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