Jesus Christ and Saks Fifth Avenue

Yesterday I found myself walking past St. Patrick’s Cathedral, one of the most visited Roman Catholic churches in the country. Through the bustling crowds of Catholic tourists, I saw a homeless man sitting on the sidewalk with a cardboard sign that described him as a Catholic man asking for assistance in a difficult time in his life. Objectively, he was being paid more attention than the other homeless people on the street, none of which had a sign that referenced religion at all. I took note not of the cathedral itself, or of the homeless man sitting outside of the front steps, but of the statues that were situated in the front wall of the building, depicting Jesus and Mary gesturing down over the sidewalk.The religious object that I was captivated by in this scene is not the man’s sign, or the man himself, but rather how the shadow of the cathedral creates a suddenly pious place on the sidewalk for the average passerby to stumble upon that might have otherwise been ignored.

These statues and their impact on the space that they occupied were something that I considered for a surprising amount of time after actually seeing them. I could not help but be reminded of the William James reading in which he considered the different criteria for judgement. Specifically, he discussed the hypocrisy in Catholicism, in that people refrain from killing because it is a sin, instead of not killing simply because it is a morally wrong thing to do. With this in mind, I considered if the Catholic tourists who were passing the homeless man on the street were more likely to help him because they were under the watchful eyes of Jesus Christ and Mary. Were people more likely to help someone in need because they were in a place of worship? It is impossible to accurately understand the motivations behind someone’s actions, specifically the actions of a stranger, but I found myself repeatedly wondering if these Catholic people going to pay their respects in St. Patrick’s Cathedral were more likely to help this Catholic homeless man because of the obligation to be compassionate towards others that comes along with religion.

In addition, I was incredibly intrigued by the juxtaposition of piety and consumerism by the location of these statues. As I looked up from the street of Fifth Avenue, I saw Jesus Christ and Mary welcoming me into this enormous house of worship. However, on my right stood one of the largest Victoria’s Secret stores in the country, and on my left stood the huge Saks Fifth Avenue store, both completely full of people needlessly spending money. In a way, I found humor in the idea of this important religious center existing in the middle of this capitalist mayhem of Fifth Avenue.

The objects that I chose to evaluate, the statues of Jesus Christ and Mary that are fixed into the facade of the cathedral, are very interesting parts of New York religious culture. I have enjoyed the time I spent pondering the impact of these religious statues and how they transform a typically secular space, the New York City sidewalk.

Seeking Peace in Chuang Yen Monastery

Last weekend, I went to Chuang Yen Monastery with an Asian American friend. Chuang Yen Monastery is a Buddhist temple situated in Kent, New York. It’s about two hours driving from New York City, but it seems to be a totally different world. My Asian friend and I don’t have religion but we often go to Chuang Yen Monastery to seek a little peace.

New York City is a fast-paced city. Every day we are busy carrying the early subway, running to class, and staying up late to finish all the work. Sometimes, I feel life doesn’t give me a chance to breathe. Also, with the development of technology, people in this city are more distant from each other. Most of the time we talk to people through the phone. The other day when I was replying a friend’s text, a woman shouted at me “God bless you but you spend too much time on your phone”. I was shocked not because this strange woman shouted at me in the street but because I reflected on myself and realized that I did spent more time on my phone and laptop than with my parents and friends. There was an imbalance between the material world and my spiritual world, so I decided to visit Chuang Yen Monastery again.

The first time I went to Chuang Yen Monastery was the beginning of this year. I was so impressed by its tranquility and beautiful sceneries. It seemed to be a world outside of the secular world. I wouldn’t hear the noise of construction and smell the gas of cars. All I can hear is sometimes the birds’ singing and the Sanskrit. My heart automatically calmed down when I came here. Maybe as Kerouac points out in The Dharma Bums, merging into nature is the best way of living in the moment and enjoying the life.

It was the time of New Year prayer when I first visited there. Under the sculpture of Goddess of Mercy, there are words saying “interfaith prayer”. It shows the tolerance and compassion of Buddhism. No matter what religion you have or whether you have religion or not, you can always pray to the Buddha and Buddha will accept you. Buddhism seems to be incompatible with the mainstream values in America but its core value of inner peace attracts those who are struggling in this material world. This is why those American poets in The Dharma Bums turn to Buddhism to seek a balance between material world and spiritual world.

Last week was my third-time visiting Chuang Yen Monastery. I liked walking in the woods and doing meditation in those pavilions. I thought of a poet wrote by Han Shan: Jagged scarps forever snowed in/ Woods in the dark ravines spitting mist/ Grass is still sprouting at the end of June/ Leaves begin to fall in early August. Suddenly, I felt the scenery in front of me was real and the secular world out there was just an illusion. Money and all the materials are emptiness. Buddhism believes that everybody is born with Buddha Nature. Through meditation, we see ourselves more clearly.

Portrait of Jesus Beneath a Burned Building

On November 17th, a raging fire burned through an apartment building on 144th and Broadway obliterating its top two floors. Many homes were lost, and a crane still stands perched outside the building today.
I am familiar with the neighborhood of Hamilton Heights as many of my friends live there, and a couple of evenings ago, as I was approaching the 1 Train station on 145th to come back to midtown, I decided to stop by the affected building.

On the corner of a stoop, I found this little portrait of Jesus Christ covered in dying yellow flowers shoved off to the side of the front steps. The portrait is inside a brown frame, and the colors in the picture are vivid. The image is recognizable; instantly, one can recognize the Son of God's soft eyes and long hair above a glowing heart.
I am sure there had been other memorabilia placed out there before, like flower bouquets or candles, but it seemed this was the longest-lasting offering. I found it intriguing that it was off to the side of the stairs - I am sure firemen and residents needed to get through their front door every day and night, but the idea that it would be saved here, almost as a constant reminder of Jesus's watchful eye was striking. The flower petals looked a little old, but the intention of bringing life with this spiritual consolation remained.
I find this piece to be very informative of the power of religious artifacts in use in times of healing. Growing up in Latin American communities, I have always seen portraits of Jesus or candles be displayed around homes as symbols of blessedness and grace under the eye of the Lord, and seeing this artifact under a building that had suffered so much pain recently struck me as a strong image, specifically in Catholicism, as Jesus serving as a protector and a guiding light in times of tribulation. I have seen framed portraits like this one at the local dollar store, but it does not at all, to me, diminish the value of the image, considering He is such a consoling, life-giving entity for many who follow religion.
I think that this speaks volumes for how religion can be a healer and a guide. Being able to be reminded of the higher powers that are looking out for you and the plan that God has everytime the members of the building come home is special and sacred. This also speaks to how others see religion as a gift that can be shared. Regardless of the religious views of the residents of the building, someone (presumably a neighbor) offered this portrait as a reminder that the afflicted are not alone, and that they are being cared for. The universality of religion as a sometimes polarizing but sometimes neutral symbol for peace is a fascinating duality that exists within the structures of it. This portrait so easily stands without causing offense (again, presumably), and its intentions are very clear. It is working to rebuild the burning building it stand beneath, even if just by re-instilling hope to those who pass it.

The Electric Menorah

As we approach the holidays, the city is filled with all kinds of festive decorations and lights. One common decoration seen around the upper west side in particular is the electronic menorah. To understand the implications of an electric menorah, it is important to understand the story of why we light one in the first place. Long ago, the Maccabees and the Greeks were having a war. The Hebrews were vastly outnumbered, but, as they tended to do, they believed that God was on their side; so they went to war. Miraculously, they were victorious, but when they returned to the temple, they were dismayed at the state in which they found its interior. All of the jars where they kept their olive oil had been smashed, which makes it hard to light candles. They found only one oil jar, enough for one night, intact, and thus had to find a way to get more oil. Back then, it took eight days to travel to the marketplace where oil was available. The miracle of Chanukah is that the oil that was supposed to last only one day lasted the full eight days that it took to come back with more oil. The modern day candle burning tradition expends candles in order to symbolize the consumption of the fuel that our ancestors had experienced. With an electric menorah, however, this symbolism is lost. Almost every menorah that we see as we walk down the streets of the upper west side is electric mainly because of fire hazards. Without the symbolism of the disappearing resources, how can we truly appreciate an electric menorah? If we needed light for a ninth, tenth, or eleventh day, we would simply leave the switch in the on position, but our ancestors did not have this option. The miracle is seemingly lost to us. 

Electric menorahs do achieve something much different though. One of the major symbolic tools of lighting candles during Chanukah is increasing the number of candles lit each night. The reason we do this is to show that, during this time, we are seeking to augment the amount of spiritual light in the world. As we walk down the streets with the light of the menorahs on us, their light is added to our world. What electric menorahs may do even better than traditional ones is allowing the light to be shown for hours on end, whereas candles may die out in the middle of the night. Even being able to turn on an electric menorah weeks before Chanukah symbolizes the extent to which we can enlarge our spiritual light and spread joy not only during holidays, but every day of our lives. The mere existence of an electric menorah shows how far we have come: from fighting for 8 days of light to having a monumental quantity of light to spare. 

An electric menorah also shows the American emphasis on convenience and in particular the New York-ian emphasis on time. Rather than taking care of candles, making sure they don’t burn down your apartment, cleaning the menorah, and cleaning up the wax, it is much easier to flick a switch. The menorah consequently becomes a symbolic tool rather than a ceremonial tool as it used to be when prayers would be said over it after every candle lighting. Praying over a light switch does not exactly carry the same weight as praying over a burning flame. Prayers are said not only for their religious value, but for their value in bringing the community and the family together. Has an American laziness overcome our sense of religious togetherness with our families?

Walking With God: The Procession of El Señor de Los Milagros

Walking with God: The Procession of El Señor de Los Milagros

Una coincidencia

Sunday, October 22^nd. One of the most beautiful days of my life.

It starts with my boyfriend Sam and I walking out of Fordham to get some breakfast. On our way to Olympic Flame, we notice some people selling street food on 10^th and 60^th. It’s South American food: picarones and anticuchos. I ask what they are and order in Spanish. I decide to try some picarones. It turns out they’re kind of like donuts, covered in a delicious, syrupy fig sauce.

            We keep walking down 60^th, and we notice something big going on up ahead. There is a huge tent in the middle of the street, and the street is blocked off from traffic. The street is also full of people, selling food, candy, snacks, rosaries, and other religious apparel, especially around the church up at the end of the block, the Church of St. Paul the Apostle. Flowers line the street next the tent, and when we get to the other side, we can see into the tent, where there is an altar. It’s a beautiful, enormous structure which has to weigh at least a ton. In the center of it is a huge, ornate image of the crucified Jesus, and on the other side is the Virgin Mary. The image is a reproduction of El Señor de los Milagros, or the Lord of Miracles, a Peruvian painting from the 17^th century. In Peru, this painting is the most venerated of all images of Jesus, and its feast day is the most important Peruvian Catholic celebration of the year. Protruding from the altar are large spokes, which are for carrying the altar, as I would find out later.

    There are many men walking around, dressed in purple robes. I ask one of them what is going on. They tell me there will be a procesión (procession) in an hour, starting in front of St. Paul’s. There is also a Mass happening inside the Church. The Mass is near the end, but I take Sam inside just to observe what it’s like. All of the pews are full and there are people standing in the aisles, on the sides, and in the back. A full choir with a full band is singing a communion hymn, and everyone is singing along in Spanish.

            The Mass is beautiful, but all the while I feel deeply uncomfortable. I have not been to a Mass since I started my relationship with Sam. I no longer felt like I belonged in the Catholic Church since I had rejected the Church’s heteronormative teachings on love. A few minutes ago, I walked in holding Sam’s hand, but now I feel like a million eyes are on me, and I feel like it’s almost disrespectful to these other people’s culture to display my love for Sam, or to be there at all. As uncomfortable as I am, I decide to stay and watch and I eventually start to sing along. I realize no one is watching me at all, and no one is judging me. Everyone is focused on the Mass and the beauty of the service.

La procesión

After the Mass, we wait for the procession to start outside the church along with an enormous crowd of people. They’ve brought the imagen, the enormous altar with the image of El Señor de los Milagros, in front of the church. And behind them, a full marching band of brass, woodwind, drums, and cymbals are prepared to follow. The men in purple robes, who are part of the Hermandad de Cargadores y Sahumadoras Del Señor De Los Milagros (roughly: the Brotherhood of Carrying-Men and Incense-Burners of the Lord of Miracles), gather around the altar. They line up around it, at least four men to each spoke of the altar, and some carrying it on the sides, so that there are at least 40 men prepared to carry the altar together when the call comes to start. Everyone is eagerly anticipating the start of the procession.

Then, the leader of the procession cries “¡Hijo!” and rings the bell on the front of the altar, and all at once, the imagen springs up into the air, supported by the cargadores. Everyone cheers and applauds the men’s efforts. Then, the music begins. A lone trumpet sounds a mournful melody and fades away at its completion, leaving us with a moment of silence. Then the drums and cymbals enter, beginning with a slow, plodding, sacred rhythm. The horns return, now with a triumphant energy that will carry us all forward. The bell rings, and the altar bows as it begins to turn. More cheering. The bell rings again, and the procession begins. The cargadores sway to the plodding, steady beat of the music as they slowly proceed forward, and the imagen of Jesus seems to float above the street as it sways side so side in a sacred dance. The faithful begin to march alongside the altar as the procession begins to wrap around the corner, always in the same slow, mournful yet triumphant tempo: “1... 2... and 3...! and... 1... 2... and 3...!”.

Close behind are the sahumadoras, veiled women in purple robes who burn incense as they follow the procession. The smell of the incense adds yet another layer to the overwhelming sensory experience of the procesión. A full camera crew and a legion of people recording on smartphones (including me) are also among the followers. On the other side of the street, there are pedestrians and cars passing by on their normal day to day business. The imagen rounds the corner, and behind it I see the front entrance of Fordham University Lincoln Center. I am in awe that such a beautiful, sacred event is happening right outside of my school, and amazed that most of my classmates probably don’t even know about it.

Then almost abruptly, by some signal I must have missed, the procession stops. The music cuts out, the bell rings, and the men put the altar down. Two men climb up onto the altar to adorn the imagen with more flowers and decorations. This is the first of many breaks for the cargadores. They have been carrying the altar, which I imagine must weigh at least 1000 pounds, for almost 20 minutes, and we have traveled probably only 100 feet. There’s still a long way to go. Some of the cargadores switch positions with other men, so no one gets too tired. After the break, the procession and the music start again.

At this point, I decide to stop taking pictures and videos, as I realize my phone is creating a barrier between me and the full experience of the procession. After that, Sam and I continue alongside the imagen for a full hour, hand in hand. We begin to march in the same rhythm as the cargadores, the plodding, steady rhythm of the music. “1... 2... and 3...! and... 1... 2... and 3...!”. The entire crowd is moving as one in this sacred journey alongside the image of Jesus. And all at once, the music, the smell of the incense, feeling Sam’s hand in mine, the image of Jesus slowly swaying, dancing down the street, seemingly floating on the backs of the cargadores, directly in front of my school, in the city that I love, on a street which I walk on every day, completely overwhelms me.

For me, the procesión perfectly captures what Christianity is all about in a way that integrates body, mind, and soul as one. Christ asks us to follow Him, to bear the burden of His cross, and this is exactly what we do when we participate in the procesión.

Comunidad

Later, I was forced to consider just how much these cargadores lives were at stake in the procesión. At the end of the second break, the men tried to lift the altar as they had done before, but there was a miscommunication, and one half of the men tried to lift it while the other side did not. The whole altar almost tipped over onto the backs of these poor men, many of them older gentleman, probably in their fifties and sixties. The whole crowd gasped in fear. Thankfully, however, the other cargadores who were standing on the sides came in to steady the altar, and no one was hurt. The leader yelled “¡Dos!”, letting all the men know that they would lift the altar after two rings of the bell. This time, all the cargadores acted as one, and the altar sprang up into the air as it had before, seemingly light as a feather. The crowd cheered the men’s bravery, and the procession started once more.

As we began to move again, I thought about the level of self-sacrifice and community that such a procession requires. These men put their own bodies, their own selves, at risk for the sake of their religion and for their sake of their community. How often do we do that in our everyday American consumerist lives?

There is no space for disagreement when the time comes to lift the altar. There are lives at stake. Everyone has a part to play in the procession, from the cargadores to the sahumadoras to the musicians, to the priests, to the followers of the procession, to the peddlers selling street food and rosaries. Even local government has a part to play; there were police officers clearing the way for the procession, and signs posted throughout the path of the procession that said “No Parking Sunday.” It was an intricate, symbiotic arrangement of all the parts of the community. The fullness of life was present at the procession, and that made it all the more meaningful. Everything was carefully orchestrated to make the procession a sacred experience unlike any other I have ever experienced.

The procesión made me think about how Latin American Catholicism really comes from the heart. There’s such a purity of devotion and love for God, for Jesus, for Mary, and for the saints, that I feel is missing from the white American Catholicism I was brought up with. For Latin American Catholics, the religion seems integrated into their entire lives and into their communities in a way that I never felt growing up in a predominantly white Catholic church in suburbia.

Después

After following the procession for an hour, we arrived only a block away from where the procession had started. At that point, I realized that the procession would probably last for a full day. Part of me really wished I could stay and dedicate a full day to the procession as the cargadores and sahumadoras do, but hunger got the best of me, and I decided we should go find something to eat.

            We chose the Olympic Flame, which was directly across from the procession. As I sat watching the procession through the window and reflecting on what I had just experienced, I was again overwhelmed with emotion. I looked at the procession outside the window, and I looked back at Sam, into their eyes. I reached out to touch their hand, and I wept. I felt so full in that moment. If you asked me now what I cried about, I couldn’t put my finger directly on it. But it had something to do with how overwhelming the whole experience of the procesión was for my body, mind, and soul, and how I was able to experience that intense sacredness with Sam by my side, after so many years of being told that my love for someone like Sam could never be sacred. I wept because before that day I thought I had to make a choice between loving Sam and loving God, and in that moment I saw I didn’t have to choose between them. The love I feel for Sam and the love I feel for God could become one.

Aún en la noche

            That night, as I was walking from the Fordham to the Columbus Circle Subway Station, I was surprised to see the procession again. They were still going! They were just beginning to walk the altar back into the tent, some 9 hours after the procession began. The band was still playing with full force, and the imagen was still swaying and floating with the same vitality. The altar was shining in the night, lit by candlelight, and surprisingly, the crowd of dedicated believers had actually grown since the beginning of the procession. I couldn’t stay for long this time, but I was filled with such admiration for these people’s dedication, devotion, and stamina. I thought about the strength it would take to carry such a heavy load for such a long time, and the stamina it would take to play in a marching band for a full 9 hours, and the dedication it would take to spend a whole day as a follower of the procession. I wished I could have devoted more time to it myself.

Una tradición sagrada

Later on, I searched for the Hermandad de Cargadores y Sahumadoras Del Señor De Los Milagros online, and I found that this practice originates in Peru, where the feast day of El Señor De Los Milagros is the most important Catholic celebration of the year. In fact, the procession happens all over the world in late October every year, wherever a strong community of Peruvian Catholics exists.

I realize now that, had I not done this project, I might never have stopped to experience something like this. My experience with the procesión affirmed to me the idea that religion is about practices, and not only about beliefs, and that liberates me to explore my relationship with God in new ways that I may not completely understand before trying them. I’m profoundly grateful that I was able to experience the procesión, and I hope I can take part in this beautiful tradition again next year.

Wayne C Babineaux

An Angel Emerges out of the Darkness

On the first day of October, while exploring East Village at one in the morning, I briefly glanced at this image painted onto a storefront gate from the window of my car. Amongst the darkness of the quiet city, this visually arresting image called out to me. Luckily, I was able to capture a picture before the traffic light changed back to green. The artwork takes up almost the entire surface area of the metal gate; painted in vibrant colors. Based on the style and shape that it is drawn in, it is undeniable that these are the wings of an angel. The artwork displays an age-old, universal symbol in the form of a modern representation.

The wings take the form of graffiti, a form which immediately attaches various implications to the overall status and meaning. In contemporary society, there is still a debate over whether graffiti should be considered art; despite its increased popularity in mainstream culture. Additionally, graffiti is conventionally considered vandalism. Which implies that the artwork will be covered up in the near future with the intention of erasing it. Ultimately, the existence of the wings are a brief moment in time. For a fleeting period, it offers select viewers the weight of whatever meaning they take from it. 

This placement of the wings on a metal gate can be interpreted as the artwork serving as a “gateway” for recognizing a deeply religious symbol in an urban setting. By putting the wings on the gate of a storefront, it can only be seen during an unconventional time.  In addition, although these are angel wings, it is important to note that throughout all the religions that recognize them, angels are portrayed both with and without wings. In Christianity, angels serve as a symbol of God’s power. They are regarded both as messengers and guardians, sent to protect humans. Therefore, when people think of any physical iconography representative of angels, some may interpret them as a sign sent from God.

The various meanings attached this symbol, both religious and secular, are what give these wings substantial weight.  When people look at these wings, it evokes a different feeling from everyone. Due to the taboos that surround graffiti, there are some who will look at the wings and immediately disregard it.  However, despite the context, the value of these wings should not be diminished. For those who are religious, this image serves as a reassurance of God’s presence, and grants a sense of security during a widespread period of contemporary hardships. And for those who are non-religious, these wings could represent freedom and hope in the face of an uncertain future. Furthermore, the wings could also remind someone of a deceased loved one. Regardless of your beliefs, this image embodies endless possibilities. Especially because of the work’s urban setting, this offers a platform for a wide range of nonconventional interpretations.

Ultimately, it is important to understand that this artwork should not be reduced to the status of vandalism; it is a deeply triggering symbol that is relevant in both religious and secular cultures. Just like the chance circumstances that allowed me to see these angel wings, that’s how most people will encounter them too.  In New York City, the city that never sleeps, the hours of the night symbolize the metaphorical red light of a traffic light.  The movement and commotion of the daylight has ceased, and stillness and silence of the night has replaced it.  During this time is when the angel wings are permitted to appear.  Allowing select viewers to witness its brightness amongst the surrounding darkness. It serves as a beacon of hope for those who remain after the rest of society has looked away for a brief moment.

My Body is a Temple

Situated on the corner of perhaps one of the most average of all midtown blocks is a gym called Limelight Fitness. The most interesting feature of this gym is not any of its many facilities, not even its indoor cycling studio (MNSTR CYCLE if anyone is interested in that kind of thing). Rather, it is the building that houses all of the glorious personnel, programming, and equipment that is Limelight Fitness that makes this place of interest to the theologically inclined, (very) occasional blogger. Limelight Fitness is housed in a former Christian church, which became a drug rehabilitation program, then a nightclub, and then a shopping mall, before finally assuming its current guise as a place of physical self improvement. Through all of these radical transformations of purpose, the exterior of the building itself seems to have changed very little. I would posit that this is the result of a series of choices to maintain its appearance, so as to benefit commercially from the religious  connotations that follow from that appearance.

Let us take, for example, its current use as a fitness facility. Nearly everyone will have heard the phrase “my body is a temple,” and almost intuitively grasp the connection between religious ideas of “the sacred,” and societal ideas of the maintenance of one’s own physical body as a sacred thing. At Limelight Fitness, this connection is made explicit. As Niebuhr writes, “religion is at one and the same time, humility before the absolute and self assertion in terms of the absolute” (Niebuhr 63-64). This idea, the balance between humility and self assertion, is at work in every workout, in every physical transformation, that takes place in any gym anywhere in the world. It is not easy to get in shape, and it requires both the humility to recognize that one is out of shape, and the power to assert that one will change this fact. However, this occurs not in the face of the absolute, but rather in pursuit of personal beauty, ie. self aggrandizement. The notable thing about Limelight Fitness, is that it deliberately, if implicitly, encourages the sublimation of this will to beauty, if you will, into the larger religious idea of “the absolute.” By maintaining the look of a place of worship, Limelight whispers into the ears of its clients that their pursuit of the perfect body is a holy pursuit, a worshipful activity, a performance of devotion.

Herein lies the danger. Niebuhr goes on to say that “...religion results also in the absolutizing of the self. It is a sublimation of the will to live…” (Niebuhr 63-64). Is it so inconceivable to think that this will to beauty is really a will to power? Why would one seek to be fit if it did not come with advantages? Perhaps, at Limelight, the real purpose of working out becomes clear: the absolutizing of the self through the sublimation of the will to power not into religion or God, but into fitness.