The Irreverent Reverend

New York City is undoubtedly the best place to people watch. I was at The Metropolitan Opera on Sunday afternoon and there were people of every size, shape, color, language and attire. Most notably there was a woman with long flaming red hair, a flowing green evening gown…and combat boots. I wondered about her story.

Sunday morning at Riverside Church was inspired worship in a congregation more diverse than I have ever experienced. It was a delight to people watch and find that I was in the minority as a white person. It gladdened my heart to hear a young transgender man speak of the church as a safe place where God’s presence and love were made known through the people. The music, preaching and liturgy were uplifting and deeply nourishing to my soul.

Monday I was at Penn Station. Now this is a place to people watch. There was a young, late teens/early twenties couple who were draped all over each other like cheap suits. They spoke and laughed just a little too loud, as if they wanted everyone to notice them. A black man came into the waiting area. He was in his late fifties/early sixties, glasses and gray tinged hair. I wondered what his life had been like. How had his skin color affected where he lived, what job he got, or the way he was treated by police? How did he fare financially when he was paid less than a white man doing the same job?

Most of the people pushing brooms and mops and emptying trash were people of color. They may or may not have spoken English. They averted their eyes from the crowds and stared at the work before them. Where did they live? How did they afford a New York apartment? Did they live with food scarcity? The gap widens. My heart breaks.

A man was howling in the great hall of the new station. His mournful voice reverberated off the marble walls. He was clearly troubled. Did he have a place to live? How did he support himself? Did he get the mental health care he needed? Who looked out for him on a daily basis? How long would it be before he was ejected from the station into the cold December afternoon?

People were glued to their phones, everyone staring at a screen. They were oblivious that other human beings were around them. Some people literally walked into other people because they were busy looking at their phones. Most had headphones and couldn’t hear anything but what came through the wireless ear buds.

A young Asian couple came into the waiting area. At least a third of the people waiting were Asian. I wondered how much disrespect they had endured since the beginning of the pandemic. Had they suffered violence or verbal abuse? Most people cannot tell Chinese people from Korean people, from Japanese people. Asians seem to be painted with the same brush and blamed for the pandemic. I wondered about their stories.

There was a classical quartet playing in the Great Hall of the station. The lilting music brought a lighter quality to an otherwise distracted and harried place filled with distracted and harried people. Occasionally the howling man all but drowned out the quartet.

A woman traveling alone sat down across from me, phone in hand and earbuds implanted. She mouthed the words to a song no one else could hear. She seemed weary. I wondered where she was headed, what brought her to New York and where she called home.

This was a wondrous mass of humanity and each person had a story. I was surrounded by unique and unrepeatable human beings living their life as best they could. Looking around at people reminded me that compassion is a way to be in the world. Compassion means to try and walk around in someone else’s skin and have a sense of what life is like for them. The only way we can do that is to put down our phones, pay attention to what is going on around us and be willing to ask questions about their lives (even if we never get the answers).

The black man, the Asian couple, the station workers, the woman traveling alone…what was it like to be them? My second Sunday of Advent was waiting and watching at Penn Station. Waiting for the 3:15 train that left at 5:45 and watching people created in the image of the Holy One for whom we wait in these darkening days of winter. Each one bears the mark of the Divine. Each one is a vessel to receive the Christ who is made known in this season. I gave thanks for each person upon whom my eyes came to rest.