Musings on Too Much News!

 Musing on Too Much News!

There are just too many opportunities to "catch up" on the events of the day, or "Current Events", as I used to call it when I taught.  Friday was often "Current Events" day in my classroom where students were asked to report on an event they might have seen in the evening news or read about in a local newspaper or magazine that piqued their interest. Students clipped articles out of one of several newspapers available to anyone living in the metropolitan area: "The Daily News", "The New York Times", "The Staten Island Advance", "The Newark Star Ledger", or "The New York Post". Occasionally a piece from an out-of-town paper like "The Times-Picayune" from New Orleans or "The Washington Post" would find its way into my classroom especially after a holiday break when kids were traveling to visit family.

Most of the "Current Events" were often circled around three areas of interest for the tweens I taught in Middle School: sports, food or gory events. 

Many of the students were strong supporters of the professional teams one might expect:  the NY Yankees and Mets in the baseball realm were often presented with an ardor seldom seen anywhere else. Middle school sports fans are serious about who they like. Every once in a while, I would get a student who moved from another state whose sporting loyalty was often challenged, but, all-in-all, things went pretty smoothly with some ruffled feathers, but no fisticuffs.  Local sports reporting also had a strong following. Many of the students had siblings or friends who played on local high school teams, so these events were followed closely.

I had a small group of students one year who followed the food editor who had visited the school for an event. They would bring in her cooking column or even clip out recipes they want to try, or, on a few occasions, had tried at home. But, come to think of it, no one brought in the final product of the cake, cookie or main course recipe they were so eager to share with us.

And then there were the gory events. There was always a cadre of kids who would bring in the goriest story of the week Car crashes, stabbings, shootings, and crime sprees were some of the events reported on with all seriousness on Fridays. 

I often wonder if it would be possible to have "Current Events" Fridays in this day and age of instant, shareable and slanted news? At any given moment it is possible to tap into three, four or even more interpretations of a singular event. We currently live in an age where there may actually be too much information for mostly everything. And there are social media platforms where some folks seem to get all of their news and information. People live in information bubbles and social silos where they only hear the echos of those who see the world as they see it. We are told that there are things called "alternative facts" that can flip the meaning of what really is the real deal to reverse truth...AKA: lying.

I think the first thing we have to do is go back to the first lesson for sixth graders in a good social studies class: teaching how to tell the difference between "fact" and "opinion". We need to rid all reporters from using words like "I think...", "My assumption...", "I speculate...", "It might be that..."

We need to get back to Sgt. Friday's investigative mantra, "Just the facts, Ma'am. Just the facts."

Too many prayer books??? Everyone needs a first run......

I spent part of yesterday packing up remnants of worship at a closed church. For two years I have been part of the administrative authority team assisting in the closing and deposition of property with the caring and professional oversight of our diocesan staff.  Since the church, rectory and parking lot are a quick ten minute drive from my apartment, I am often called upon to do the mundane minutiae that someone who lives close by is able to do. Yesterday I needed to pick up the mail and gather some prayer books for a parishioner who had requested some.

Prayer books and hymnals, I learned,  make up the majority of materials left behind when churches close. Finding appropriate homes for such objects can be difficult, so I was happy that a former parishioner was looking for some prayer books. As an unexpected bonus, I would be spending some time out of my two-bedroom apartment and would actually be able to look at a different set of four walls.

Before I left my space, I had decided that while I was there, what the heck, I should start boxing up the materials that have been accumulated over the years that will have to be eventually removed once the property's fate has been decided.  I had been saving boxes from my bi-monthly "Misfits Markets" deliveries, and they were beginning  to crowd out my family room to the extent that I could not get into my walk-in closet. They were threating to limit my access to the second bathroom and block the sliding glass doors to the roof deck. It was time to either throw them out or pack them into the Ford Fiesta and get them out of here.

Due to the current state of the Covid-19 pandemic in New York City, I would be basically by myself in this now empty sacred space. In the past, when I have been in this now empty church, there was always someone with me often trying to rid the larger space of trash that had accumulated over the many years of benign neglect of which most cash strapped churches are victims. Many have had basic maintenance issues postponed until what might have been an annoying and unexpected expense has ballooned into a major construction issue that would be several times the original repair cost.

So,  in an attempt to basically change my daily scenery, I gathered my many cardboard boxes, tossed them into the back and front seat of my very little car, and phoned the requesting parishioner leaving a message that the prayer books would be ready for pick-up that  afternoon.  I drove the scant 4 miles turned into to empty and rather bumpy parking lot, pulled up to the front door , threw the boxes out of the car and entered the building.

The door creaked as I opened it, and I could begin to feel an itching in my nostrils. I detected the smell of old wax and dust mixed with the unmistakable odor of mildew. I entered the back of the sanctuary and went immediately to the circuit breaker and began flipping switches as I lit up the sanctuary and sacristy space to begin my book gathering.

As I walked down the center aisle I began to think about how many people did just the same over the 60 years this space served a community of faith, albeit, a community had had drastically dwindled over the years. Like may Mainline and Roman Catholic Churches across America, there was an unprecedented rise in church attendance in the Post-World War II era, sparked, I think, by the large number of returning veterans who were grateful for their personal survival. It seems the decimation of the church-going population of Europe in both World Wars led to empty churches after the wars, had the exact opposite effect on the returning, surviving sons of America.


This building in which I toiled is a rather non-descript cookie-cutter cinderblock and masonry edifice  similar to so many others built in the late 40's and 50's across America to accommodate the returning vets and their families of baby boomer kids. It has a distinctly mid-century modern feel with light woods, tall, long and lean lancet windows that allow sunlight to stream in, and clean, crisp lines. The pews have a comfortable slope that make sitting in them almost bearable.

 Soon prayer books and hymnals are neatly piled up in pews that are shared by vestments still in the dry cleaner plastic and an old service bulletin left behind by an unknown worshiper.

I began to pile prayer books into an used box that had previously held some sacramental wine. The familiar red books slide in one by one in alternating columns. It was mindless work until I dropped one. As it hit the floor and my foot, it fell open to one of the front fly-pages. As I picked it up, I saw that it had an inscription, a date and a quote. "To Michael"...it began. It included a reference to a date in 1977, the feast of the conversion of St Paul, which would be January 25th, and ended with an obscure quote: " Everyone needs a first-run sometime!" I wondered who Michael was, and why his prayer book ended up in one of the pews of this now closed church.  It really felt out-of-place in this now cold and empty space. I think it deserved better. I did not want it to be just packed up and sent off somewhere yet unknown.

So, I tucked it under my arm and took it home with me. I hope Michael, whoever he is, will not mind me using his prayer book from time to time in my daily devotions. Not only does it deserve a first-run, it deserves to stay in the game.

                    

Good Friday Meditation 2020

Friday, Good Friday, Good Friday in a time of confinement is certainly much different than how many of us had imagined this day in our minds. I know that this is definitely not the way I thought we would be spending this time. One thing I was sure of is that we would be together involved in, perhaps, the annual three-hour observance that we have done for many years at St Mary’s Church on Castleton Avenue, but we are not. We are not even physically together, so it is very different, but yet so very familiar at the same time.  Let’s think about Jesus, his walking, his falling, his encounters with others, and encountering ourselves in his passion.

In this time of quarantine, I have found solace and renewed energy in the mere act of walking. I try to walk a few miles each day either in my neighborhood, or even on my roof deck. Both of which have their challenges. Walking around the deck can become monotonous, and I have found myself spending time rearranging the potted plants and patio furniture more times than I want to publicly admit. And walking around the St George/Tompkinsville neighborhood has its limitations as well. Setting up a circuit of walking around the park and down to the waterfront and then looping past Lyon’s pool presents challenges that include our new normal of “social distancing”, and avoiding any real eye-contact with other folks who also look as menacing in their face masks and gloved hands as we do.

I am grateful that I have a well broken-in pair of comfortable walking shoes to wear on those rare occasions when I venture out to do my essential tasks like grocery shopping, banking and post office drop offs. I often worry about folks who don’t have the luxury of having good shoes that fit well; walking in ill-fitting shoes can be painful.

How often have we heard someone use the expression “walk a mile in my shoes” when they want us to think about what it would be like to live with the trials and tribulations of another human. But, have you ever really walked in someone else’s shoes?  It is very, very difficult. And this is because every foot is different. This is why we often have to painfully “break in” our own shoes. I can recall days of enduring blisters and foot pain breaking in several pairs of fashionable heels in my teens and twenties. There are now websites that recommend anything from spraying rubbing alcohol and water into new shoes and wearing them around the house for thirty minute stretches. Or the site that suggests filling re-sealable plastic storage bags with water, stuffing them into your shoes and putting them in the freezer overnight. And finally a suggestion to use a hair drier to gently warm those uncomfortable tight spots while wearing the shoes….do that one carefully. Once our shoes are molded to our individual foot, they become ours, and basically uncomfortable and almost impossible for someone else to wear.

This is also why it is often difficult to donate used foot wear. Although there is a large market for used shoes and sneakers in Africa and parts of the Caribbean where they are sold on the secondary market to people who are happy to get any kind of shoes, sandals or sneakers.  These shoes are then re-worked and broken in all over again. Walking with any kind of foot covering in dry and dusty terrain is better than going barefoot. This was brought home to me about two months ago on my pilgrimage to Israel and on the Via Dolorosa.

The Via Dolorosa is a processional route in the Old City of Jerusalem said to be the path that Jesus walked on the way to his crucifixion. It winds from the Antonia Fortress to the dark and eerie Church of the Holy Sepulcher near the Damascus Gate. The walk is about 2,000 feet in length and is marked by fourteen stations: nine outside the Church of the Holy Sepulcher and five inside the church.  It is an emotional and moving journey and, if you are fortunate enough to walk it in situ, will change how you forever look on both Good Friday and the resurrected Christ.  

My own journey began at 5:45 am in the morning on a very damp and dreary day in my hotel just outside the walls of the Old City near the Jaffa Gate. My pilgrimage group of fifteen women and our Palestinian Christian guide were determined to complete our walking meditation as early as possible to avoid both the crowds of other pilgrims and the inevitable onslaught of street hawkers and store merchants who were determined to separate as many of us from our shekels, euros or dollars as was possible. But our intrepid group was banking on our early rising which would put us on the streets before the shops were opened and the hawkers stocked. This meant we did quite a bit of dodging delivery trucks and garbage vans, but the plan paid off in the end. Our walk was relatively quiet with time for meditation as we walked the rain soaked cobbled-stone streets stopping at every station on the way. At each station one of us would read a scriptural excerpt and a brief meditation that soon revealed itself as a real time rosary knitting together for us the horrific events of that Friday so far in the past, yet so very close at that moment in time. As each one of us read the meditation at the station, the weight of the inevitable event rested heavy on our hearts, station one, two, three four, five, six, seven and eight were read by others, my turn was next.

I was handed the book of meditations, I looked at the station name:

“Jesus Falls the Third Time”. We are almost in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher; we are just outside of it. The rain had stopped, the cobble stones are shiny with the damp, still puddily in places; this is the final station of our outside walk. The rest are inside the church, a very holy and solemn space, indeed. This ninth station marks the spot where Jesus will leave the city walls and enter into the space of his final suffering and death. This is the spot where he can see the end that awaits him, where we can imagine his exhaustion mixed with pain; where his walk will end; this is where his death begins.

Inside the church we will encounter the place of the crucifixion; see the slab where his body was laid, and the tomb in which he was laid and from which he rose again. But right now, at the ninth station, the apex of our journey on that day, all we see is his suffering and falling and agony; all that was for us.

Today in our own varied spaces, we are sharing in this the final walk of Jesus, the end of his life’s pilgrim’s walk on earth. Our pilgrim walk will continue anew following in his footsteps, and we will be renewed by his suffering and death as we await the glory of Easter.

Let us Pray: (Adapted from the prayer offered by our our Holy Land Tour Guide Peter Sabella)

O Lord Jesus Christ, you simply said two words to the Apostle Peter, and he left everything behind him and followed you. From the very beginning he was open to the possibility of having his identity and faith challenged. We too, O Lord want to follow you. We are also open to the possibility of having our identity and faith perceptions challenged. We have come to seek you. We want to walk with you, see you and hear your voice like the other disciples did. We surrender ourselves to you.

Write your Gospel in our hearts, open our minds to receive your grace. Help us gain a new insight into our true self.…Teach us the way to embrace our brothers and sisters… with love, as you have embraced your cross with love. Amen

Complatency in the Slave Trade and Religious Institurions Staten Island

Like many ethnic European Americans, my paternal family immigrated from Ireland in the 1910’s as part of the great Irish Diaspora that lead to over 25% of Americans able to trace at least one ancestor to the Emerald Isle. The same was not true of my mother’s family. Her father’s paternal line could trace their lineage back to Salem, Mass in the 1550’s from Nottingham in England where they were descended from Huguenot glassblowers and could be easily called Puritans. They then settled on the North Fork of Long Island in a town called Southold where they accumulated property, businesses and slaves. While doing some family research for my uncle’s 80^th birthday, I discovered a bill of sale signed by one of my mother’s ancestors accepting payment for a slave. It read:

Know all Men by these Present that I Joseph Conkling of Queens Village in Queens County on Nassau

Island in the Province of New York for and in Consideration of Twenty five pounds Current money of the

Province aforesaid received to my full Satisfaction of Joseph Lloyd & John Lloyd of said Queens Village

on Nassau Island & County & Province aforesaid Have Sold and do by these Presents Bargain Sell and

Convey Unto the said Joseph & John Lloyd and to their Heirs & Assigns one Certain Negro Girl Name

Phebe of about Six Years of Age During the Term of her Natural Life and for the consideration of the

aforesaid Sum I the said Joseph Conkling do for my Self My Heirs &c Alienate Resign and make over to

them the said Joseph & John Lloyd their Heirs &c all the Right Title and Intrest Which I the said Joseph

Conkling have to the said Negro Phebe to be hereafter the Sole property and Estate of the said Joseph &

John Lloyd their Heirs &c in Testimony & Confirmation whereof I have hereunto set my Hand & Seal

this Sixth Day of September A.D. 1773

Signed Sealed & Delivered Joseph Conkling (seal) In Presence of Sarah Lloyd Rebecca Woolsey

A rather surprising and upsetting document. That document led me to some interesting discoveries about the prominence of Northern slavery, and its impact on our local region in general and within the colonial world of the Anglican Church and the early Episcopal Church as it came into being after the American Revolution.

Just to give you some further context, currently the Episcopal Diocese of New York is involved in a three-year cycle to foster growing awareness of how racism has shaped our history and continues to influence the present. One thing they have acknowledged is the complacency of our church around the issue of slavery in our past and acknowledge there are many colonial-era established parishes that benefited from the institution of slavery. That was true here on our island as well as Manhattan, the Bronx and the Hudson Valley.

Slavery was introduced to New York by the Dutch East India Company when they brought 11 slaves to New Amsterdam in 1626. We also know that the British continued to import slaves to New Amsterdam and its surrounding areas once they took control in 1664. Just to give some additional context, in 1771 the population of Staten Island was 2,874 out of which 594 were slaves. (20%) Slave holders here owned one to three slaves on average; the more affluent owned closer to five to ten. Northern slaves were usually well trained in a skill or trade working in close proximity to their owners in local businesses or farms.

On Staten Island, the first Anglican Parish which is still active today was established in 1709 in present Richmondtown. The Church of St Andrew was established by the “Society for the Propagation of the Faith in Foreign Parts”. The Society was an arm of the Anglican Church and was not only in the business of spreading the faith, but in converting slaves to Christianity. Interestingly enough, The Rev. Richard Charlton, one of the rector’s at St Andrew’s who was a slave holder, and who plays an interesting role in this saga, was originally employed by Trinity Church in Manhattan to instruct enslaved people in the faith and lead them to conversion. Charlton is probably known more for his granddaughter, St Elizabeth Bayley Seton, the first native born United States Roman Catholic to be canonized into sainthood.

William Tillyer, a slave owner, donated the land for the building of St Andrew’s first small church; Elia Duxbury, another founding member, left land to the church and his slaves to Aeneas McKenzie, the first rector of St Andrew’s. McKenzie, in turn, left the slaves to his two step sons. William Harrison, the second rector, was also a slaveholder instructing in his final will that the executors “sell all..” of his remaining slaves.

As most of you are aware, we may only have the first names of slaves that were recorded in legal documents like bills of sale, abandonment declarations post 1799, and of course, wills. There is however one notable exception in this cycle with the life of one Bill Richmond, who started his life enslaved in the household of the Rev. Charlton. Bill was born, by his account, in 1763, one of a total of thirteen slaves living in the Charlton household. By all accounts he was an engaging young man who caught the attention of Lord Percy, a pro-abolition British military leader who was stationed on Staten Island and had befriended Charlton. In 1777, Charlton allowed his young slave to become part of Percy’s service party and Bill departed to England. There this young man was educated, became a cabinet maker, a well-known bear-knuckle boxer and trainer, served in the honor guard at the coronation of George IV and opened and ran both a training gym and tavern in London. He married an English woman named Mary, they had several children and Bill died in London in December 1829. He is buried at St James’ Church in Piccadilly. Here on Staten Island, Nick Dowen, a member of Christ Church and one of Bill’s strongest proponents, has been working for many years to include Bill’s name in the Staten Island Sports Hall of Fame. If you are intrigued by Bill, you can read more about Bill in Luke G. William’s Biography, “Richmond Unchained”.

Now, St Andrew’s was not the only Episcopal Church that can trace some of its roots to slave labor. I am currently assigned to the Church of the Ascension which is located on Kingsley Avenue overlooking Martlings Pond; it was established as a chapel of St Andrew’s with support from Trinity Church in lower Manhattan in the year 1802. There is a wonderful account of how David Moore, the fifteen-year-old son of the then rector of St Andrew’s Church, Richard Channing Moore, piled wooden planks on the back of a wagon and drove it down to a plot of land at Richmond Terrace and Alaska Street to lay the floors of the new chapel. He did so with the assistance of two of his father’s slaves.

Looking at the list of founding members of what was then called “Trinity Chapel” and putting their names into the Joh Jay College data base of New York Slave holders revealed some startling statistics. Of the nine founding members and rector of St Andrew’s who is the founding rector of record for Ascension, a total of thirty-six slaves are listed in the New York Census of 1800. The names of the slaveholders read like a street map of our island: Peter Mersereau (3 slaves), James Guyon (6 slaves), Joshua Wright(1 slave), Paul Micheau (6 slaves), George Barnes (2 slaves), Peter LaForge (1 slave), John VanDyke (4 slaves) and Nicholas Journeay (6 slaves). Finally, the Rev. Richard Channing Moore owned 4 slaves. He left Staten Island when he was elected Bishop of Virginia, taking his chattel possessions with him.

There were also other leaders of other Christian denominations who also owned slaves. These included the leader of the Dutch Reform Church in Port Richmond. After emancipation a former slave of his was employed by the congregation of Ascension to be their caretaker at the Alaska Street location. They provided him and his family with a salary and small home. He and his wife are buried in the cemetery located at that location.

Recently, the Church of the Ascension voted to update their online and official history to include acknowledging the contributions of enslaved people to the founding of the congregation and the building of their first building. A conversation begun.

In conclusion, it can be said, that the roots of slavery on our beloved island have remained dormant and hidden for far too long, as has the history of slavery in the New York Metropolitan area. I hope these brief presentations can serve as catalyst to begin opening up viable and important conversations between all us as we continue to learn from our past to improve the present and future for all God’s children.

New decade/New times?

Being born in the post-World War II era, I have certainly seen many, many things begin, change, evolve, grow and diminish in my time on God's green Earth. The changing mores of the nation, the role of women, the civil rights movement, the expansion and deflation of the space program, the shrinking of the printed news media, the growth of cable news, on-line social and news media, the ubiquitous handy-dandy cell phone which can track ones very existence at any given time; these are both a blessing and a curse of our post-modern society. So many things have evolved and changed and spun around again and again. Some others things have remained the same. One of which has got to be human nature.

The French have an expression, actually they have several. Two of which I really like. I am not a fan of "cherchez la femme" (look to the woman), but I do like "Faites attention à ce pour quoi vous priez, vous pourriez bien l'obtenir" ( Be careful what you pray for; you just might get it). But the one I am thinking about is: "Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose" ( The more things change, the more they remain the same). I think that is my mantra as I enter full throttle into my seventh decade.

So many things have changed, you might say, and I have to agree. Banking is automated, you don't have to rush to the physical building to deposit your paycheck; it gets sent there automatically. You don't have to sit around waiting for that phone call; you just take your phone with you. Well, that can be annoying, but most people have their phones with them to keep them linked and to entertain them as well. You can buy your movie tickets form the comfort of your living room and even pick out the seat you want! You don't even have to go to a store to buy shoes, shirts, pens, paper of chocolate. Just as your prescription drugs can be sent to you automatically, you can satisfy that longing for Nutella by ordering it through Amazon. Heck, I even get my vegetables and fruit delivered every other week at a considerable savings over buying the same stuff at the supermarket in my building!

But there are some fundamental things that remain the same. And the major thing is human nature. We humans are predictable creatures. One thing that never changes is that we are wont to act on behalf of our own self-interests. It is defined as "regard for one's own interest or advantage, especially with disregard for others". And, it is true for almost all of us. If we had our druthers, we'd chose those outcomes that would be good for us.

We also like to take the path of least resistance. We often go along to get along. We like belonging, and we like security. When it come to our personal welfare we just don't want to rock the boat and are often silent when other express views that we may not agree with, but seems to just not really matter in the scope of our lives.

We often let the status quo stay as it is,  especially if it benefits us. We may understand the role that "male privilege" and "white privilege" should be addressed so our society becomes more equitable.  But if we are on the beneficiary end of that scale, we might not be inclined to speak up or call it out for allowing a status quo to exist that is intrinsically unfair to a large percentage of our society.

Yesterday I took part in an interesting discussion at one o the churches I serve as deacon in the Episcopal Diocese of New York. It was about acknowledging the history of the founding of the congregation. A congregation that I have come to dearly love. It's a great community of faith, but they were struggling a bit with a charge from our bishop over the compliancy of the Episcopal Church and its predecessor, the Anglican Church in the enslavement of people of African decent. Many of our congregations whose roots are deep in the colonial history of the United States benefited from the wealth accumulated by members who were slave owners. In our particular case, we have definitive proof that a majority of the founding vestrymen, including the rector/priest/pastor, owned slaves. And we know that the skill and craftsmanship of slave labor was used in the construction of the very first wooden chapel that housed the original congregation.

So, we sat on Sunday and talked about it all. And yes, there were moments that we looked around the room and saw no one who was not a descendent of white European ethnics, no people of color in the room. Some folks noted that these events happened almost 200 years ago when their own ancestors were struggling against their own oppression. They were correct.  Others understood that slavery was definitely evil, but we could not go back and change it. They were correct. Still others mused if placing a plaque4 outside the church, perhaps near the transferred cornerstone with the names of the vestrymen and slaveholders who established the congregation, without any acknowledgement would be a hallow response. And they were also correct. So, what did we decide?

We'll continue the conversation. We'll take a closer look at our history and present a resolution at our annual meeting making an informed decision on the issue of acknowledging our past, honoring all those who helped in establishing this congregation and striving to be a welcoming community of faith. Moving our human nature to let go of the status quo, leaving the path of least resistance to others, and setting self-interest behind and think others with whom we can share and expand this community of faith.

Uncovering an unpleasant history

He shall not judge by what his eyes see,
or decide by what his ears hear;

but with righteousness he shall judge the poor,
and decide with equity for the meek of the earth; Isiah 11:4

What I like about Advent is that we get to revisit some wonderful ancient prophetic texts that still speak to us today. The Old Testament reading from the prophet Isiah is still very relevant in today’s world. “He shall not judge by what his eyes see, or decide by what his ears hear; but with righteousness he shall judge the poor, and decide with equity for the meek of the earth”. It is the concept of “equity” that speaks to me the most.

As many of you know, our diocese has made an unusual decision looking at issues of “equity” as it relates to the shared history of the Episcopal Church in the overall nation and in our surrounding lived region. At the convention we learned of a resolution that had been tabled for almost 160 years. This resolution had to do with the complacency of many of the businesses in the city of New York in the locally outlawed slave trade. Slavery was outlawed In New York State in 1799, but not all at once. It was decreed that any child born into slavery in 1799 would become free when the females reached the age of 24 and the males reached the age of 27 making 1827 the year slavery was finally illegal in New York State. And so it was; however, this law did not prevent investment into the transport of slaves, or the refining of sugar grown on plantations that depended on slave labor, or the manufacture of inexpensive clothing to be sold in the South for slaves to wear or issuing life insurance policies for slaves with their owners as the beneficiaries. Think Domino Sugar, Aetna Insurance, and Brooks Brothers as local New York companies who gladly continued to have financial entanglements with industries connected with slavery.

An interesting result of this 1799 law was that slave holders whose female slaves gave birth to children beginning in 1800 could declare those children “paupers” and wards of the state. This would then make the owner eligible for a monthly stipend of $3.50 per child to fed and clothe them while still enjoying whatever service that child could offer the household until the anticipated emancipation date. It was a kind of informal payback to the slave owners for the loss, over time, of the labor of that young child. The governor of NY at the time, DeWitt Clinton of Erie Canal fame, discontinued this practice because it was rapidly draining the New York State Treasury.

Although slavery officially ended in New York in 1827, slave owners from other states who were visiting New York could bring their slaves with them; fugitive slave hunters could capture and return suspected runaway slaves, and ships transporting slaves were allowed to drop anchor and restock in New York as long as they did not engage in the sale of slaves while in New York City.

So, although the good citizens of New York were in compliance with the letter of the law, there was quite a bit of local activity that flaunted the intent of the law. Hence, John Jay II introduced an anti-slavery resolution in 1860 to the NY Diocesan Convention that was quickly tabled. Our last convention in November took this resolution off the metaphorically dusty table and brought it before the convention where it passed without issue. But that was not where the Bishop stopped.  He committed to setting aside 1.1% of the income generated from the Diocesan Endowment Fund to be spent for some kind of reparations such as seminary scholarships for persons of color. He also referenced the action of the congregation at St James/Madison Avenue. They had researched their history and discovered that the construction of their original building was done with enslaved labor. They have recently put a plaque on an outside wall acknowledging this contribution. The bishop asked those congregations with colonial roots to look into their history to see what they might learn from the experiences of the founding members and do the same.

His charge about colonial congregation struck a chord with me. While researching my mother’s family genealogy (Conkling), I discovered that they owned slaves, not in Virginia or Louisiana or the Carolinas, but on Long Island, more specifically in Sothhold on the North Fork in Suffolk County and in Brooklyn. In my own search, I found a bill of sale that read:

“Know all Men by these present that I, Joseph Conkling ... for and in consideration of Twenty five pounds Current money . . . sell and Convey unto Joseph & John Lloyd and to their heirs one Certain Negro Girl Named Phoebe of about Six Years of Age During the Term of her Natural Life -- Sixth Day of December A.D. 1773”. (Interestingly, the bill of sale was signed 246 years ago exactly to the day that I wrote this sermon)

I read and re-read that bill of sale. I was devastated. I wondered what happened to that child who was about the same age as one of my own grandsons. Did she survive into adulthood? Did she remain with the Lloyds on Long Island? Did she live to see the ending of slavery in New York? I have no idea. If she did she would have been 60 years old, a very old age at the time, if not she lived her entire life as the property of someone else. I only know that one of my colonial ancestors sold a child for the sum of 25 pounds sterling. As a point of reference that would be equivalent to 3,760 pounds or $4,936.50 in modern currency, less than 5,000 for the life of a child.

This knowledge made me want to revisit what I knew about the establishment of this congregation in 1802, a bit beyond the colonial era, but our roots go deeper than the early 19^th century.

Years ago when I was a member of St Andrew’s and their informal historian I uncovered the story of the beginnings of this community of faith. Ascension, at its inception, was a chapel of St Andrew’s and was established with financial help from Trinity Wall Street. It was built at the present intersection of  Richmond Terrace and Alaska Street. Many of you remember that building with fondness. It was not the original building. The first building was constructed at that site in 1802.

The tale that is gleaned from the records at St Andrew and from a book written about its history in 1925 has a wildly idyllic tale about David Moore, the fourteen-year-old son of the Rev. Richard Channing Moore, who was the rector of St Andrew’s and one of the founders of Trinity Chapel, the original name of the congregation on the North Shore. The younger Moore, who would later succeed his father as rector, loaded a horse drawn carriage with wooden planks and drove that rig to the site, unloaded it and oversaw the construction of the original foundational floor for the building. What did not make it into the 1925 history was the fact that he was accompanied by several slaves who were the property of his father, and these enslaved men were the labor that laid down that floor.

That story alone made me wonder about what other facts we could uncover about the men who helped to start this congregation way back in the day. So I turned to the John Jay College data bank called “New York Slavery Record Index”. It is a record of enslaved persons and slaveholders in the New York from 1525 through the Civil War. (even though slavery was outlawed in 1827, there were 75 known slaves being held in NY during the war) This data base revealed some facts about life here on Staten Island in the eerily 1800’s when our parish was founded.

I copied the names of those listed as vestrymen when this congregation was founded in 1802 and entered them into the data base using the census of 1800 as the point of information. The data indicated that possessing slaves was quite common among people of means on Staten Island.  Here are the numbers:

Richard Channing Moore, rector:  4 slaves

Peter Mersereau:  3 slaves

James Guyon: 6 slaves

Joshua Wright: 1 slave

Paul Micheau ( NYS senator) :6 slaves

George W. Barnes: 3 slaves

Peter La Forge: 1 slave

John VanDyke: 4 slaves

Nicholas Journeay: 6 slaves (for a total of 34 slaves)

These facts are not presented to make us feel guilty. They are presented to allow us to think about the flawed humans that created this congregation that serves more flawed human today. Here is an interesting fact. Very recently, the NY Slavery Records Index joined with St. Mark’s-in-the-Bowery to study slavery associated with the church. They believe that recognizing past injustice is a moral obligation, and also a constructive step in understanding racism and injustice today. That is a positive attitude to have when confronting a past that makes us uncomfortable. Let us take the time to think and pray on this as well.

Five borough race...sort of

This coming Sunday is the New York Marathon, and if, unlike me, this is something you can enjoy either on the sidelines cheering on a family member or a friend who has been lucky enough to win a spot in this world class foot race, or watching the highlights on the local network coverage, more power to ya! This race and others like them: NYC bike race, Staten Island half marathon, Staten Island bike race, or even the innocuous sounding Bay Street restaurant walk, drive me to distraction.

Why, you might ask yourself, should I be even the slightest annoyed with people who are enjoying a run, a ride or even a stroll in the lovely October weather? Because my street is closed for most of the day, and I am a virtual prisoner in my own home!  

Now, runners come from all over the world to take part in this event. We even meet them at the Tourist Kiosk at the Staten Island Ferry where I work on Thursdays. We had one gentleman and his wife from Finland who stopped by last week to scope out the best way to get to the starting point at the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. God help me, I had to tell him to take the ferry and get on one of those damn buses that block my personal building egress along with his wife and his whole retinue of cheering Finnish fans. I hope THEY have fun! I will be sulking on my terrace, shaking my fist, muttering under my breath, and eating pancakes...I will actually have the time to make them this Sunday.

So, in preparation for this event, today I made my own two and a half hour 'round the city touring event hitting all five boroughs in the process...well...mostly the edges of the city, as I drove from Staten Island through Brooklyn, Manhattan, and the Bronx to get to an appointment in Mount Vernon. On the way back I toured the bubonic parts of the Bronx, Queens...mostly highway, back through Brooklyn and home over the VZ Bridge. And, boy, how the place is still strangely familiar, yet also eerily different!

Across the bridge and through the tunnel up the East Side, Willis Avenue Bridge, and through the Bronx on the way up through Yonkers and onto Mount Vernon. To get home it was down the Hutch, across the Whitestone onto the LIE and the dreaded BQE, a nightmare no matter when one is on it, under the promenade and back across the VZ.

The familiar neighborhoods are there: Bay Ridge, Park Slope, Brooklyn Heights, Bushwick, Williamsburg, the East Village, Hell's Kitchen, Murray Hill, Upper Eastside (where I went to college), past the Stadium...Yankee for you who need the reference, Fordham, City Island, Co-Op City, Flushing, Whitestone, Maspeth...all looking so very familiar, yet so very different with new skinny glass apartment buildings popping up all over pointing ever upwards and casting new shadows on old neighbors. These new edifices all seem to be struggling to peer over their older neighbors to see the water, the skyline or a patch of urban green offered by something as simple as a park or even a cemetary.....any green will do.

I remember when my parents finally moved from Brooklyn to Connecticut. My Dad said he had finally gotten out of Brooklyn and had happily bought a nice condo apartment in his beloved Danbury. I said, "Pop, you couldn't afford to live in Brooklyn." It was true then, and it is still true today.

You know that old adage, "You can't go home again."? Well, you can, but you need to bring money.