Night Shift at St. Paul's

As the Parish of Trinity Church begins to consider the future of St. Paul’s Chapel - when a relief ministry to rescue workers will no longer be needed - the volunteer rosters at St. Paul’s are still booked up many weeks in advance.

Why, five months after the attack on the World Trade Center, do volunteers still find service at the chapel so meaningful? J. Chester Johnson, a member of the congregation and Vestry of Trinity Parish, shares his experience.--Eds.

People deal with September 11th in a variety of ways - some even have a special concoction for denying the gravity and dimensions of the horrific event in order to cope more easily. For example, at a business meeting in the Midwest I recently attended, someone postulated that the terrorist attacks weren’t really attacks on the United States at all, but rather, they were attacks only against the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. I also heard it said in another context that there aren’t shrines or memorials for automobile accidents where someone dies or for plane crashes - so there shouldn’t be one for the September 11th victims, thereby eliminating the need for any controversy about the future of the World Trade Center site. A simple decision could then be made to use the site for economic development. Against these extreme, but not unique opinions, I volunteer at St. Paul’s Chapel of Trinity Parish in downtown Manhattan to make sure, through the prayerful demonstration of sanity and pursuit of reconciliation and by the sharing of grief and the sustaining of rescue workers, that I’m not inured to the magnitude of human suffering and incomprehension of September 11th.

The “experience” of St. Paul’s begins right outside its gates. People from everywhere arrive these days outside the Chapel on Broadway between Fulton and Vesey Streets. Frequently, there are three and four people deep on that stretch of sidewalk. They note closely and contemplate the ad hoc memorials along the fence - pictures of many who died in the World Trade Center just behind St. Paul’s; poems reflecting the thoughts and search of those who come to grieve; the signs from places far and wide hanging on the fences and illustrating group efforts to exhibit concern, awareness and determination.

Those of us who are lucky enough to be allowed inside as volunteers realize that the outside “experience” is magnified inside the Chapel. This magnification is crafted by the supervisory staff at St. Paul’s in the nurturing of every human contact within the Chapel. Upon entering St. Paul’s, one is simply overwhelmed by the sight. I regret that everyone, who has been soul-mournful by September 11th, can not walk through St. Paul’s as it currently exists. Banners hang from the balcony in honor of the dead and in tribute to the rescue workers - the largest banner fittingly from Oklahoma. There are stuffed animals nestled in the corners of the church pews - a gesture started by a young girl who collected the toys and who sent her entire collection to St. Paul’s for the rescue workers. On occasion, one can see a burly ironworker, taking a short respite from his labor at ground zero, clutch one of the animals as he sleeps. There are podiatrists and chiropractors assisting the workers. There are priests, some of whom may at any moment be called to say prayers and rites at the temporary morgue. Rescue workers may be found praying or meditating or talking quietly with a volunteer or staff member. There are tables of medicine and clothing and many votive candles. George Washington’s pew where he worshipped as the country’s first president does not go unused. There is virtually not a single spot inside the entire building that doesn’t bear a card, paper flag or other gesture of sympathy and support. The Chapel is simply ablaze with blessings of good will, prayers and affection.

On each Saturday night I have volunteered, Tom Morgenstern, employed in the finance area for Trinity Parish, has been there. I have come to discover that he is at St. Paul’s nearly every weekend as what I would call a “super volunteer”. Tom is one of those who oil St. Paul’s to keep it going - if sugar for coffee or steno for warming food is needed, he’s out the door to acquire it. While my participation at the Chapel has been meager by comparison, he has led me through the paces so I gain the most from St. Paul’s, and I am most grateful.

So why do I choose to volunteer at night? The night speaks a different language. It may be the flicker of candles or the dimmer luminance - the night, even when, in the early hours, sleeplessness weighs heavily, heightens the reflections and more thoroughly confirms the reasons we are there. Even the trucks and equipment tearing away at ground zero are heard more fully at night - without the busyness and clutter of daylight muffling the critical sounds. Hey, days may appeal to others, but the night is mine. My shift lasts from 8:00 p.m., Saturday evening, to 8:00 a.m., Sunday morning, although there is an early morning service on Sundays at St. Paul’s beginning at 8:00 a.m., which I also attend - to put a period, if not an exclamation point, on the night.

Of course, everything at the Chapel is done to uphold those who work a stone’s throw away - in the pit of ground zero just behind St. Paul’s churchyard. Volunteers are instructed that the focus should be continually on the rescue workers. That attention begins at the gate’s entrance with a sign, which indicates that for the time being, St. Paul’s Chapel can not be open to the public but is ministering to the courageous rescue workers. This mission is carried forward through all of the operations within the Chapel - the volunteers are encouraged to be generous with the medicines and everything that is available to the workers. One night, the winds and rains were quite severe, and we went through most boxes of ponchos to enable the rescue workers to protect themselves against the inclement weather. We’re also instructed to let the rescue workers initiate any personal, revelatory conversations - a volunteer shouldn’t presume that a worker wishes to discuss the intimacy of the job. However, it doesn’t take us long to learn that rescue workers will not be denied whenever there is a desire to share moments or scenes that have especially impacted them.

For this Saturday night, my children - Juliet (30) and Guilbert (25) - join me as volunteers. Both have clamored for weeks to stay overnight at the Chapel. Even a chronic and aggressive bout with bronchitis could not deter my daughter on a night of snow, strong winds and below freezing temperatures. Because of the snowstorm, volunteers from upstate New York were unable to get to lower Manhattan that night, and we were short the necessary number of volunteers. As it turned out, not only did the three of us staff the medicine and clothing tables, but we also rotated every thirty minutes for guard duty at the entrance gate. One responsibility of the guard position is to fend off those who would interrupt the primary mission - that is, ministering to the rescue workers. One would like to accommodate the many, worthwhile requests that are made at the gate. For example, during that evening, a camera crew from a Russian news organization arrived and asked to be admitted to take pictures of St. Paul’s. However, we had to refuse, since the lights from the cameras and the general noise and havoc from filming would have disturbed the quietude and rest that attract the rescue workers to the Chapel.

At 2:00 a.m., I asked Tom and another volunteer to cover for my children and me briefly, and the three of us alone, after securing clearance from the attending National Guard and the police, ascended the public platform that has been built immediately alongside the Chapel and that looks directly down into ground zero. It was a moment we’ll not soon forget - the snow gently falling, tall buildings surrounding us boarded and useless, the only sound being the roar of giant machines in the pit under us excavating the remains of September 11th, silent prayers we separately conveyed for the dead - those removed and the dead still remaining, a slight embrace as we together looked down into the burial plot that laid beneath us. As we descended the platform, none of us uttered a word - not until we returned to our duties. The following morning, as we were leaving St. Paul’s, my son captured the spell: “We’re here for one night. Why can’t we do more?” I then reminded Guilbert how grateful the rescue workers were for the volunteers - as they so frequently express: “If you weren’t here to help, where would we go? There’s nothing like St. Paul’s.”

On the day of the terrorist attacks, my wife and I had been trapped inside our offices, about 250 yards from the World Trade Center, for several hours - my children calling every few minutes to inform us of the events of the moment since we couldn’t leave and our phone lines, damaged in the tumult, did not allow us to call out. Soon, we moved our offices midtown, as a result of September 11th and its aftermath. For someone who has worked most of his life in lower Manhattan, the Chapel, speaking personally, now has several draws.

We walk away Sunday morning from St. Paul’s, knowing that we will carry memories of the previous hours through the future - and those memories will assist us to come to terms with the grief, the anger, the sadness, and even the mysterious, divine love. But I will also carry a more physical reminder as well - a picture. A picture taken by the Rev. Lyndon Harris, the resident priest at St. Paul’s, from the churchyard of the Chapel - light streaming from the west and a perfectly symmetrical cross rising from steelwork against a background of unremitting physical destruction that surrounds the undeniable cross, alone so fully dominating the landscape. For years hence whenever I am distant by mind, heart or location, I will uncover this picture to remind myself of the shrine of St. Paul’s, standing in the shadow of the cross, shaped so perfectly by severed, but abiding beams and girders - the shrine of St. Paul’s that helped to nurture a people to health and reconciliation.

On a sunny afternoon a few days following a night at the Chapel, I took some friends and associates from Buffalo to St. Paul’s. They were genuinely moved. Indeed, the President of the Buffalo Board of Education turned and announced as we left St. Paul’s: “The only experience I’ve ever had remotely similar to this one was at the Wailing Wall”. The Chapel, day or night, elicits a recognition that St. Paul’s reflects both history (one of the worst days for this country) and reconciliation - a place where the presence, patience and affections of God are palpable, where defeat is unknown, and where a living shrine assures us of the rebirth of ourselves and the rebirth of a nation.

Mr. Johnson was one of two poets (the other being W. H. Auden), who served on the drafting committee for the retranslation of the Psalter by The Episcopal Church, the new version of which is now contained in The Book of Common Prayer. In addition to his work as a poet, Mr. Johnson, for the past quarter century, has been a financial advisor for debt management matters, primarily to significant domestic governments and non-profit organizations.

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