When it comes to new places and people I am timid. I hesitate in front of door steps and open my mouth a moment too late. Exploring University City this one week has not been easy, and I beat myself up many times. There have been good moments too. I have stopped mid-walk by the curb to see the breeze shake out and wildly scatter the cherry blossoms into the air. I have lazed on the park benches by Locust Walk, where the 19th century- Hogwarts- like edifices intersperse with the more recent block structures, thinking of magic among other things. On sunny days of blue sky, such as yesterday, when the resident bushy-tailed, black squirrel of the cherry tree outside my AirBNB window frolics and bounces up the branches, I think of timidity differently. For someone like me, every little thing brings the thrill of adventure- I just need to talk to one stranger, I just need to turn the doorknob and step over the threshold.
The AirBNB on Hamilton Street, I have rented out till the end of the month, is in a quiet tree lined neighbourhood, a fifteen-minute walk from the university centre. The street has single and two storeyed structures in gray and red with charming little gardens. The house next to mine, painted blue and white, stands out as a little surprise. Yesterday, on my way back, I locked eyes with a jet black cat who owned one of the few houses in disrepair, who eyed me with pure disdain. Tucked to the corner of 36th on Baring Street is the Church of St. Andrew and St. Monica, Gothic in style, yet quaint with its gray edifice and bright red door.
On Good Friday, I decided to drop in and see what the church service looked like. My plan was to slip quietly into one of the pews in the back, observe for a while. I turned the knob of the bright red door, anxious about the creaky noise it would make and anticipating the congregation turning around to stare.. and found myself on another corridor (a slight sense of anticlimax there!). The corridor wound up to another wooden door. There was a table outside with bouquets of flowers. I opened the door and stepped in becoming aware at once of a few things. One, it was a beautiful sanctuary, with vaulted wooden ceilings, white walls, and lovely stained glass windows all around. Two, it was not a catholic church as I had assumed but what seems to be a small and closely knit congregation of a little less than twenty-five people. A tall man in a light blue shirt and deep voice, and kind eyes came forward, welcomed me and gave me the printed matter of the service. I saw that it was a customized service, tailored around the seven last sentences that Christ spoke on the cross, with speeches, readings and hymns around each. Some of the speakers were joining through zoom, only their voices echoing in the church. The man in the blue shirt came a couple of times to point me to the right part of the program and to offer me the book of hymns. Once he came and asked, “ What would I prefer to have, Ham or Turkey?” “Oh good. Sandwiches for after!”, thought I and opted for turkey.
Later I found out that I had come into an Episcopal Church. Back home in Kerala, I have often felt irritated when people mindlessly vocalize monolithic notions of Christianity. There were many who thought ‘Catholicism on-screen’ was what all Christianity was about, failing to acknowledge the diversity of regional faith practices. And here I was, assuming I had walked into a Catholic church, only because I saw the names of two saints on the board outside. So much for my self-righteous rage! Since then I have been doing quite a bit of haphazard reading on the American Revolution, the organization of the church, its struggles and negotiations with the African American community and more recently with gender diversity. One of the speakers, this day, a confident young woman, spoke of the efforts of her cousin to trace her Carribean ancestry through ancestry.com. She spoke on Jesus’s words to Mary “Woman, behold your son” indicating his disciple John to passionately argue why it was not genealogy but love that mattered. Incidentally, Reverend William White, First Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church of the United States, was from Philadelphia and was an alumnus of College of Philadelphia (Later, University of Pennsylvania). He would have wandered the same campus, with much more spiritual thoughts than I had, and unburdened by the complexities of using a key card to access the buildings.
After a while, when I started to leave, the man in the blue shirt came again and requested me to wait for a few minutes for him to get the food ready. I was enjoying the hymns, not so much the speeches and after one more song, I rose to leave and he gave me a few pamphlets, spoke a few more kind words and handed me a large plastic bag. I walked to my apartment, pondering the weight of my sandwich. “What is in there? Maybe bread and fruits too?” I opened the package on my kitchen counter and there sitting in front of me was a whole turkey! There were ten frantic minutes when I searched for ways to cook a whole turkey in an AirBNB, and another ten minutes of wisdom, when I realized I would never be able to eat it even if the turkey magically did cook itself. Then I remembered that the kind man had also told me about the Food Cupboard where they gave out free food on Saturdays. I seemed to have stolen a whole turkey that was meant for charity! Not a very Christian thing to do on a Good Friday. So, I lugged back my turkey to the church, explained to the man in the blue shirt why I cannot accept it and was hugely relieved when he appreciated my action. There is so much that a word of kindness and warmth can do for you in a strange city. A whole turkey on your kitchen counter can add a little something more to that. I was stupidly happy that whole day.
So for Easter, I plan to go to a Catholic Church, the St. Agatha and St. James Church. I should go for the ham this time, shall I?
