Transforming Ground Zero
Church of the Advent, South Carolina State Guard
Join the Miracle of St. Paul's Chapel
By Amelia T. Reiheld
There's something about watching airliners deliberately smash into skyscrapers that moves people to action. We Americans are doers, and nearly all of us reacted to the unspeakable horror of September 11th in some concrete fashion. Thousands of people dug deep in their pockets and contributed to charitable organizations. Thousands more gave blood. Many showed up at relief operations to volunteer their time, and especially in the early days, celebrities lined up for photo ops at Ground Zero. Almost every citizen found an American flag to fly, and all were glued to their television sets. The volunteer effort that sprang up on the edge of the World Trade Center rubble, though, was, and still is, utterly astounding.
Members at the Church of the Advent, Spartanburg, anxiously
awaited news of their former associate rector, the Rev. Lyndon Harris. Now on the staff at Trinity Church, Wall Street, Harris had recently been named chaplain of St. Paul's Chapel, charged with the task of rejuvenating the ministry of that church, to find a way to reach the growing population of Gen-Xers" that had moved into lower Manhattan. He was exploring alternative liturgies and forming a jazz ensemble, when all that became horribly irrelevant.
Harris's ministry, his Spartanburg friends learned, had changed that September Tuesday morning in ways previously unimaginable. His days stretched nearly around the clock, as, equipped with filter mask, work boots, and stole, he administered last rites to unrecognizable victims. Barely a hundred yards from the devastation. St. Paul's Chapel, miraculously undamaged, was transformed from quiet and elegant museum church to an emergency relief center, and then to a supportive refuge for hundreds of Ground Zero workers. Its doors were now open 24 hours a day.
Feed the hungry, clothe the naked, take care of the needy. Christ admonished his followers, two millennia ago. People of all faiths in New York City took that charge to heart. St. Paul's staffers recall those chaotic early days with awe.
The Rev. Dr. Fred Burnham, who calls himself St. Paul's "Monday Night Guy," directs the Trinity Institute, an Episcopal think tank. He described the organizational complexity of what was going on at the little church in terms of chaos theory. St; Paul s was behaving almost like a living organism responding to pressures in unexpected ways, taking risks, and growing in the process. As new needs would arise, solutions would serendipitously appear. As the situation changed, the organization would adapt, meeting the needs of the moment in a near-miraculous way. "This is one of the most phenomenal manifestations of what the Church can be I've ever seen."
Four days after the disaster, St. Paul's began to serve meals. First there were homemade sandwiches. Then small barbecue grills appeared, and volunteers were handing out hotdogs, hamburgers, and soft drinks to exhausted recovery workers. Demand soon outran supply, at which point someone contributed very large grills. The health department showed up with thermometers and objections, and the meal service changed again, as a professional restaurateur appeared to manage the operation. He had contacts all over town, and soon food was being served from inside the church, provided not only by the Seaman's Church Institute, but also by such noted restaurants as the Tribeca Grill and the Waldorf-Astoria.
Volunteer counselors, one from the staff of
Trinity Church Wall Street, the other a
priest from Connecticut, pause on
their rounds at St. Paul's.
Americans are a generous lot. There were torn shirts and melted boots, blisters and back pain, and the word went out. Pharmaceutical corn-panics contributed pain relievers, cold remedies, Cbapsticks, earplugs, and bandages. Clothing manufacturers sent t-shirts, new socks, rain gear, work gloves and warm sweaters. Food producers provided cartons of candy, chewing gum, snacks, hot cocoa and coffee. Somehow there were sheets, pillowcases, blankets, and even stuffed animals for the cots for exhausted workers. Letters, cards, posters, and banners began to pour in, addressed to the Ground Zero heroes, from Young admirers from around the United States and the world.
All this much-needed largesse added to the chores facing Trinity staffers and volunteers Food, medicine, clothing and letters, all had to be sorted and shared. New York City volunteers found themselves working 12-hour Shifts side by aide with those from neighboring towns and states, as they organized the provenance, and set up systems to distribute it. Podiatrists chiropractors, and massage therapists took turns administering hands-on healing. World-class musicians scheduled daily recitals of soothing and restorative music. Counselors, both clerical and secular, were available all day and all night to help the grieving and the discouraged. All the volunteers gave freely of their time and talent, and continue to do so. All received priceless compensation, not only in the boundless gratitude from the workers but in being part of a concerted national effort to restore what was Ours. As one church worker bluntly put it, "This is my way of kicking spiritual butt!"
Nearly three months later, the celebrities had long since gone back to Hollywooct, and news coverage had shifted to the other side of the world. it was easy to imagine that things at Ground Zero had pretty much returned to normal whatever that was. The work, though--hard dirty, emotionally draining work-went on, and so did the need for volunteers to help sustain the workers. Just as the tragedy that happened in New York happened to every American, so did the desire to be a part of the recovery effort infect us all.
The people of the Advent heard Lyndon Harris's story, and they wanted to contribute to his work at St. Paul's. Battered hardhats made the offertory rounds one Sunday in lieu of alias basins, and the receipts went to St. Paul's Chapel. So did the news that the parish would be sending two successive busloads of volunteers to help out for a 'round-the-clock week each.
One parishioner who was moved to offer his services was Brigadier General Ed Hall, Commander of the Second (Highland) Brigade of the South Carolina State Guard. The State Guard is an unpaid auxiliary of the Army National Guard, and its mission is to provide disaster relief within South Carolina. The New York operation was exactly what these patriots, all military veterans, were trained to do. More than 100 Guard members volunteered to take a week of vacation time to work at St. Paul's, and 26 were selected for the first 'trip. Only two problems:
First, donations from the guardsmen themselves meet most of the unit's expenses. They'd need a sponsor to cover transportation expenses. And second, the State Guard hadn't been deployed outside South Carolina since the Battle of Gettysburg. They would require the governor's permission to undertake their first out-of-state mission in well over a century.
Thus began a most remarkable collaboration between Church and State. The Church of the Advent took care of the transportation. The guardsmen obtained the governor's blessing, as well that of our bishop. the Rt. Rev. Dorsey F. Henderson, Jr., and Advent rector, the Rev. Dr. Clay Turner. A New York-bound bus pulled out of the church parking lot the Sunday afternoon before Thanksgiving, with 28 camo-clad guardsmen aboard-and one Crosswalk "war correspondent." We arrived at Ground Zero just before daybreak the following morning, and we got our first look at the reason for the trip.
Glimpses down side streets revealed the vast crater where the twin towers had stood. Banks of high intensity lights were aimed at the twisted wreckage of mostly-demolished adjacent skyscrapers and steel beams, melted like half-cooked noodles still loomed many stories high. The early morning mist held the odor of wet ash, and smoke from a still-steaming pit rose. wraithlike. over the city. Dawn's rosy serenity was broken repeatedly by crashes of wrecking balls and falling debris, and by rumbles of bulldozers and dump trucks.
Our bus stopped in front of St. Paul's Chapel. and even at six o'clock in the morning, passers-by were gathered outside the wrought iron fence. Some left handwritten notes and poems or bouquets of fresh flowers, some signed the canvasses fastened to the fence, and others simply stood and stared, still, weeks later, unable to comprehend the enormity of what had happened. One odd fellow, dressed full firefighter regalia, posed for photos, and cheerfully sought donations for his favorite (bogus) charity. A policeman urged Fireman Phil to move along, and we were ushered through the gate. past the colonnaded front porch, and into the 235-year-old church, the oldest public building in continuous use in all of Manhattan.
There was a moment to look around the magnificently austere church, and take in the contrasts:
Waterford crystal chandeliers, hand-carved white-painted woodwork- and every pastel wall festooned with letters and colorful banners from school children; formal candles and flowers on the altar-and teddy bears in the pews; old organ pipes now silent-and cots occupied by loudly snoring exhausted workers; tables surrounding the nave, piled high with clothing, ointments and insoles, and steam trays full of sausages and pancakes-and tables of a different sort occupied by grateful workers having sore muscles tended to by physical therapists; polished brass-and paper plates. And somehow. it all seemed right.
Before we had a chance to absorb what amounted to a subdued three-ring circus, it was time for the briefing from a former Church of the Advent parishioner, now a Trinity staffer.
"These are the ground rules," said Katherine Avery, after her welcoming remarks. We were to stay out of Ground Zero, even if invited in, we were to wear hats and plastic gloves when serving food, and, please. not to encourage Fireman Phil. whose scam had become quite a nuisance.
The day crew then reported for duty. as the other half of our contingent settled into our midtown sleeping quarters. (As befit pilgrims from Spartanburg. the accommodations turned out to be, to put this in the best possible fight, memorably Spartan. But that's a whole 'nother story.)
Night followed day, and day followed night. We learned how long a 12-hour shift can be, and how short the hours left for sleeping. Yet each of us, though worn out, and ready to call it a day, hated to turn our hacks who hadn't had a day off, or even a normal eight-hour shift, in nearly three months. We met demolitions experts who had left managerial positions on the other side of the continent to come operate cranes, hard-hatted counselors working through the night to comfort distressed workers, and clergy volunteering to be on hand at the city morgue when victims' remains were brought in. There was time to peer out the back door of the church across the cemetery, at the skeletal buildings being torn away bit by bit, time to savor the silvery sound of a solo flute, or simply to reflect on how such appalling savagery could reveal so much of human decency.
These guardsmen. my compatriots, were tough guys. Each was an ex-soldier, marine, or sailor, and many had seen combat. They'd seen it all, done most of it, One's a cop in real life, and three are clergymen. Several others are volunteer firefighters and medical professionals. Shockproof. Despite their years of experience, they found the week at Ground Zero among the most moving of their entire lives. On the way home, they told their stories, and there wasn't a dry eye on the bus.
"I don't think Thanksgiving will ever be the same," said one of the Guard chaplains. A Presbyterian minister for 30 years. he admired the openness of this Episcopal Church, admitting his surprise at the scope of its ministry. "I never saw a masseuse giving backrubs in church," he said to hit comrades with a chuckle. "l hope you saw and were pleased at how church buildings can be used for so much more than an hour or two a week, to worship the Almighty."
PHOTO: St Paul's Chapel--festooned with colorful
letters and banners. This photo was
taken by Advent parishoner Marla McCall, who accompanied
Advent's second group.
The South Carolinians found that New Yorkers, not often praised for their hospitality, went out of their way to speak to the men, and to thank them profusely for giving up their holidays to be there. To the men's amazement, buses and subways were free, and so, in several instances, were taxi rides. The soldiers were magically spirited to the front of a long line into the Empire State Building. and right past the ticket window. People in line grinned and waved.
"I'll never think about New York the same way again," drawled a former trucker, whose previous trips to that city hadn't been marked by courtesy from other motorists. But now, he says, there's been a remarkable transformation. "I'd say, 'Hey, how're y'all," and they'd say to me, 'God bless you.' It's a shame it took such a tragedy to break down those barriers, but the people of New York were changed for the better, and the whole nation changed for the better."
"What impressed me most was the strength and resolve I saw," noted one guardsman. "The terrorists obviously tailed. There was no terror, or even anger, just this determination to rebuild, and to make sure that this would never happen ever again."
Each man seemed to find a personal job that dovetailed with the one he was assigned. The soldiers spent hours etanding guard at the front gate, which gave them time to interact with the public. A retired Marine realized that so many passers-by had tears running down their faces, that he began handing out tissues.
A big white-haired lieutenant earned the sobriquet "Huggy Bear" from his fellow guardsmen. There was something about him, something approachable and comforting, and he gave out hugs by the hundreds. His battle-dress fatigues were soaked with tears, he recalled. "I've been a volunteer fireman, and I've worked hurricanes, but when we got to the church, I was impressed. I've never seen so much healing by men and women. I've never seen such teamwork and brotherhood, and I'm proud to have been a part of this."
The guardsmen. spending Thanksgiving far away from their own families, were especially entranced by children. "There was a little girt, maybe four years old. She was walking by with her mother," recalled a young soldier. "And then she broke away from her mom, and ran over to stand by me. Without a word, she turned her back, and facing the memorials to the victims, she began to sing. She sang the entire song, all by herself, 'God Bless America."'
Another child, whose mother had just explained that the uniformed soldiers' job was to protect the country and keep her safe, nodded sornberly, and then walked up to the nearest guardsman, extended a chubby hand, and said, "Thank you very much for taking care of us." That man, dabbing at his eyes, swallowed hard, and summarized his feelings thus: "This wasn't a trip, this was a journey, the journey of a lifetime!"
What's next? Lyndon Harris says Trinity Church will be reevaluating its mission, and deciding how long to continue to tailor itt ministry to the needs of the Ground Zero workers. At some point, he predicts, the mission of St. Paul's will move front refuge to shrine, and specifically toward discerning and meeting the needs of the general public. This is already beginning to happen. Although St. Paul's has been open only to Ground Zero workers since September 11, on Thanksgiving Day, more than 600 passers-by were ushered into the church in small groups by Trinity volunteers to hear brief presentationson the history and ministry of St. Paul's Chapel.
"As we learned at Thanksgiving." Harris said. "this is becoming a place of pilgrimage, a place where people are transformed. We had throngs of people outside the fence, weeping, but we have had no opportunity to minister to them. We have an obligation to heal this city, one person at a time."
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