Eighth day of Lent: Vivan los san patricios

3/17

St. Patrick’s Day. The most sunny, warm, nearly perfect day of the year so far. 

Steps almost empty today. Just a black plastic knife. But Amsterdam Avenue is awash with a steady stream of people in green returning from the parade on Fifth Avenue. The pubs south of 86th are overflowing onto the sidewalks. A bus pulls up in front of the Dead Poet, (the place Amanda calls the office, much good work done there) emptying out a band of pipers in green plaid kilts. 

                                                  

One block down 86th from the  church, in Euclid Hall, the home of the West Side Federation for Senior and Supportive Housing, (yes, birthed at West-Park)is the Parlour.     More than an Irish pub, it’s a Celtic bar. That is, a home for the New York fans of the Scottish Glascgow Celtics, the traditional Catholic football club and arch rival of the Protestant fan based Rangers, though both teams are filled with all kinds of international players. Green and white striped Celtic jerseys fill the walls. While other neighborhood pubs are showing the NCAA March madness, the big screen here has English Premier Football. Right across the street from SPSA, it’s been a good place for church gatherings when we had no place of our own. I order a Magner’s Irish Cider, for Amanda, watch Kentucky’s last second win over Princeton on one of the smaller screens.

I’m thinking today of the San Patricio Battalion. That group of several hundred mainly Irish but also German and Scots draftees in the Mexican War of 1846-48 led by Captain John Riley. When they got to Mexico they looked around and said, wait, they’re Christians, we’re Christians. They’re Catholics, we’re Catholics. They’re poor, we’re poor. It’s their land, not ours. We’re on the wrong side here. So  after refusing to shoot at the Mexicans, they switched sides. 

After defeat by the US army, most of the  captured san patricios were tried by military tribunal, without defense, and hung, in violation of the Articles of War.  In Mexico, los san patricios are remembered as heroes.  Streets named, statues. The Mexican  name Obregon is a latinazation of the Irish O’Brien. But in the US, the story remained buried for centuries. 

Each Easter morning, West-Park gathers  in Central Park at the site of the All Angels Church in Seneca Village, the community of African-American, Irish and German immigrants there before Central Park. We gather there because All Angels was a multicultural church and we honor that heritage. Their story, too, was buried. Given the draft laws of the day, who knows if Irish immigrants from Seneca Village may have been among the san patricios.

Here’s a promise....if we’re still here a year from now, I’ll invite  El Taller to join us and  do a concert of Irish and Mexican music in honor  of los san patricios. And maybe go to Gabriela’s for corned beef and cabbage burritos after.

Vivan los san patricios.

Now the army used us harshly

We were but trash to them

Conscripted Irish soldiers

Not first class soldier men

They beat us and they banged us 

Mistreated us you know

But they couldn’t make us killers in the sands of Mexico.

Our John Riley seized the day 

And marched us down the road

And we wouldn’t slay our brothers

On the sands of Mexico.

Ry Cooder

       

Seventh day in Lent: Today we were going to study Belhar.

3/16

Today we were going to study Belhar....

All day long the steps have looked like an  auxiliary movie set. Which is exactly what we’ve been. Photo screens, equipment, lights, food tables.  On Amsterdam, trailers for the stars, Tom Hanks and Sandra Bullock. On 86th Street, restroom trailers (Should have  been our church.) Orange traffic cones keep passersby far away enough from Barney’s not to gawk. Extras and staff sit on the steps, waiting. Deacon James called me to alert me. Now I  see for myself. 

I interrupt my run at 5 to let Jim into the church. There are banners to hang, for Lent, for Holy Week. For Easter. I finish my run and return. I come back shortly before 6. Go to the  Israeli run copy store to get enough copies of our Belhar study for all who might come. 

At 6:30, only Jim and Hope are there. The window boxes have all been washed and cleaned. There are florescent bulbs in the light boxes to be changed and banners to hang. Jim and I climb up on the scaffolding on Amsterdam. Here and on Amsterdam I’ll bend and twist like a gumby or a participant in an aerial game of Twister. I’ll feel all this tomorrow. Jim keeps saying, it’s not that hard, but it is. Weird, professional banners and paper clips. People keep stopping  by and looking. Yes, we are open. Yes, we have a Lenten study going  on. Yes, we’ll be here Holy Week. That’s what the signs say. 

We finally finish. Go inside. Arcadia is inside the church  talking  to a young man named Greg from two blocks north. He’s been here for two years. Never saw the doors open. (That again.) He tells us how worried he’s been that the church was going to be torn down. That seeing the doors open felt like an answered prayer. 

He’s done an amazing amount of architectural research on the church. Knows almost as much as we do. Knows about the fire that took down the north tower. We listen to the story as he’s heard it, add our own information. The preservationists sure won the struggle to control the narrative. Yes, Romanesque. No, all Kilborn. Is the church house more historic? An Eidlitz building from 1884? No. Martin Weaver, the late dean of historic architecture at Columbia,  had said that anything of Eidlitz was obliterated by 1889. What you see is Kilborn, And yes, Eidlitz was eclectic, but this is still classic Kilborn. We get his name. Hope to keep him involved. He promises to come back. How do we harness all this energy, all this love that exists in the neighborhood for this building? Last Sunday a couple with a child walked in, looked around, left. What would have made them stay? How do we turn romantic longings into real action, real dollars? 

It’s  late. Too late to study tonight. I pass out copies of the Belhar Confession. THe 1988 statement out of South Africa. We’ll gather, study, discuss next week. My sciatica is acting up Feeling stiff already . They are still filming inside Barney’s. 

Sixth day in Lent: Thanks for small victories

3/15

Norma lives two blocks north and around the corner form the church.  Sofas and chairs with the traditional plastic covers. Walls filled with family pictures.  Her daughter Kelly died on Friday, March 4th.  This fills me with sadness, both for the loss and due to wrong numbers, etc., that I didn’t know until yesterday.

I had known her death was imminent. On New Year’s Eve, her sister had called and asked me to do “last rites.” I’d tried to explain that we were protestants, and she said, “Yes I know but we’re latino.” In our neighborhood, the lines between latino and catholic are blurred. So I called my parish priest, and my colleague Katherine, and did some online research and went and brought oil,did prayers and anointing. It hurts deeply not have been there at the end.

The pain is multiplied for Norma because years ago, her only son died at a very young age from cancer. She feels  especially close to Hope because she was the nurse for her son at that time.  I remember my hospital visits to Kelly. Her strong spirit as the cancer spread throughout her body. And I remember that night, the gathered family, her teen aged daughter Brandy, now moved to her aunt’s in Hackensack, her estranged daughter Christina in the service in Texas and her son William.

I especially remember William. Norma recalls William and Brandy running all through the church, and smiles. I had seen William last night. He’s part of a group of acrobats and gymnasts that work as part of the New Jersey Nets NBA “hype team.”Just back from a trip with the team to London.  My son Dan and I had watched, big screen closeups  and all, in the Prudential Center, the Rock, as William did flips and somersaults across the basketball floor. And at halftime as he bounced off the trampoline to do high aerial twisting dunks. I smiled, knowing that he’d been introduced to the trampoline in the West-Park gym. By Rudy.

All of us are mixed bags. But this much can be said, a generation of inner city kids had their lives turned around in that gym. William got his job with the Nets through Ecko, another of our gym kids who credited the program with “saving him.” I see William, almost 21, strong, muscled, handsome and flying through the air.

Norma shares her grief. Her memories. Her smiles.We pray together in English and Spanish.  We will find time to go to the cemetery in the Bronx together. Yes, this is a season that focuses on mortality. ...From dust you come and to dust you shall return. 

I open the doors to find a circle of orange traffic cones cordoning off a section of sidewalk under the scaffolding. The location scout from Warner Brothers is sitting on the steps. “Hey man, I was just calling you,” he says. They’re painting a portion of the scaffolding green so it will disappear when they shoot at Barney Greengrass tomorrow. It’s a new film, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close with Tom Hanks and Sandra Bullock. Adding to Barney’s resume of TV and films shot in their classic interior. 

He’s got a proposition. Needs a day for holding, for restrooms. I sadly say that they’re not ready yet. We lose again. They’ll be back in early May. Can we be ready then? He really likes us, wants to use us. I ask him to remind me of his name. “Robert,” he says. “Good name,” I say. “Yeah, same as yours.” He smiles. OK.This has gone on long enough. We need full court press to get that boiler going, now. Everything else depends upon it. 

P_____ calls. The day will end with her in housing court. Accompanying people with no money to court is like descending through Dante’s circles of hell. Her madness is no match for the labyrinthine and kafkaesque way the system treats the poor. We race from attorney to notary to courthouse trying to beat the deadline. Outside her courtroom, two Spanish women approach me anxiously with legal documents, asking me to explain what’s going on. I read the papers over and over. I can only understand that they are on the wrong floor of the court hosue. “Me siento mucho pero no me intiendes mas,” I apologize as I try to get them in the right  direction. 

I catch up with P_____. I have no idea what I’m doing. But somehow, we succeed in getting her eviction postponed until June. Three months to file a brief. Where can we find an attorney? She’s trembling with excitement. “My stomach was shaking all the way," she says. “When I kneel in prayer in church, people think I’m crazy. But Jesus is all that I have. He told me you would help. And you did. The spirit led you. God did it” I give thanks for small victories.

First Sunday in Lent: You think someone else is in here

3/13

The March winds blow.  Enough lions, waiting for the lambs.  Sunny and cold. Bandaids, butts and papers.  As usual, Jim and Holly are the first ones here. When the doors are open, a tall sandy haired man walks in. “I’ve never seen these doors open before,” he says. I’m getting really tired of hearing that. “But I saw the doors open and just had to come in.”

Bob and Juan

He’s from the Eastside. Goes to First Baptist at 79th and Broadway. Turns out he’s a sound engineer. Tells me he loves old churches. Asks me about the architecture and I tell him all about Kilborn and Richardsonian Revival and....He mentions the Prairie School. And I say, “But that was Frank Lloyd Wright.” And he says, “No, the one who gave Wright his first job.” And I don’t see the connection, but...

I tell him we’ve been back since December. Worshipping every Sunday. He looks me square in the eye.  “Do you preach the gospel here?” he asks. “That’s what we’re supposed to do,” I say. “Yes, but lots of churches are just social clubs. Places people go on Sundays to feel good about themselves.” No argument there. “I know,” I say, “we may have differences in what we believe, fine points of theology and all, but everyone here is committed to following Jesus. And yes, I preach the Good News, right from  the Bible, every Sunday.”  He looks me in the eye again. “Good,” he says, “that’s good.”

He steps to the center, claps his hands, listens. “Beautiful, just beautiful. Deep and rich.” He tells me the natural acoustics are so fine, there’s little need for amplification. I tell him about our upcoming centennial.  He gives me his card. I give him the brochure. Amy and Juan have arrived. We shake hands and he’s off to the Baptist church. Rachel has arrived and taken her seat. Then Arcadia.

It’s after 11. People slow in arriving. I decide to begin. As usual, lots going on. The tsunami in Japan. The threat of nuclear meltdown. And the number of presbyteries approving full inclusion for lgbtq folk has grown to 67. Only 20 to go. This week we’ll pray for Seattle and West Jersey as they vote. This time, this time, the victory is getting close.

It’s the first Sunday in Lent. I lift up the cup from Wednesday, shift the ashes through my fingers.  Share what I learned about not counting Sundays. Recall my childhood  friends giving something up for Lent. Ask if that meant you were free from that promise on Sundays. My former Catholic friends have different traditions on that one. Recall the Friday night fish fries in the Catholic churches in Pittsburgh. Fish sandwiches instead of hot dogs Fridays at Forbes Field. 

Talk about how its a time for reflection, self-assessment. And how I like to focus on reconciliation. To repair,restore at least one relationship...or at least try...(And who will that be this year? The list is so long...)

This season raises for us the nature of temptation, the nature of sin. And so we begin at the beginning, with Adam, with the fall. The old Puritan children’s rhyme In Adam’s fall we fell all.  And how in the  in the Jewish tradition, it’ s not so much the fall, it’s  more like a coming to consciousness, an awakening, about becoming responsible.

The original sin has nothing to do with sex. In the Genesis story, the sin of Adam is  seeking to have the full mind of God...to be  like God. That’s what is at the center of the current church debate over 10-a, over lgbtq inclusion. Those who are so sure that they have the knowledge of the full mind of God...As opposed to the vision of those who came before us here, who believed in more light, that the holy spirit always brings more light to the scriptures. 

I think of the new Governor of Alabama who says only those who believe in Jesus are his brothers and sisters. I remembered debates over ministerial  candidates in Pittsburgh. Could anyone other than Christians be saved? And a tall steeple friend of mine saying that in the Reformed tradition, if God truly is all powerful, God can do anything  God wants, when God wants for whom God wants. And that God is not limited by our imagination. 

P____ speaks from her seat. That though she prays in the name of Jesus and lives by his power, that as a Caribbean Asian, she was raised Hindu and learned of God’s power and inclusion that way. The sacredness of all life. And that the fast from blood was in recognition of that sacredness. 

I mention Peter King, the congressman for Long Island. (And my members with Long Island roots groan.) His grandstanding  investigation of Muslims, this  former vocal  advocate for the Irish Republican Army.

No, it’s not a fall. Just the end of innocence...In our tradition, we all see, hear , speak evil...

Now as to temptation. It is the  Spirit that leads Jesus out into the wilderness, not the devil. The same Spirit that came to him in Baptism. The story raises tough questions about who the devil is, what kind of structure, cosmology we’re dealing with here.  Satan almost seems to be working  with, working for God. Like in Job, where Satan is the Accuser, the prosecuting attorney. .

In his amazing translation and commentary on Job, Stephen Mitchell  has God say to Job, “your problem is you think there’s some one else in here...there’s only me...” So if you want me to explain evil, well, we stare into mystery.

Temptation. Voices. Remember Little Red Riding Hood? How the big, bad wolf is in grandma‘s clothes? The line between temptation and call is so thin, you have to listen closely. What voice is that you hear? You have to  invite them closer to see what they’re made of..but they’re all yours, all from inside yourself. You have to listen closely to discern the one true voice...

Ultimately, this story is about who Jesus is, not who we aren’t...

Now as to Jesus’ temptations. The first is to escape hunger through compromise. You know, the end justifies means. But maybe not. It is Satan’s argument that God won’t provide, so you better take care of yourself. It’s about shortcuts.We face that over and over and over again...Just sign this statement saying something  you don’t believe in, we’ll give you the money you need.... 

But it’s not always easy. I read where non-violent revolutions have a 60% chance of success awhile violent ones drop to 45%. But what if you’re not Egypt? What if you’re Libya and the pharoah just mows you down? What then?

The second is to seek God in the spectacular, not suffering and dying. The truth of Jesus’ path is not in his miracles, but in his going to the cross. It’s also about not putting God to the test .But what do we do when it feels like  God doesn’t come through?  How much dying is enough before resurrection?

The last temptation, they said at my study group, is the temptation to power. But wait a minute, what I’ve learned in organizing is that the problem is not power, but the lack of power. I remember Pablo Richard’s critique of Northamerican Christianity. That we don’t understand power. That we believe that  if we walk away from what we have, things  will get better. They don’t. If we give up our power, the evil person, the evil power, simply picks it up and adds it to theirs.  Our call is to use what we have,organize what we have for the transfer of power to those who are marginalized. 

And its not just empowering. It’s not like others are empty vessels waiting to be poured into. It’s helping to awaken, uncover, draw out the power that is already there. Like your own ministry given to you at Baptism. 

And this, too, is true. The stronger we are, the stronger the temptations will be. The better our intention, the stronger the temptation. The closer to God we are, the greater the power of satan...It’s the voice that says, give up, you can’t do it, you’re too small, too old, too weak, be reasonable, be realistic, you can’t...You hear that, you say, get behind me satan...

It’s interesting that in the argument between Jesus and Satan, all the quotes from both (yes, the devil quotes scripture...quite well, in  fact) are from Moses’ last discourse. In Deuteronomy. His preparing his people for their wilderness experience. And so we prepare for ours. 

It’s spring training.....spiritual spring training. And we will learn what we will practice...

During the offering, P____ passes the plates, brings them forward. Then kneels in front of the Christ  candle, embracing it with her hands in deep prayer. 

It’s time to say farewell to Juan. He’s played guitar for us for fourteen years. Through first Milton and then Regi and Spanish services, the enlace de gracia multicultural services and now our joint services. Seen singers and pianistas and congeros and even an accordion player come and go. To SPSA and back. Failed attempts at tarjetas verdes and wasted dollars on shady abogados.  He’s not been home to Venezuela in 14 years. But now he’s on his way back with a waiting job with el sistema, the program that brings social transformation through music. That produced Dudamel (now of the Los Angeles Philharmonic) and the Venezuela Orquesta de los jovenes. 

Jim has gifts for him. A sports bag with the name SANTANA and number 57, for Johann Satana, the Venezuelan ace for the Mets, bad arm and all. And a Mets shirt and hat. (Well, some of us are Yankees fans, but Juan loves los mets.) Juan had wanted  to be baptized here, but I reminded him that we honor one church, one baptism. His catholic infant baptism counts.

We sing Jesus Walked that Lonesome Valley. I point out that there’s a difference between by yourself and alone. Yes, we each have a journey we must walk for ourselves, a journey no one else can take for us. Rooted in our own unique calls. But we do not walk alone. Jesus walks with us, always. And more so, we walk with each other. 

 So we make a circle around Juan. Place my hands on his head. Give a prayer of thanks. And blessing for his journey. It’s time to gather food and drink. And go to Hope’s.   To break bread together. To party. Yes, we fast. But not on Sundays. Not today. 

Jim and Juan

Juan and Hope

Third day of Lent: On the roof

3/11

The rain has stopped and the sun has come out. Two men sitting on the steps, talking. When I come back from picking up coffee at Barney’s, Ann Friedman from the Landmarks  Conservancy is there with her roofer, Greg. We check out the water damage in the northeast corner of the sanctuary then head upstairs. 

We go the gym then climb up the ladder into the old Boy Scouts room. There above me is the hatchway onto the roof. I haven’t been out there for at least ten years. Greg goes out first, then  me, then Ann. Greg and Ann are comfortable climbing all over but  I  feel my old acrophobia coming back, like climbing narrow trails up New Mexico mesas. 

The problems are clear. There’s a missing piece of drain pipe above and a clogged drain down below with standing water. And two leaks in the roof above the gym which caused the buckle in the floor below. We see the old skylights covered over and painted during World War II. We had dreamed of opening them up again, but that one is for the far future. We see a door that opens up onto the sanctuary roof from the northwest tower, so we go there. But it will take a ladder to reach the hatch. Not today.

Ann has taken photos.  Greg will come back with a ladder. A proposal will be written up. The work will be done. Ann notices its colder inside than out. Now, what about the boiler? Outside, the men  are gone. A young girl sits reading a book, waiting for the bus.

In the late afternoon, the people from Housing Works come again. Their Director Susie has been here enough she could do the tour herself. This time the President of their board has come, too. Tall, tangy, bearded. Cowboy hat.  We talk about his Texas, Southern Baptist roots. His leaving in the conservative coup that took over the denomination. His then going to Yale, just like me, for Divinity, then later law school. We feel about the same age. The sense of shared  values mirrors that of West-Park and Housing Works. With their combination of thrift shop, social services and activism they’d make a great partner.  


Arcadia comes in to pick up her bag. Tells me she's been glued to the tv watching reports of the tsunami that it Japan all day. And the growing anxiety over what could  come from the compromised nuclear power plants. 

Susie’s not been here before to see the late afternoon sun come through the rose window. It’s almost like honey or caramel. She comments on its warmth. We stand in a circle. Susan and Tom have joined us. Even though they have a lot on their plate right  now, something keeps drawing Housing Works back.  Let’s see what can happen. 

Only Tom is left. We talk about how we might level the floor. I show him the stuck sanctuary door and he agrees to ask Nazim to come over and fix it.  It’s been along, but good day. The word for the day, patience. Patience.

Second day of Lent: You don't mess with reverends

3/10 

It’s the second day of Lent. Adding it up, I’m confused as to why if you start with 40 days from Ash Wednesday, you wind up on Palm Sunday. Until a Twitter friend reminds me that you don’t count Sundays. That Sundays were not traditionally fast days.  The day is cold and windy and steady rain. The Saigon Grill workers are out in force with signs and chants. I remove all the Ash Wednesday signs from the church sign windows. Lots of wet papers. A Met Museum admittance pin. And a large stick, gnawed at  the end.

Inside, the smell of burned palms remains. I clean out the bowl of ashes, the tarnished communion cup. Decide to leave ashes in the cup on the table for Sunday. I notice Arcadia left her bag last night and called her. 

Sweeping today is quiet. Almost meditative. From somewhere come the words do not be afraid. I let them linger. Reflect on what I’ll be working on this Lent. I always focus on reconciliation. Hope to repair, restore at least one relationship. Some years it happens, some years not.

As I do one last sweep, Marty comes up. “Ah, the garbage man,” he says. “Got to keep the place clean,” I say. “I told you my father was a reverend,” he says. “One time, in the days before the trucks, a street sweeper, a sanitation guy, comes up to my mother. Tells her, ‘why don’t you invite me up for a cup  of coffee?’ ‘If my husband ever heard you say that he’d tear you limb from limb,’ she says. You don’t mess with reverends.” “At least not that one,” I say, “take it easy man, ok?” 

Starting up Amsterdam, I see a man with an SUV shopping cart and his bag of cans. Another independent recycling entrepreneur. He goes under the scaffolding, heading for steps.