The Angels of Grand Central Station

March marches on. The grounds are snow-covered again, though the sun lingers longer in the day.  I return to practice- yoga for balance, the light and the dark shadows battling in prayer. Beneath this white earth lies fertile soil, rich and dark.  And perhaps the longer the winter, the more resilient the spring.

I was not looking for an epiphany on Monday, but only a table where I could sit alone and read.  Later the song- take my worlds apart...I am on my knees- played through my mind as I ran the twenty blocks from Grand Central to the five-star hotel. The silent chords echoed down each block as I ran quickly to make it in time for a work appointment-- a gala tasting of goat cheese appetizers, tender prime rib, and French wine. I would have taken the subway, but the machines were not taking credit cards, and I had given my last few dollars to a man with a dirty beard and a bedraggled coat.

Lean in, the angels of Grand Central are speaking... we are broke, and broken...worlds apart.

I have seen, talked with- and more often than not, passed by- thousands of broken people who walk the streets and stations. And yet here, suddenly and unexpectedly I am filled with this overwhelming pull toward one that compels me to lean in.

I overhear snippets of a story, and remember words I have just read:

What does it mean that Jesus was divine, if we treat the homeless man in the alley as less than human? (J. Lockwood)*

I feel the unsettling in my belly; I am not insulated here.

My tears are for the homeless, the helpless, the hopeless, the abused and violated. I care about the divine because I care about them. (M. and G. Tittle)*

How are you? I ask, and he tells me a rambling story I can barely understand; but this is not the point. He is a navy vet. He is broke...or broken.  He is going to church...or not. But this too is not the point.

If it had ended there, it may have passed- another encounter, another day.  But after he told his story, and went his way, I changed tables, only to find myself near the unexpected avatar-- the bag lady with her cart wrapped in many scarves, speaking softly to herself... America, America... telling the story of her anti-war arrest.  Telling the story, though no one is listening, beneath her breath.  But I am feverishly scribing her words:  They say we are off to fight the terrorists...but we, America, are terrorists here. America, look yourself in the mirror.

~

I am repeating this story (parts of it) here on this page. Most of it I can't quite easily tell ...my first few attempts to communicate to another person failed miserably.  Only in the safe space of my spiritual director's office did I repeat- that I did not know anything except what I felt- the presence of God- and I was being asked to stay. What happens next? Angels do not show up to entertain... they arrive on our doorsteps when we least expect them, and they issue a command.  The prophecy is not empty.

~

Ten years ago this week, America invaded Iraq.

And thirty-three years ago this week, I am reminded, Oscar Romero- a prophet who spoke against the murder of his people in San Salvador by American-funded machines was shot through the heart as he broke bread with the poor- Take this and eat.

And still the machine of war rambles on, wrecking lives beneath.  The prophets and peacemakers of our world speak louder-- and if they are shot down, may other voices rise to join.

I lean in closer to speak.

From the grounding presence in my spiritual director's office, our conversation shifts from messengers to messages of peace.  He offers his vision-- a center for peace in this shattered city, this world of highland, deep river, and monastery, this city of guns and wrecking machine. Vision joins to vision; our ideas are seeds.  There are so many others who will share the tending of this ground.

For beneath the wreckage of this harsh winter lies the promise of a fertile spring.


(*These quotes are excerpted from Bless All Who Serve, on the page I had bookmarked in my pocket.)