A difference of living in New York from any other experience in my life is the amount of interaction I have with people before my work day begins. Up until now I’ve gotten in the car at home and gotten out again at the office. It’s just been me and NPR, and oh yes, Annie. In New York, though, I have contact with scores of people, actually hundreds if not thousands, between my front door and the fourth floor of the Church Center. I like watching people and wondering about their lives. This morning a boy was studying, seemingly for a test. I wondered what in. There was a woman wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. I wondered what that was about. I saw a woman running as best as she was able on worn legs from down the block to catch the M4 at Amsterdam. The bus driver waited for her. How kind, I thought. The bus got to the end of the block at Broadway just as I did. And she got off. I wondered what was up with that.
There is etiquette to interactions on New York subways and streets, though. It is generally not considered polite to notice others, or at least to get noticed noting others. One rarely speaks to a stranger during the morning commute. It is not that New Yorkers are unfriendly. In fact, it is quite the opposite. It is just that New Yorkers are not morning people.
Today, Monday in Holy Week, was an exception for some reason. I had something happen to me on the way to work this morning that has never before happened. And this morning it happened twice.
As I came out of the gate from the Cathedral Close, a woman, nicely dressed and a little younger than I, looked right at me and said, “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I replied, a little startled. And then she sort of bowed, almost a curtsy. It wasn’t a subservient sort of gesture, more obeisant, respectful, and maybe slightly deferential. I was really startled then.
At 96th street I transferred from the local to the express. I was late this morning so it was crowded. I found enough space to stand, and when I did, I was face to face with a casually dressed man, again a little younger than I. He was with someone, another man, apparently the two of them on the way to work. When I looked up after finding a space, he looked at me and with a slight nod of the head, something less than a curtsey, said, “Good morning.”
I was so startled this time that I didn’t even think to respond in kind. Part of me thought he must be speaking to someone standing behind me. I thought it would be truly rude to look and see. So I just assumed this was directed at me. “Hi,” I replied.
His smile assured me that I had correctly interpreted that the greeting was meant for me. I thought about this all the way to Times Square, particularly the inadequacy of my greeting in response. I resolved to correct that when I left the train. “Have a nice day,” I said when we came to a stop.
“You, too,” he responded. What I probably should have said, and may well have been expected to say, was “God bless you.” I thought about that from Times Square to Grand Central. Maybe I’ll get it right next time. I can hardly wait for the trip home.
Now, what I wonder is why this breach in protocol today. What made this day like no other day? I can only speculate. It was so different that it must be something important.
Maybe it is because I’m a priest, but I am particularly aware that this week is Holy Week and that yesterday was Palm Sunday (and I was surprised by the number of New Yorkers I saw out and about yesterday carrying palms). Could that be it? Was this obeisance directed to me as a symbol of something much greater than I?
The real thing I pondered was how, to the extent people know the story of this week, even vestigially, it touches something very deep inside. Could it be, I wondered, that even long forgotten memories from childhood (I thought of the grandmother I saw yesterday at church lovingly whispering explanations in the ear of her very young grandson, pointing out the organ, and handing him a palm frond) are stirred by reminders during this week. Could it be, I wondered, that even the church, which does not command the social prestige it once did (I thought about seeing the exhibit of the Lewis chess pieces yesterday at the cloisters and the explanation of why the bishops flank the king and queen on the board), perhaps this week the church is identified with the passion of divine love for the world, and that inspires something. Perhaps this week, more than others, we remember our rightful place as servants of the one who came not to be served but to serve and those he loved to the end, especially the poor, the oppressed, the needy.
I will never know the answer, of course, but I hope it might have to do with the church’s identity with the Passion, with suffering undertaken for the sake of love, with the fervent hope that love endures even death, indeed defeats death forever.
We lose our way in that, not infrequently. Perhaps the other 51 weeks of the year, we lose our way. This week, though, calls us to remember who we are, servants. And, indeed, how inherently, indeed unavoidably, attractive it is to the world when we do. It is a powerful message when we actually live it out. Jesus said, “And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself” (Jn. 12:32). It is the passion for love, even the willingness to endure suffering on behalf of others, of which the cross is the symbol, that draws us and others. This week we remember that.
Peace,
+Stacy
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