A reminder of
Saint Paul's Chapel that served as the ground zero for relief efforts. This is a video I posted back in April 2008.
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And here is a description of my visit there in December 2001 that I sent to my family.
Monday at Ground Zero
17 December 2001
Three months later
The first thing I saw when I came up from the Fulton Street subway station, pointing west, was the charred remnant of what once was WTC 5. Blacker than black, yet with light coming through the open floors, it remains the only above-ground remains of the WTC complex. My mind had a hard time computing that it used to look dwarfed by WTC 1 and 2. As Mother will attest, what helps make this all real is the smell—there is nothing like wet, old burnt matter. I can’t really describe it other than it is distinctive and unpleasant.
I had never really paid attention to the WTC towers when they were there—all the countless times I had gone to the Seamen's Church Institute headquarters I never really looked up—because I knew ‘they would always be there.’ Instead, the Saint Margaret’s House (for low-income elderly residents) seemed tall and it is maybe 15 stories. And where there used to be this huge presence looming overhead, all there is is air space.
In an odd juxtaposition, shooting star Christmas lights framed the unreal scene of the destruction of lower Manhattan. Beyond the remains of WTC 5, across the plaza, clearly stands Four Liberty Plaza building, covered with black netting, with plywood in the windows that were shattered. The Winter Gardens, which Mother photographed, look like the burnt-out hulk of a blimp. It would appear that the structure is being dismantled. Likewise, the building Mother photographed with beams and such hanging out of it, has been stripped of its outer layers. When I walked down a side street, and was able to glimpse inside the fence, the facade of another building on the south side of the plaza (which I haven’t had the chance to identify yet) looked as though it had been impaled by a gigantic Christmas tree.
Saint Paul’s fence is covered top to bottom with t-shirts on which people have written the names of those who have died, prayers, photographs of the missing, flags, photographs of WTC in its glory—every imaginable expression of human grief possible. The block-long fence has become a shrine for New Yorkers, and visitors alike. The crowd was four-deep when I went by; there are saw horses up to keep people on the sidewalk and out of the flow of traffic of Broadway.
Police officers guard the perimeter of the site. With a chaplain who is working at the site, I got down one block closer, but at the end of the block there are ten-foot high plywood walls that screen off the activity going on inside. It made sense to stand up on Broadway with everyone else because Broadway is the highest point. When we were leaving at night, after all the lights had been turned on to flood the site with white light, I could see a big back hoe dumping debris into a waiting dump truck.
Security was very tight because earlier on Monday, the excavators had found a buried fire truck, pushed four stories below ground by the impact of falling debris from the collapse of the towers. Almost all of the equipment on site is heavy equipment and so they had to send out for lighter equipment to uncover (gingerly) the crushed truck. Needless to say, all were hoping there would be some remains to identify.
We spent two hours inside Saint Paul’s Chapel, which is closed to the public and open only to rescue workers (as they are still being called). This church, which is the oldest functioning building in NYC, where George Washington worshipped, which used to operate mostly as a museum and concert hall, has discovered a new and vital ministry: it is the place where all the workers—firefighters, police officers, crane operators, construction workers, steel workers, on and on, can gather quietly to eat, rest, sleep, get a massage, or pick up any manner of items ranging from eye drops to cough drops to new shoes or t-shirts. Everything in that church has been donated.
Strung from pillar to pillar are garlands of peace cranes made out of colored origami paper. Every single possible inch of flat surface has been covered with notes from people of all ages from around the world. The notes are addressed to the rescue workers. Near the doorway was a note from a Dutch woman. On the back of the pew in front of me, the cards read words like, ‘Get well.’ ‘We hope you feel better.’ ‘We love you.’ ‘Our thoughts are with you.’ ‘Good luck.’ ‘Keep your spirits up.’ ‘Your help is one in a million.’ ‘Thank you, crane operators.’
Kirby, age 7, wrote, ‘Dear Rescue Worker: Don’t give up on hope because I’l [sic] be praying for you.’ Danny, another seven year-old, wrote, ‘Dear rescue worker: Thanks for trying your best and trying to save a lot of people.’ I can just imagine these children in elementary school, out in the middle of the United States, being asked to write letters to unknown firefighters or EMTs. What does hope mean for a seven year-old?
It was so moving to see all these notes, written with such love and care, with all their misspellings and grammatical inconsistencies, covering the walls, pews, book racks, lectern, pulpi and pillars of Saint Paul’s. Not only that, these notes are still being written. They did not just arrive the week of September 11th. On the floor close to the pew where I sat was a xerox box filled to overflowing with yet more cards and notes.
Likewise, there were two boxes of paper angels and butterflies that some school children had made, with a sign that read, ‘Free, please take one.’ Everything in the church is for the rescue workers—it would be unthinkable for anyone else to take what has been given to those working at the Pit.
Hanging from the balcony (upstairs is where toilet paper and paper towels are stored), was a long vertical banner with a painting of the Statue of Liberty, a dove of peace, and the words, ‘Oklahoma loves you.’ Nearby two huge flags, made of out paper, with cut-outs of hands in white and red paper to make the stripes, covered the balcony.
A big pile of blankets and fleece comforters sits at the end of each pew. On top of it, for each pew, is a stuffed animal of some sorts—a rabbit, a teddy bear. Rescue workers can come into Saint Paul’s, stretch out on a pew and take a nap. Over to one side of the church are mattresses with blankets and bright colored sheets for those who really need to sleep.
We were there at the change of shifts (5.00 PM). A stream of weary fire fighters, police officers, and construction workers quietly came in to get something to eat, and to hang out. While there is more laughter than in the early days, the workers clearly are exhausted. Jean [from SCI] talked with a fire fighter who had just been made a chief, sworn in just five days after the collapse of the towers. He said that he didn’t feel as though he should be a chief, that he was elevated to that position because they are desperate. He knows in his head that he did pass the qualifying exams—his heart hasn’t accepted it. Marriages are suffering terribly because of the disaster—the fire fighters and police put in a twelve-hour shift, hang out a while in Saint Paul’s and then go out to volunteer for another twelve hours. Jean described many looking haggard and gaunt, as though they had come out of prison camps.
As I had brought water from the River Jordan, in the hopes that I could sprinkle it in the graveyard or some place close to Ground Zero, a chaplain who took an interest in this wish, got me a hard hat and we set off in a futile attempt to get any closer than Saint Paul’s. Someone had written in magic marker on my hard hat, ‘We love you!’ The hats simply said, ‘Clergy.’
When it was clear we couldn’t get anywhere, having walked a quarter of the way around the perimeter, we went back to the chapel and I was introduced to someone who might be able to let me out the back door into the cemetery where I could sprinkle the water. He dearly wanted to help but cryptically said that the graveyard had become ‘a battlefield’ so neither of us could go out there. I don’t know if the battle is between the FBI, the City of New York, Trinity Parish (who owns the chapel and graveyard) or what. In any event, I had to leave the water with Jean with her promise that someday she would do what I couldn’t do.
It is unclear what Trinity Parish is going to do in the long-term about the ministry at Saint Paul’s. What is clear is that there still is a very deep need for pastoral presence and caring for those who have been working so hard at such a Herculean task. Not only does the church need to support pastoral presence at Saint Paul’s but it also needs to support this ministry at Fresh Kills where those sorting through the debris are finding body parts.
We left Saint Paul’s after two hours inside its holy, calming space, an amalgam of popular shrine and church (underneath all the notes and cards are a pulpit, Advent wreath, and the things one would normally find in a church), and stepped back out into the glare of the lights. The crowds were still there, looking at the memorials and photographs on the fence. And in the background to this strange tableau, we still smelled the residual smoke from a fire that still has not gone out and still saw the remains of what had once been such a busy place.
By the time we joined the rush hour crowd at the Fulton Street Subway, I could pretend that life in New York was back to normal. But my heart knows otherwise....
After the eighteen months of wandering through the desert (though having moments of hospitality), after eight discernment committee processes, I finally ended up fifteen miles from where I last served a congregation. I considered congregations in MA, CT and even Mexico. And when everything settled down, I landed at the congregation where Anne has been attending since 1994, eleven miles from our tiny house.
