No contradiction

the students

5/6

Ted from the Woodshed Collective and a group of visiting drama students from Atlanta are waiting for me on the steps when I arrive.(I remember Ted from his Ruth era Yankee hat.) We go up to the balcony theatre for conversation. The students want to know about the ghost. But first I want to go through the social history of the church. The struggle for lgbtq inclusion. The SANE/FREEZE offices  in the former balcony luxury boxes. The impact of AIDS. The founding of the Interfaith Assembly on Housing and Homelessness. And the theatre built by Joseph Papp where we are now.  

And then I tell them about the ghost. The previous pastor who committed suicide on Christmas Eve. Holly saw him first, the when she saw his portrait with the slash through it, that’s him she said, that’s the man I saw. The students like that. And they have questions. About the church’s historic commitments,uncommon to their church experience in Atlanta. About perceived conflicts between church and theatre. As that question comes up, Jane appears at the top of the stairs.   I invite her to answer, too.

She talks about how church and theatre started together and then how the church feared arts’ liberating powers and shut the theatre out. How her study, her work is about bringing it back together again. Both paths to spirit. Or spirit inspired paths. She tells the she, too, is an actor. Asks if anyone knows the play Vanities. Nope. No one. We share a laugh at that. 

I finish my talk and leave them to go with Jane and her assistant Tia. Do the tour again. Jane’s pretty clear she wants the two front offices inside the 86th Street door. To start with. I recall that Woodshed wants then as part of their immersive theatre. For the first time, I begin to worry about what their residency might mean. I want a way to have them both. So who needs to talk to whom?

I bring Danielle outside to help with the sweeping. Things have been accumulating. Starting with an umbrella carcass. Papers. The inevitable cigarette butts. And dog feces. No, not that again. Seriously. But things look good when we’re done.  

I’ve got to get to a Dos Pueblos meeting on Nicaragua. Danielle will stay until Woodshed’s workshop is finished and the Three Graces  folks arrive.  At least today is over. 

Grace notes

5/5

The day begins with Ted and Mim and Steve Goodman with some of his board members from the Educational Video Center. The more we talk, the more we realize that their program of teaching young people to use video equipment to film documentaries of their neighborhoods and their lives is exactly what we want our Centre to be about. We are aware that we’ve got a finite amount of space and that sooner or later, choices will have to be made. We can’t keep offer the same spaces to different people in what Ted calls a kind of Madoff scheme. We actually start to explore different financial models. It’s time to move to making something happen.

The board members want to see the space, so I do another tour. Since Danielle has come, my schedule has grown very tight, so there’s little room for error. As we walk through, it’s easy to imagine classrooms, screening rooms, workplaces. Imagine the young people, their cameras, films.

I have to race to move my car. When I get back, Rochone is there. Time to dig into the June concert series. Time is very short. Stakes are high. We’ll have to sell 7-800 tickets to make it work. Need to focus on getting the word out.

Reality: we may have enough money to make it through the summer. Then..... I have to believe that pouring ourselves, pouring my self, into this must be right, will work. 

As we’re finishing our conversation, Stephen arrives to negotiate the agreement with Woodshed. Can we manage to get Woodshed and the Sacred Center in at the same time? Woodshed has produced an intriguing teaser video for the performance they want to produce here. As well as open a speakeasy in the back yard. While we’re negotiating, Rochone has brought in sound people to make an estimate.  

An older man and two women from the neighborhood walk in. Another case of never been in here before. But they fully understand and are sympathetic to exigencies, complexities and ambivalence of landmarks designation.  They marvel at the semi-ruined beauty. Wish us well. 

I take a deep breath. Start making phone calls, lining up musicians, hosts. Pulling in partners. The concerts to demonstrate what we intend to be, not just raise money. 

Grace

And in the middle of all this activity, a diminutive young woman from China and her mother have walked in.  She is auditioning for Juilliard tomorrow afternoon. She sits down at the Beckstein. Loves its sound. And for the rest of the afternoon settles into serious practicing.  Bach’s Little Minuet, Mozart’s Turkish Dance, a Beethoven sonata. Fingers going over the notes over and over and over again. She is the first to play the Beckstein since its been back home. her notes fill the air, becoming part of the space.  Her name is Grace. 

Sorta like Indiana Jones: adventures in architecture

5/4

It’s a cold rainy day. As I head to the church from my study group, I wonder if the architects’ tour can come off in the rain. The Landmarks Conservancy has found money through a Rockefeller grant to produce a master plan for restoration of the exterior and create an accessible entrance. Heading the team will be Matthew Gottsegen from the firm of Franke, Gottsegen and Cox. They’ve been with us from the beginning, through every iteration. From their  stunning new cathedral conception to the hybrid preserved sanctuary faux prewar apartment complex tower combination through potential school plans to our new landmark restoration vision. They’ve been there.

A ladder’s been placed against the scaffolding and team members are scrambling up for a closer look at the church’s exterior. Danielle and I are the last two up. We’re all in rain gear. The scaffolding is strewn with large chunks of red sandstone. That’s why this scaffolding is necessary. A few empty bottles. A golf ball. I take a close look at the remaining letters of Not by might, nor by power...still moved that a late 19th century protestant church would choose these watch words. The intrepid Anne Friedman from the conservancy notices an overflowing gutter. The Baschnagel roofer guys will have to come back.

the gutter overflows

Thus begins  tour through every possible inch of the building. We climb up a ladder into the empty north tower. Another ladder to the roof door ten feet up the tower wall. Out onto the sanctuary roof. There’s an odd faux marble planter there overgrown with weeds. How did that get there? Matthew wants to know if there’s a way into the space between the sanctuary ceiling and the roof. Well, yes, there is a way...I say.

But first the other roof. Up another ladder. Lift a hatch. Through the attic. Another ladder, another hatch onto the roof. History revealed. Matthew points to the bricks revealing a very different original roof configuration. You’ve discovered the Eidlitz building, I say, half ironically knowing that former Columbia architecture dean Martin Weaver said that any evidence of Eidlitz was obliterated by 1889. There are skylights for the gym, covered over during World War II. Classic slate shingles.  Terra cotta shingles. Asphalt covering. The rain is steady and cold. The roof slippery.

more work to be done

Now to go to the space between the ceiling and roof.  Another set of ladders. And more ladders. Up and up. My acrophobia severely tested. As bad as narrow ledges on New Mexico mesas. I admire Ann’s hands on (feet on?) approach, willing to go anywhere. The Conservancy becoming a real partner here. I never realized architecture was such an adventurous profession, says Danielle. Sorta like Indiana Jones and the landmark Temple of Doom, I reply. 

The space between the ceiling and roof soars up another twenty feet. Everyone careful to stay on the catwalks and not crash through the painted over glass ceiling. Old pulleys left over from 

construction days. What a sight it must of been to see this church being built. Chalked names from late fifties adventurers on the beams. 

Finally down and down and through the crawl space, through our beloved Stygian darkness to the newly restored drain. More issues. Work remains to be done. Again, I marvel at how little those who wax eloquent and romantic about these buildings really understand. And back up again.

So who’s going to pay for this? asks the man from Sciame construction. Well, says Ann, our city councilmember Gale Brewer said she could raise 10 million or more from the community. We’ve got about 12,000 now.  Matthew chuckles, and that will be gone when I’m done. And so a plan begins to develop. Stabilize the stone. Get the scaffolding down. Mid six figures, tops. Show progress. Develop interest. A five year fundraised process to completion. Accessibility. Maybe even the windows, says the glass expert. A meeting is scheduled. We will begin.

Hand shakes all around. The team leaves. Danielle and I left alone. More work to be done. We go outside to carefully examine the sidewalk in preparation for a discussion with Community Board 7. The cold rain continues. Steady.

We're shooting here

5/3

At church by 7 AM to wait for Con Ed. Never know exactly when they'll come. Used to have to wait in the cold closed church, no one else around, nothing going on. Get to SKYPE for while with my son in Berlin.  Hearing about the reaction to Osama’s death in Europe, the Middle East.  Catching up with his plans to go to Venezuela.

So the  Con Ed guy arrives at 8:30 and takes his readings. I  go for coffee. Unfortunately has to be  Dunkin Donuts because Barney Greengrass is a movie set this morning. The crew and extras fill  our steps as cameras and equipment fill the street. Second day of shooting for Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. 

getting ready

When I leave to go get my computer charger, I’m shooed away from the sidewalk. We’re shooting here. You’re in the picture. I see the extras being called one by one to walk up Amsterdam towards Barney’s, cameras rolling. 

We're shooting here

Talk with Danielle about the theft. Must’ve been when she left her bag in the sanctuary while working upstairs. Sad that we have to be on our guard, wary, watchful. What I won’t do is go back to a buzzer system to get into the church.  I can’t do that again. 

We get walk-in inquiries about rentals. Like Super Soccer. Wait until  you see this I say and show him one of their balls in our gym. They were here almost up until we closed. Over three years ago. Before his time. And a woman who is a personal trainer looking for a place to set up shop. Need to keep focusing on partners who share a vision though straight up rentals may soon become a necessity. 

Jane comes. As we walk through the extras on our steps and start up Amsterdam, I talk with the site manager. Offer him the use of our bathroom. Soon enough, he’s offering us barbecue ribs and mac and cheese from the catering truck. I make sure Danielle gets access to the canteen.

crew

extras on the steps

We get coffee and walk down 87th to the little park across the street from where  our second manse was.  We talk again about ways to share, collaborate. Bringing churches back. She knows the frustration of pouring out your heart and soul out  to small groups of people. Tells me how her church in Long Beach took a breath, took three months off from every Sunday worship to visit other places, figure out who they are, how they will be.  We are pushing towards something specific, something concrete. 

There are cute little worried looking dogs running free on 87th. I think of Amanda and her daily dog and baby counting game with her daughter.  A dog walker with four or five dogs appears. Agrees to take care of the remaining little dog. Just as she is leaving, the owner walks up. Throughout our whole conversation in the park, there’s drama going on around a cat. Which an anxious neighborhood woman and an old Jamaican man involve us in. This animal, pet vibe going today.

I recall when 87th had an abandoned apartment building and drug sellers on the corner. The legendary shootout between H Rap Brown of the Panthers (violence is as American as cherry pie, he said) and the police at the end of the street.

I’m enjoying the warmth and quiet of the  Park. Jane will come back to the church later in the day with a board member for another look. 

Danielle and I sort through everything that needs to happen. Impossible. Overwhelming.  So we’ve got a play in McAlpin Hall rehearsing. A movie being shot outside. And two doors north Schatzie the butcher is being filmed for a new reality TV show called MEAT.  

Time to leave for an appointment. Cook dinner. A Presbytery Social Witness Council Meeting. Our Church Gala committee meeting.  Late at night, I stop on my way home to make sure that the lights are turned off in the church. And the water, too. On the steps, the movie people are gone. But George  is back. See you tomorrow, I say. 

Osama bin Laden dead

5/2

A day that falls apart and comes together again. I fell asleep before  I heard the news. Heard the phone clunking over and over in the night. Then I knew why the twitterverse was mad tweeting. Osama Bin Laden dead. 

Dealing with that and a busted molar crown  and remembering I have to move the car and just when its almost over with moving time the street cleaner comes and I lose my spot and then I get trapped behind a garbage truck and any chance of finding a spot is lost. Imus strangely reserved. The ABC guys who come later gloat. What a weird convergence with Holocaust Remembrance Day.

I need to head to the dental clinic but we have  to get ready for the Three Graces Theatre Company. I’m buying toilet seats, one junior, one regular, hand cleanser dispenser, toilet paper, paper towels. Arcadia looking for the good deals.  Danielle has made chocolate chip muffins. Wish I could  eat. Arcadia brought bagels. Steven has arrived and has gone to work on the toilet seats. Outside Warner Brothers and the crew for  Incredibly Loud and Extremely Close is setting up for their shoot, spilling over onto our steps. We sign our contract with them. 

Over bagels and muffins, speculation. Arcadia reports Hugo has all kinds of serious questions. Suspicions. Obama’s faltering Presidency. Full Islamic burial at sea?! Questions. And underneath it all, memories. Feelings. Like I always say, more than one thing true at a time. 

I can’t rejoice at a death. Though I understand the need for catharsis. For years, Kate gathered folks on our steps to ring bells every time the death penalty was carried out anywhere in the US.  Arthur and other homeless guys joined us. We rang against execution.

So how could I celebrate Osama’s execution?  The feelings of that day, the tension, the hyper reality, sunshine, the waiting. Our night at Ground Zero. The faces of workers in that night long procession  passing through our food lines. The angry debates at Union Square. The ubiquitous pictures of missing people. The signs, our grief is not a call for revenge...Waiting for the next shoe to drop. Feeling connected to every other city that had ever experienced what we had avoided up until now. (Well, except for the South.) The exhaustion and exhiliration of time outside  of time. 

Osama bin Laden as icon, totem, symbol. What do we do now  that he is dead? Ends nothing, except his life. Resolves nothing. The 9-11 deaths amazingly few in comparison to the deaths of civilians in Afghanistan, Iraq. At our hands.  Our creation of Osama in the waning days of the Cold War. No struggle here ended. Osama increasingly a footnote to history as people throughout the Middle East rise up to claim their own destiny. With their own hands. Don’t need us, thank you very much. No families brought to  closure, loved ones still dead.  The late Stalin era sound (and being) of homeland security. And yet I understand what brought people to celebrate in Times Square, at Ground Zero.It began with us, let it end with us. Not football. Not reality TV show. No greatness  in finding him after almost ten years.  Osama is dead. 

Can’t be seen at the clinic until 6. Back at the church, Tom has come over to check in. The stage manager has arrived. We’re holding our breath. He’s very happy. He gets McAlpin ready for rehearsal. Somewhere in this day, someone stole Danielle’s wallet and camera. From her bag.  Sorry that is still our reality.  I’m heading back to the clinic. And Osama bin Laden is still dead. 

Second Sunday in Easter: Joy Unspeakable

5/1

Open the doors. Sweep the steps. Get ready for church. Put the bulletins out. Put on the white alb, New Mexican stole. I’m singing How Can I Keep From Singing?, look up, startled to see a visitor. She tells me she’s just enjoying the music. Rachel arrives and I help her through the doors with her walker. 

Amy was on her way from Queens but got caught at the RFK Bridge by the 5 Borough Bike Race. So it will be a capella again. Hope Andre arrives soon. As we gather, I share the news that Hannah has died. Tall and quiet. Had a special closeness with Katherine. One of the last of the first African-American members of the church, live-in domestics who decided to come to church closer than Harlem.  She worked for the same family for 30 years. Raised children. Then she got sick. When they were sure she wouldn’t be coming back, they said  thank you and hired someone new. After all, she’d been slowing down.  She was always the first there in our SPSA years. Helped set up the chairs. And never missed an Easter Sunday service in the Park. I feel very said we didn’t know she was in the hospital. Or died. I will miss her. 

Our lessons today have a lot to do with perishable v imperishable. And How we believe.

The Gospel says that the disciples were shut away behind locked doors for “fear of the Jews”....well, not exactly..who were they? They were all Jews...The point here  is not about Jews, but about fear.  They are afraid even after Mary’s report, they are locked up,shut in, behind closed doors.  Again, that’s the easier place to be. As a small group, easier to keep the doors shut. Mistrust outsiders. Keep things tight-knit, self-contained. Controlled. About fear. Who do we lock the doors against? 

Another question. What’s up with Jesus’ hands and feet? Why do the  wounds remain? Even after resurrection? Wouldn’t it seem logical that if Jesus were raised, he would be made perfect? All wounds healed? 

The point is, they make him who he is, even risen. Us too. Our wounds define us. Eve when we are healed, even when we move on, then scars remain. They can connect us, or separate us. 

Then there’s the so-called Doubting Thomas. He had his own Gospel. His own followers. Much of what you read about him in John represents the dialectic of Thomas v. John. It’s polemic. But let’s take the story as it is. This is the only place in the gospels  this story appears.  (My friend Melissa asked , why did Thomas need to touch the wounds? Why didn’t he just ask for a  hug?) Thomas is being concrete. Won’t get fooled again. Remember, he was the one who said, let’s go with you to die ..It’s a question of seeing is believing v believing is seeing. Thomas  asks the questions no one else will. God always responds to our  true questions. Not necessarily in way we want.

This story is ultimately about our resurrection.  From the death of fear, because that is what fear is, death, to being sent out alive. But it requires the Holy Spirit, the breath of the Holy Spirit, like in the Valley of the dry bones. Like at creation. This is John’s Pentecost.

Once Thomas has seen, once he has made his confession, it is the end of story. No need for more. (And this was the original end of the Gospel of John.)

I need to spend a little time with 1 Peter. It's about us being protected...God active and present...seen/known...

Back in the day, folks used to have a walk around  Bible inside of them. A store of scripture in their head and heart through which to understand the world. So a story...

Back when I lived in Tulsa, I had a friend named  Cheryl. She’d been a student at the University. Had gone on to seminary.Now was back to be ordained. She asked to stay at my place. 

The night before her ordination, we went to a Native American pow wow at Mohawk Park. Watching the Indians make their slow moving circle. An inner circle of elders drumming in the center. The fancy dancers twirling  around the periphery.  When we got ready to leave, I discovered I had lost my car keys. Nothing to do but to call AAA. Get a ride back to my place, get my spare keys.

The AAA pick up arrived. The driver was an old Indian. Long silver hair, tied back in a pony tail. Good laugh lines crinkling his eyes. He looked around. Ah pow wow, he said.  On the drive, he talked of pow wows past. And of the 49's that followed. Don’t know why they called them that. They were kind of after parties for the young people. They’d sit around the fire, share beers, songs, jokes. I went to one once, at Pawnee.

He remembered one particular 49. One particular Indian girl.  The way her skin shone in the firelight. Her shy eyes. The softness of her skin. The cool of the night and the dampness of the grass. Brother, he said, that was joy unspeakable. Joy unspeakable....I realized last night her was quoting the  King James Version of 1 Peter 1:8 . Just the right Bible verse when he needed it.

I realized that somewhere in this resurrection life there needs to be joy unspeakable. What is our joy unspeakable? Where is our joy unspeakable?

I brought my sermon to a close. As the offering was collected, I sang How can I keep from singing? With Andre adding some piano. P____ adding her high little voice from the  pews. I added the verse from Pete Seeger:

When tyrants tremble sick with fear and hear their death knell ringing

When friends rejoice both far and near, how can I keep from singing?

In prison cell and dungeon vile, our thoughts to them go winging

When friends by shame are undefiled, how can I keep from singing?

I reminded the congregation that hr wrote those words in the peak of the Red Scare. In honor of those who refused to cooperate with the House Unamerican Activities Committee. 

As we prepare for communion, Hugo reminds me that it is international workers’ day. It fits with a communion. The work needed to plant, harvest, mill grain. How it must be  ground. And grapes tended, ripened in the sun, crushed. bread of life. Vines and branches. And I remembered May Day in Berlin.

After worship, Session meets. I bring them up to date on the activities if the week.  How it’s time to move beyond how cool it is to be back in the church and are we committed enough to make it real? A solid crew stays to work. Hugo and I take down the Ester signs. Mc Alpin Hall is swept clean. We begin the unpleasant task of making a bathroom usable. We are pouring ourselves into this building. Into these bones. May the  Spirit breathe into us. Make the rising real. 

work crew