hope. I need to go back in and lock up. The last thing I’ll do is blow out the votive candle on the steps that I lit for the Wisemen, the kings, before anyone else arrived. It’s been burning. All afternoon. Hope.

The twelfth day of Christmas: Whirling oaks

1/5

The last day of Christmas. Leave my Wednesday morning lectionary study group unsettled and disturbed. As usual. In a good way. Struggling with word made flesh. How destabilizing Jesus can be. Order out of chaos. It’s the storm tossed, uprooted creation that cries ”glory.”

Call my attorney friend to check on P___’s difficult case. And discuss strategies for bringing those who made public promises to us to accountability. Trying to think through a lunch where I will try and make this vision plain. How ironically hard it is with old friends who I’ve worked with for so many years. It’s so clear to me, yet so hard to put into words. Struggling with integrity. What is “collaboration”? How far can you go and remain prophetic? What do we owe to our colleagues in the faith community? Is landmarking really the issue for which to give up our life? Can we create new relationships and partnerships and still be faithful in witness? Questions swirling like the whirling oaks in Psalm 29. Questions stripping the forest bare.

The protestors are back in front of Saigon Grill again today. Signs in English, Chinese, Spanish. Multilingual chants. Like the restaurant workers, we too, need to act. We have no heat. We’ve thought, we’ve brooded, long enough. And brooding, thinking can be mistaken for passivity. We need to act. Now. But what action? That’s the question. The kings are standing in the doorway, one more day.

The eleventh day of Christmas: My kings remain

1/4

The city continues to dig out. “Alternate side parking” suspended once again. Piles of dirty snow, uncollected garbage and Christmas trees line the streets. (This weekend you can take your tree to any park and have it mulched. ) The steps are empty. My kings remain. The crown still on the door. My biggest question: what three things can I do today to get the heat back on?

The tenth day of Christmas: ...their anonymous presence known

1/3

What do I find today? Someone has left two very fancy embroidered couch pillows. A bag of sandwiches and prepared food from Whole Foods. And a nicely packaged chicken wrap. I have to wonder what is in the minds of people when they make these offerings.

As for our offerings, a day later, the votive candle is still burning. Remainders of communion bread still there, the juice gone. As are about half the cups of hot cider. And the “Box of Joe” has been drained. And all the gift bags are gone. The kings have made their anonymous presence known.

I have a little extra time and 86th Street is looking pretty scruffy so I decide to deal with what’s on our side of the street. Just the big stuff for now. Then I go back and clear everything off the steps. I leave the Kings on the door where they’ll stay until their day. I'll light the candle again on the final day as well. And I leave one crown on the door.

My biggest concern, my biggest priority is heat. How do we get it back on? The negotiations with Landmarks West! and Friends of West-Park have hit a snag. As I knew they would. How do we use the political process to move beyond politics to cooperation? What’s the key? Do the kings have one more gift to bring?

The ninth day of Christmas: A new year has begun

1/2

George is back at his spot as I arrive. I’m starting to think that his awareness that a church service is going to happen actually brings him back. Another chance to interact with people. There is so much garbage scattered around today that I only have time to clean up what’s actually ours.

As I’m sweeping the steps in front of George, he says “Yo, have you heard the fallout from the storm?

“What fall out?”

“People died. I mean people died. Old ladies, what not. No fuckin ambulances. People died.”

‘Where?” I had seen something in the news. Maybe a Post cover.

“Brookyn, Bronx.”

“I know it seemed like all they cared about was Manhattan. You live in the Bronx, right?”

“Yes, but I wan’t there. I was right here. They could send two ambulances for me. Drag me away to St.Lukes. Say I’m ‘at risk.’ Shit I wanted to be here. See if i could get through the storm. Be here for the worst. Take all it got. I have to practice. I have to be ready for when it comes, for when it happens,cause it’s going to. Nothing you can do to stop it...”

I see Holly arriving, so I tell George I need to finish the steps. Holly as usual has brought everything we need for a celebration of the day. Part of why put her in charge of Christian Ed years ago was because of her understanding of other cultures and her capacity to create events that teach even as we enjoy them.

She’s found a life size cutout of the Three Kings at an after Christmas sale. That goes on our door. Jim has brought our tall Christ candle over from SPSA. That will go on the steps in front of the Kings. There’s a gold cardboard crown around the Christ candle.

Inside, we’ve got crowns on every pew. And Holly’s remembered my box with small containers of gold, frankincense and myrrh. I’m responsible for communion. Today’s bread will be a bialy from Barney Greengrass.

Marsha has brought Kings’ bread she has baked herself. Holly has brought rosca de reyes and fruitcake. Whoever finds the baby Jesus in their piece of bread or cake will have to host a party on Candelaria. I’m making hot apple cider and Jim has brought coffee.

Another day colder inside as there’s a warmth outside. Whenever I look up and see the outlines of the kings at our doors,I feel they’re looking in on us, ready to enter. When Holly does the “time for children, “ we remember this day in years past. Our annual costumed processions. How in this congregation, it was this celebration that was our time for a “pageant,” not before. It helped Christmas last. We remembered our wise men and shepherds’ costumes. The years when we had both a Mary and an Elizabeth so two girls could walk in with baby dolls. The years we shared our celebration with SPSA and Arcadia bringing her very special family porcelain baby Jesus.

I talk about a week of snow and shoveling, the turning of the year and Three Kings and John’s In the Beginning. How a year ago we could not even envision where we’d be, all the things that happened. To be on the threshold of another year of what we don’t know yet. At the beginning of John’s Christmas story we see word and light. As Jesus was word of God in human form so we too are to see him together be the living word.

Likewise we’re called on to be light. I talked of beginning my New Year’s Eve at St.Luke’s doing last rites for a mother much younger than me. We’re always in a place where darkness and light coexist together. In our neighborhood of wealthy condos and forgotten public housing projects, in a highly secular neighborhood, we’re called to bring our own particular light, and to also celebrate it wherever we see it.

John also speaks of grace and truth. We can’t be word or light without understanding that we will fall short, we will miss the mark, we will not be perfect. That’s our tradition. Therefore we can’t judge. And we need to hear, know speak the truth no matter how hard that might be. Otherwise, no point. Word, light, grace, truth...those are the gifts of this second Sunday in Christmas, the first in the New Year.

We gather close together for communion. I think of the current installation of Peter Greenaway’s multimedia vision of Leonardo’s Last Supper at the Armory on Park. And my extended conversation with my son Dan about the Last Supper that followed. Da Vinci’s painting filled with tension, private conversations. I talk about this as we share our bread and juice together.

As we’re gathered for conversation, a woman walks in “just to look.” Tells us her synagogue, the Spanish-Portuguese, faced similar problems. Of the help given by the Landmarks Conservancy. And how accepting small gifts can lead to large. The man who gave her $36 led her to a gift of $5000. We’ve got s long way to go.

We evaluate the crafts fair and music festival. But our biggest need, our biggest concern is heat. How do we make that happen?

Before we leave, we bring in the Christ candle. Place a votive candle in front of the kings along with bags of small gifts and cups of hot cider. And a sign that says “Help Yourself, los tres reyes magos.”

Walking up the street, I see that the season of discarded Christmas trees has begun, even before the end of Christmas. Lying on top of piles of snow, their fragrance fills the air almost enough to cover the uncollected bags of garbage. I like that the city gathers them, mulches them, takes the mulch to that living organism Central Park and returns it to the earth around living trees. So I reflect on the cycle of these trees from Quebec to a long ride to a street in Manhattan to an apartment filled with people and their holiday season lives back to the street and then to Central Park. Not a bad lifecycle. I reflect on what it would be like to trace all the trees from Francois’ stand. Where all they went, the kind of families, celebrations, etc.

The protestors are back in front of Saigon Grill. A new year has begun.