Subway Star Wars

I'm way behind here, I've got several posts I want to write, but this was too awesome, it had to be put up immediately.

Oh, how I love New York.  And Improv troupes.

10 Years Ago, Part Two

. . .looking back, the me that woke up the morning of September 11 seems so charmingly naieve - I could not in my wildest dreams have imagined the horrendous crash and burn that was about to happen, not only in New York, but in my own life.

I was up early. I had an 8 am class, which I typically tried to avoid, but it couldn't be helped that semester.

Pauline Epistles with Dr. Craig Koester.

That's where I was when it happened.

Blissfully oblivious.

I don't remember which epistle Koester was lecturing on that day.

I do remember the second class was over, Dr. Diane Jacobson calmly walked in to the room and somberly told us "There has been a terrorist attack on the United States, airplanes have been hijacked and flown into the World Trade Towers and the Pentagon. It is not certain whether there are other planes or what their targets may be. We are gathering in the chapel."


WHAT?


I went to chapel. I don't remember exactly what we said and did. . .a lot of praying, and speaking and singing lament psalms, I think.

My memories of the day are like that - certain things are crystal clear, while others are vague and hazy.

I do remember - clearly - it felt like time slowed down and the day would never end.

I was supposed to go to God, Evil, and Suffering next.

Ha.

But my neighbor Dana was expecting her cousin Sebastian to land later that day, coming to visit from Germany. But everything had been shut down, and who's to say where he was? And Dana didn't speak German. I went and explained the situation to Drs. Sponheim and Fretheim, and they said, by all means, go help your friend find her cousin.

His plane was halfway over the Atlantic Ocean when the pilot abruptly announced the United States had closed its borders and its airspace, they were turning around for Europe immediately.

I can't imagine what it must have been like for him to hear that, sitting on that plane, halfway through a long journey he'd been planning and looking forward to for months. I would have asked myself, "What do you mean, they closed the borders? WTH is happening on the ground?"

But at least he was safe, and made it back to his family alright.

From there I must have eaten something for lunch, though I doubt I had an appetite. And I must have finished out the very full day of class, with Lutheran Confessions, and Preaching. . .but honestly those parts of the day are also fuzzy.

I was working for Pilgrim Lutheran at the time, and they pulled together a prayer vigil that evening. I do remember going to that.

And I distinctly remember yelling at God the entire drive to the church: "Where were you? Where ARE you? Do you not care that we are perishing? Do you not understand what this means. . .with THIS President in particular at the helm?. . ."

I distinctly remember praying for our enemies at the service, because I could not fathom what kind of hell a person must live in, day in and day out, that would lead them to see such a suicide mission as their best and only way forward.

I distinctly remember all the hope and joy of the summer being sucked completely out of me in a matter of moments, as if a Dementor had followed Dr. Jacobson into the room, then grabbed hold and followed me out of it.

For me, September 11 was the beginning of a year of absolute hell, and an epically dark night of the soul. That journey was long, and is a story for another day.


Today in her sermon, Jen asked us, 10 years later, where do we find hope?

Which was a hard question because over the past few months, the devolving state of various situations in the world, which we never seem to gain traction on, have left me feeling increasingly hopeless and fearing we are, collectively, hell-bent on getting to a Fahrenheit 451/Clockwork Orange kind of world as fast as we possibly can.

Perhaps my old Dementor has been lingering a little too close lately, but I really had to think about this question.

I decided - I find hope in the people who choose life, who live life abundantly, who relentlessly rebuild this world even as others actively tear it down.

And I find hope in the God who continues to create beauty and truth and goodness, even out of the chaos and the rubble.

I give thanks to God for both Jen and Jeni, two of the saints in my life who give me hope, and for the brilliant sermons they each preached this morning.

And I leave you with this prayer, which we sang in worship today (though I thank another hopeful saint, Choral Girl, for this particular link):

Drunk on Books

I've always jokingly spoken of my book collecting as an addiction - turns out such joking is not so far from the truth.


(Here I am getting a fix at one of my favorite bookstores in the entire world: The Strand in New York City. I also highly recommend Powell's in Portland, Oregon, and Loome's in Stillwater, Minnesota).


Hat tip to Josh for the link.

The Arc of the Universe is Long

. . .but it bends towards justice. -Martin Luther King, Jr

I'll always love you, New York, for many, many reasons - but you can add today's momentous decision to the top of the list.

I think a little celebration is in order - how 'bout some Ryan Adams?

Life is Alright in A-me-ri-ca. . .If You Are White in America

The Broadway fairies were good to us - tickets for West Side Story were indeed available at TKTS yesterday, so Sarah, Rob, and I went to see it last night. It was awesome. The dancing was incredible. The set design was fantastic and creative. The cast was top notch (although - oddly - Tony and Maria each sounded fine on their own, they sounded fine when singing with other people, but when they sang duets with each other, they did not sound good at all - it was weird).

This revival has the Puerto Ricans speaking in Spanish the majority of the time that they are among their "own kind," and also often singing in Spanish. Sarah didn't care for this directive choice at all (though she speaks fluent Spanish and could follow what they were saying and singing). I know only a smattering of Spanish vocab, and thus couldn't understand what they were saying 99% of the time, but it didn't bother me as much - I can see how it would make sense, it's what 1st generation immigrants often do when among their fellow immigrants. And I'm familiar enough with the music to know what the songs were about in English, but it still did change the experience to not be able to understand what was being sung. I suppose the effect they were going for - aside from the realism - was to alienate English-only audience members to the same degree that the PRs are alienated in the play.

On a similar note - I did notice right away that the words to "America" were different than what I know them to be. I am most familiar with the movie soundtrack, which I listen to pretty regularly, and which casts "America" as the girl Sharks singing the glories of America (idealizing the land and their experience of it, focusing on the possibilities America offers), and the boys keep popping in with sarcasm and the reality of how they are treated here. In the play, it's only the girls singing, one of whom is homesick and idealizing life back in Puerto Rico, while Anita keeps reminding her of the harsh realities of life there, and why America is better than that.

Prior to yesterday, I've only ever seen the play staged once, over a decade ago, at my hometown community theatre. I don't remember noticing this difference in the songs back then, but I also don't remember if I'd already owned the CD and was super familiar with West Side Story back then. . .in any case, Sarah owns the original Broadway recording of the music, so we listened to her version today, and it matched the play exactly.

This just makes me wonder why they changed the lyrics for the movie?

It also makes me wonder why they didn't use the movie version for this revival of the play? I mean, I suppose to be a true revival, it would have to be true to the original. But this production seemed to emphasize the bigger picture issues addressed in the play - of immigration and community violence. The movie version of the song serves these purposes much better, as it is a much more pointed political commentary on both the dreams and the treatment of immigrants (especially non-white immigrants) in this country.

The original lyrics, on the other hand, better serve the individual tragic trajectories of the play: Anita is the one defending America in the song, her blindness to its dangers (whether true naivete or intentional ignorance) is her tragic flaw, and Anita is ultimately betrayed by America, whose violence kills her beloved Bernardo and then attacks her when she tries - even after his horrific death - to continue believing in the promise of America, the violence attacks her as she tries to help Tony and Maria find the somewhere they can live in peace. I guess that makes the same point, teases out the same themes, just on a much more personal scale.

The Air is Hummin'

Could it be? Yes it could - something's coming, something good!
If I can wait. . .

I'm heading to the Big Apple for the Trinity Institute this year, which means I'll have a couple nights free to play in the city. I've been wanting to see the West Side Story revival since last spring, and the TKTS website indicates tickets for said show have been showing up at their booth of late.

Will they have tickets the nights I'm in town?

Could be. . .who knows? ;)

This Little Pastor Went to New York

So, while Andy chills and makes videos of his kids, I wound down after Easter by heading to the Big Apple.

The time was good, but - as always - too short.

Got into town on Monday afternoon, and after a quick lunch (hmmm. . .real New York City bagels!) Sarah and I went to check out the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. Though it's close to Sarah and Rob's apartment, they've been doing work on it the past few years, so this is the first time in my visits to the city that it was possible to view the full length of the Cathedral without scaffolding and whatnot blocking the view.



It is a very impressive building, and I think it's cool they are trying to create it with old world craftsmanship, which is why it's still not completely finished - gives one a sense of appreciation for how long it must have taken to build those massive cathedrals in Europe.

It being the day after Easter, their Easter flowers were still on display - they had these giant urns FULL of flowers - probably a dozen urns lining the length of the nave, plus other lavish Easter gardens set up at various points around the sanctuary. Sarah and I estimated that each urn arrangement easily cost $1,000 a piece, if not more, and it occurred to me that this congregation's flower budget was probably more than my congregation's entire budget for the year.

This realization was akin to the feeling I get every time the train pulls into Penn Station, and I think, there are more people in this building at this very moment than live in or within a 30 mile radius of my town. Just another way that the scale of things in New York has the ability to shock and awe.

The downside to such scale, however, is the intense isolation you can feel, even when surrounded by a lot of people. Sarah had gone to Good Friday services at the Cathedral, and though she estimated there were 200 people there, because they were spread out over so large a space, she said it felt like worshipping alone.

In any case, when we were done looking at all the church art, we cruised through Columbia and picked Rob up on the way back to the apartment, then met Breen's sister Trina for dinner at this fantastic Afghani place (Ariana Afghan Kabob), then we all enjoyed an evening at the Upright Citizen's Brigade, which I've been wanting to check out for a while. I was not disappointed. Some sketches were more tightly written and performed than others, but in my opinion, even the clunkiest ones were still better than much of what has been on Saturday Night Live the past few years. Maybe the SNL writers should take a refresher course at the UCB. . .

Tuesday morning, I walked up to the God Box (er. . .Interchurch Center) to check out Sarah's new office, which has a sweet view of the Hudson and midtown Manhattan:




Then I was off to see the Museum of Biblical Art. This was somewhat disappointing. I was under the impression they had a permanent collection, plus visiting exhibits. Turned out they are all of two gallery rooms, and only host visiting exhibits, the current of which is about the Bible and film. Basically, it was a lot of movie posters and a few props from Biblically-themed films, and the commentary was kind of tracing the progression of artistic portrayals in the posters (I had the feeling I would have gotten more out of it if I was more up to speed on classical works of religious art).

What I found most interesting were two non-artistic pieces: one was a letter written by Cecille B. DeMille, who was very excited about the upcoming release of The King of Kings, and hopeful it would bring the life of Christ alive in people's hearts, as opposed to something remote, irrelevant, stuck in staid stained glass. Having spent a good chunk of the day before looking at stained glass (which was once a "new" way to tell an old story), and having been thinking a lot lately about how the gospel will keep making itself relevant and find ways to be communicated in whatever times are being lived, I thought it was interesting how this famous movie director/producer himself recognized how he was translating the old, old story into a new medium for his time. More on that later, I'm sure, 'cause I've got a post about the emergent church percolating in the back of my mind. . .

The other really interesting thing to me was the promotional materials associated with Ben-Hur, specifically the ways it was to be marketed to pastors and church groups. Ah, capitalism - leave no market untapped, no opportunity unexplored.

In any case, it took me less than an hour to go through the whole museum, so then I walked around Central Park for a while.



After a nice walk and a ride on the carousel, I meandered over to Lincoln Center for their tour, which was pretty cool. I was bummed we did not get to see The Met, as they were in the midst of dress rehearsal for Siegfried and had a small audience. But our tour guide more than made up for it in Avery Fisher Hall, when he snuck us in for about 15 minutes of Philharmonic's rehearsal.

After that, I walked down to the Time Warner Center to get some lunch at the Bouchon Bakery. It was here I had my first encounter with a truly rude New Yorker.

Digression: To me, there's a difference between urban standoffishness and malicious or intentional rudeness, and I think New York gets a bad rap for its attitude. Yes, people there keep to themselves, and drive or walk aggressively, but those are necessary skills to survive the urban jungle, and I'm willing to forgive the unintentional rudeness they can effect. In reality, most of the people I've encountered in New York have been polite and helpful if I've had to stop and ask them for directions or whatever.

This security guy at Time Warner, however, was intentionally rude. There was no place by the Bakery to sit, not even a place to stand at a counter and eat my lunch. After making two passes through the seating area, I figured I was going to have to eat sitting on the floor. This guy watched me make those two passes, move back by a pillar, set my things down, take my coat off, sit down and pull out and unwrap my sandwich, before he came over and snarkily said "You can't sit on the floor, it's against the rules." I motioned to the tables and said "But there's no place to sit and eat." He just smirked and shrugged his shoulders like "Not my problem" then repeated "Well, you can't sit on the floor."

So I wrapped my sandwich back up, put my coat back on, picked up my stuff, left the building and walked across the street to Central Park, where I ate in the drizzle as three homeless guys watched me. The food was excellent, but the ambience diminished my enjoyment of it, because I felt guilty for eating in front of the homeless guys, and I was mad at how maliciously rude the guard had been. He could have been helpful and suggested other seating areas in the building where I might try to find a place to sit and eat, but he didn't (and had I not been so flustered, I might have thought to ask). Or at the very least, he could have stopped me when he saw I was clearly preparing to sit down on the floor, instead of waiting until I was settled and had the sandwich inches from my mouth before he swooped in and took visible pleasure in ousting me. That was just unnecessarily jerky, but unfortunately, the pastor in me couldn't even stay mad at the guy that long. Instead, I started feeling sorry for him, because in my experience, people who have a lot of messed up stuff going on in their lives tend to exercise what little areas of authority they do have with a particular zeal and triumphalism. Given the zealousness with which he carried out his guard duties, I can only imagine what kind of crap and lack of agency he lives with on a daily basis.

So, after wolfing down my expensive bakery lunch (anxious to get out of the rain and away from the eyes of the hungry guys watching me), it was time to leave. All in all, another fantastic visit to the city so nice that they named it twice.

Peace,
C.

City Mouse for a Day

I took a much needed mental health day and went to see Sarah and Rob in the Big Apple yesterday. Unfortunately, Mondays are sort of quiet days for the city that never sleeps (exacerbated in this case by the Columbus Day holiday) - most museums and restaurants are closed, and while I don't begrudge these folks a day of rest, I find it a bummer that our Sabbaths coincide.

I still had a great time, however. I got to town in time for lunch, then Sarah and I walked to Grant's Tomb, took some pictures on the funky mosaic benches outside, and read the displays inside the classical-looking tomb. On the walk back, I was thinking one of the buildings we passed looked familiar, and Sarah asked if I had seen Enchanted. Turns out, the end of their block was featured heavily in the movie, and for as often as I've been to visit them, I am totally embarrassed that I did not recognize that when I was watching the movie. Ah well. . .

We had wanted to go the the Cloisters as well, and were hoping it would be open, since the Met itself was open especially for the holiday. Alas, the Cloisters were closed. So we just hung out around the apartment visiting until Rob came home from a meeting, then we planned to go to dinner at a pizza place they wanted to try on the lower East Side. Alas, the pizza place is not open on Mondays. So instead we went to an excellent Thai restaurant in Union Square, then digested a bit while feeding my addiction at the Strand (what's not to love about 18 miles of books?!), then walked to the Dessert Truck, which sells a deliciously decadent molten chocolate cake - Sarah and I split one, which was a good thing - it was so rich, I think I would have been sick had I tried eating a whole one by myself. On the walk back to the subway, we noticed the Empire State Building was lit up in green, white, and red, for Columbus Day, so Sarah and I said a little cheer for our fellow paisan, even though his claim to fame is rather dubious (my Norwegian friends are adamant that the Vikings got here first).

Today on my way out of town I did the NBC studio tour, which is a worthwhile tourist trap. We got to see the studio for the NBC Nightly News and MSNBC and the infamous Studio 8H (another pilgrimage complete), and learn all sorts of cool and interesting things along the way (like, that Brian Williams is in his suit and makeup first thing in the morning so he is camera-ready in case a story breaks during daytime programming, and that he stands at the beginning of each newscast in homage to the Huntley-Brinkley Report, who did their whole news program standing; or that each cast member and guest on SNL has a facial cast/bust made of them so the make-up artists can work on make-up design and prosthetic pieces without pulling the actors out of rehearsal).

Then I stopped by the public library to try and see the original Pooh, but he is temporarily not on display. So I looked at a small exhibit on art deco design instead, then headed for Penn Station. Along the way, I'm pretty sure I passed a film crew of some sort - lots of cameras and people and directors chairs, but no title on the back of the chairs, and no luminaries that I recognized. It could have been for a movie, or could have been a location shot for a NY-based TV show - it was right outside the au bon pain on 5th Ave, near the Empire State Building, and seemed to involve a bus.

So, that was my day and a half in New York, which was beautiful and went all too quickly, as usual. The drive was also particularly beautiful this time - the trees are pretty close to peak color in eastern PA.

And, total aside - my train reading this time was A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. My copy has an introduction by Walker Percy, who was apparently instrumental in getting the book published a decade after the author's death. Percy makes particular mention that a character like Ignatius J. Reilly was rather unprecedented at the time of the book's writing (in the early 60s). . .but as I read (about halfway through right now) it occurs to me that Ignatius certainly seems to have some contemporaries here in the early 21st century. . .his lambasting diatribes and ridiculous rhetoric are reminiscent of a certain O'Reilly over on FOXNews, as well as Stephen Colbert's satirical persona.

Lost

When I was five years old, I got lost at the Minnesota Zoo. It was a busy Saturday, I was stubbornly refusing to hold anyone's hand as we moved about, and every dad and their brother was wearing jeans and the same color Izod polo shirt (I think it was red), including mine. I followed the wrong guy into a building, and by the time I realized that, my dad was nowhere to be seen. I looked around desperately for a minute or two, then approached the desk, huge tears welling up in my eyes.

I didn't understand how these things worked, didn't realize I was actually safe and had gone to the right people who would help me find my dad - rather, I was certain I was going to end up in an orphanage, and/or with my picture on the side of a milk carton, never to see my family again. A nice lady, an employee of the zoo, sat me on top of the desk and started asking my name and where I was from, and listened patiently, trying to discern my answers through the sobs. Just then my dad walked in the door to report me missing - I don't think either of us have ever been so happy to see each other as in that moment.

I share this because on Monday, I got "lost" in New York. I have been to New York City several times and know my way around well (man, do I love that place - it's like an endless State Fair!). Dad and Brenda had never been, so we spent the day being tourists, riding the City Sights on/off tour bus. At Ground Zero, we were crossing the street with a large group of people that split in two, and Dad and Brenda went left toward St. Paul's Chapel, while I went right to go further down the block and see if we could find another vantage point on the reconstruction. I thought they were behind me, but when I looked up they were nowhere to be seen, and in a split second, I was five years old at the zoo again. As I scanned the crowd and couldn't find them, I felt the panic rising in my chest, and actually had to stop, take a deep breath, and remind myself: "I am 30 years old, I know my way around Manhattan, and I have a map, money, and a metro card in my pocket."

Then I remembered we both have cell phones! I kept scanning as I called him, then saw them looking for me across the street. I walked towards them and waved, they finally saw me, and when I got to them, my dad said "What, are we back at the zoo?!"

Funny how both of us went immediately to that moment. Funny how moments like that sear their memory in your brain and still have the power to induce irrational panic 25 years later. All in all, it was a pretty brief and fairly harmless experience of being lost, both times. But since Monday, I can't help thinking about the kind of hell that people who've experienced _serious_ traumatic stress must go through every day - all the little things that could trigger their own dark memories and set off a wave of uncontrollable fear and panic.

How do you heal from something like that? What, if anything, can the people of God do to help with that healing?

Peace,
C.