Feast of Saint Simon and Saint Jude, Apostles (2019)
Last Sunday was our annual celebration or, rather recognition, of the role St. Michael's played in the spiritual life of African Americans on the Upper West Side of Manhattan for nearly a half-century with the construction and support of a church edifice dedicated to accomodating black worshippers. It is a celebration frought with baggage from an earlier era in the nations history when, in the days immediately following the Civil War, white people both in the North and South grappled with their feelings regarding newly freed slaves and their progeny. In places like the agriculural south where blacks were numerous enough to form voting majorities, a brief period of enfranchisement was met with violent backlash and a hundred years of un-Constutional white rule in the courts, the state houses, public accomodations and above all, education.
In the North, where slavery had less of a foothold in its rapidly industrializing economy, but was nevertheless legal through much of the early 1800s, whites had the luxury of treating blacks merely as social inferiors. An Epscopalian in good standing was not expected to attend the same church services as his manservant, thus the necessity for a "separate but equal" facility for butlers, maids, cooks and other "domestic servants". It should also be pointed out that St. Mchael's was one of the few churches in New York City wealthy enough to give serious thought to such concerns.
The structure was called, St. Judes Chapel in deference to the peculiarly Episcopalian tradition of designating a house of worship as either "church" or "chapel" according to its chief source of income (i.e., its own funds or through the auspices of another congregation) But, the practice also became a convenient way of distinguishing someone's social status so that the question "Are you Church or Chapel?" became a commonplace throughout nineteenth century England and certain metropolitan centers of America.
But, as The Rector pointed out during her homily, what makes the relationship between St. Mike's and St. Jude's especially awkward is the fact that during the heyday of urban renewal in the late 1950s, the property on which St. Judes was situated was condemned in order to make way for a block of luxury apartment buildings. The building was torn down without any opposition from its cross-town sponsor. The only thing left was its marble altar which lay abandoned in a St. Michael's arcade for many decades before a fund-raising drive, spearheaded by Fr. Brandt, in one of his last acts as Rector, restored it and gave it a place of dignity near the entrance to the church.
So, this feast day has become an annual touchstone for St. Michael's to reflect on the state of race relations in America and within its own congregation. It has also become a great excuse to have a jazz mass with live, suitably sacred music set to the tempo of the Black church and its modern progeny, jazz and the blues.
It was a rainy day so, attendance was down noticeably. But, there is another in a long line of possible Lost Children to succeed the many Wendys, Michaels and Johns of years past. I haven't figured out a name for him. No Jesus figure, but he is preternaturally good-looking in a kind of athletic, young DC/Marvel comic kind of way. He is not very tall; just striking enough to be visible from just about every angle of the sanctuary (he has the most delicious habit of easing his hand up the front of his sports shirt whenever he gets restless.) I'm pegging this as his last year of high school and like Pierre before him, his mother has cleaved to him all the more closely in preparation for his imminent departure from the nest. (Note to Self: Look to see him performig some sort of service at Saturday Kitchen.)
The music had everyone in a good mood. I tap danced with Katy Clock again during the improvization, but a young girl of about five or six stole the show as she twirled around in circles to the tune of "A Closer Walk With Thee".
Bing was positively glowing. His inner self was bursting through despite being covered in rain gear. I told him he reminded me of FDR who was once compared by Winston Churchill to an uncorked bottle of champagne. That's Bing after a jazz mass.
In the North, where slavery had less of a foothold in its rapidly industrializing economy, but was nevertheless legal through much of the early 1800s, whites had the luxury of treating blacks merely as social inferiors. An Epscopalian in good standing was not expected to attend the same church services as his manservant, thus the necessity for a "separate but equal" facility for butlers, maids, cooks and other "domestic servants". It should also be pointed out that St. Mchael's was one of the few churches in New York City wealthy enough to give serious thought to such concerns.
The structure was called, St. Judes Chapel in deference to the peculiarly Episcopalian tradition of designating a house of worship as either "church" or "chapel" according to its chief source of income (i.e., its own funds or through the auspices of another congregation) But, the practice also became a convenient way of distinguishing someone's social status so that the question "Are you Church or Chapel?" became a commonplace throughout nineteenth century England and certain metropolitan centers of America.
But, as The Rector pointed out during her homily, what makes the relationship between St. Mike's and St. Jude's especially awkward is the fact that during the heyday of urban renewal in the late 1950s, the property on which St. Judes was situated was condemned in order to make way for a block of luxury apartment buildings. The building was torn down without any opposition from its cross-town sponsor. The only thing left was its marble altar which lay abandoned in a St. Michael's arcade for many decades before a fund-raising drive, spearheaded by Fr. Brandt, in one of his last acts as Rector, restored it and gave it a place of dignity near the entrance to the church.
So, this feast day has become an annual touchstone for St. Michael's to reflect on the state of race relations in America and within its own congregation. It has also become a great excuse to have a jazz mass with live, suitably sacred music set to the tempo of the Black church and its modern progeny, jazz and the blues.
It was a rainy day so, attendance was down noticeably. But, there is another in a long line of possible Lost Children to succeed the many Wendys, Michaels and Johns of years past. I haven't figured out a name for him. No Jesus figure, but he is preternaturally good-looking in a kind of athletic, young DC/Marvel comic kind of way. He is not very tall; just striking enough to be visible from just about every angle of the sanctuary (he has the most delicious habit of easing his hand up the front of his sports shirt whenever he gets restless.) I'm pegging this as his last year of high school and like Pierre before him, his mother has cleaved to him all the more closely in preparation for his imminent departure from the nest. (Note to Self: Look to see him performig some sort of service at Saturday Kitchen.)
The music had everyone in a good mood. I tap danced with Katy Clock again during the improvization, but a young girl of about five or six stole the show as she twirled around in circles to the tune of "A Closer Walk With Thee".
Bing was positively glowing. His inner self was bursting through despite being covered in rain gear. I told him he reminded me of FDR who was once compared by Winston Churchill to an uncorked bottle of champagne. That's Bing after a jazz mass.