I wrote on a fellow volunteer’s Facebook page, “I have
tremendous admiration for those who live their lives knowing that following
your heart does not necessarily mean following the ‘rules.’ Especially when
said rules are unjust, inhumane, and stacked against the most vulnerable
members of society. If we want to see (and be) change in the world, it's
essential to overcome the ‘me-first’ mentality. I am truly awed when I find
people who have done so and whose strength of spirit inspires others to do the
same.”
My third visit to Tent City – the first time I met Minister Steve Brigham in person – is what inspired that statement.
It was just this past Sunday, and upon arriving at the camp,
I was met with a much different scene than I’d grown accustomed to over the
days preceding. This time, the place was teeming with people, most of them
volunteers. I later learned that the largest group was the Secular Franciscans
from a parish in Colonia, and the other was a youth group from Marlboro.
They bustled about, preparing food and laying down plastic
tablecloths. They carried multiple boxes and bags of donation items, from
sleeping bags to toiletries. A painting of St. Francis stood on an unsteady
easel not far from the chapel. Standing in the midst of them, carrying two jugs
of water and three bags of apples, I immediately felt quite insignificant.
And in the midst of the crowd, a man caught my eye. Well
over six feet tall, standing next to the little old ladies with rosaries around
their necks, he was quite an imposing figure. He was dressed more formally than
the others there, I recognized him at once – from the videos, the photographs
taken at the production of “Harry,” and the news reports. Minister Steve himself.
Despite feeling so intimidated by that huge crowd, I introduced myself, and he
greeted me with a broad smile and a handshake. He lifted the water jugs from my
overloaded hands, and directed me to the food area, handing me a small crate in
which I placed the apples.
“Do you need any help?”
He glanced around. “We’ve got a lot of people here today, so
I think we’re fine. Thank you.”
I nodded, but my heart dropped. I cursed my ill timing and
took a seat on a bench near Alex’s trailer. And then I decided against it,
reluctant to disturb him at work. I thought…now what?
My answer came in the form of a man who approached me and
immediately struck up a conversation. I learned his name was Brian, and that he
had a baby daughter in foster care. And that he missed her terribly. We talked
for what seemed like forever. I saw the woman with the dreadlocks, had
selected a brightly-colored nail polish from a box of donated toiletries. I finally learned her name: Vera.
Another man, wearing a black skull cap and wool-lined coat,
sat down across from us. I learned that he’d just been arguing with his wife. Apparently,
she’d been complaining that there wasn’t enough salt in the food, and he’d become
frustrated trying to find her some. There was a look of genuine pain in his
eyes as he described her struggles, and how much he just wanted her “to get her
sh*t together.”
I smiled. “It’s so great that you’re there for her. That’s
real love.”
He smiled back – and, although we’d only known each other
for a grand total of fifteen minutes, told me I was a good friend.
He asked, “Have you seen Minister Steve?”
I pointed in the direction of the path by the chapel, where
he’d walked past with the youth group. My newfound friend – Clarence – got up from his
seat and asked if I wanted to walk with him. I obliged.
“One thing though,” he said. “You gotta be careful of the
roosters. The big fluffy black ones.”
I laughed. “Attack chickens.”
“Oh yeah,” Clarence laughed with me. “I saw them chase a
guy. They were pecking at him like crazy.”
“I’ve heard roosters can be really aggressive.”
Clarence stopped in his tracks. “Some can be aggressive.
These are just plain dangerous.”
We reached a spot that was roped off. When I saw a wiry,
white-haired man taking a seat at a piano, I knew where Minister Steve had led
the youth group.
There was a cage just behind the rope, and above the
roosters’ squawking, I heard a faint mew – and a furry paw emerged from between
the metal bars. The leaves rustled, and from behind the cage stepped another
familiar face from the news: Marilyn Berenzweig. She waved to us as she
hurriedly placed a bowl of water in the cage.
“Mama has five kittens in there,” explained Marilyn. “Eating
me out of house and home, this one.”
I nodded. “I can imagine!”
Clarence and I followed the gentle, if slightly out of tune,
melody of Ave Maria. We crossed the path to where Minister Steve and the
Marlboro teens stood listening to Michael Berenzweig – otherwise known as Tent
City’s “Piano Man.”
And, being a musician myself, I was captivated. I applauded
when he was finished, and lingered for a moment while Clarence continued to
pursue his salt-seeking mission.
“Wow. You’re really good. That’s one of my favorite songs.”
He smiled. “Wish I knew all the words, but it really is
beautiful. I love the chord changes in that one part.” He sat back down for a
moment and played a segment of the song as the small crowd headed back toward
the center of camp. Then he stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry. Don’t mean to keep
you.”
“Please, don’t apologize. I could listen to you play all
day.”
Eventually, I caught up with Clarence, and this time, his
wife – who was in the middle of discarding her food and declaring it “nasty.”
Clarence shrugged, salt shaker still in hand, then set it down on a nearby
table and headed off to assist some volunteers with a carload or two of winter
clothing.
A young woman with a camera phone in her hand tapped me on
the shoulder. “Excuse me – would you mind taking a picture of us?”
I glanced at where the large group of Franciscans had
assembled. “Sure.” I snapped a few photos. The sun was started to descend, and
there was a noticeable chill in the air. With only my gray hoodie and a
t-shirt, I started regretting not bringing an additional jacket. And I started
thinking about how the police had come to camp just days before and declared a
ban on wood stoves. It was cold enough on a late October afternoon; I grimaced
at the idea of sleeping outdoors, in a tent, in the middle of January. As if on
cue, a chill ran right up my spine.
I leaned against a tall stump. I heard a voice say my name
and turned around. It was Michael.
“Hey there,” he called.
And thus began another conversation. I told him how I loved
playing piano myself – secondly, of course, to singing and composing. And that
I was in a band that played mostly classic rock. He balked when I mentioned Led
Zeppelin and Aerosmith. “Can’t stand either one of them.”
“Aw, seriously? Aerosmith is one of my favorite.”
“All Steven Tyler does is scream.”
“But…he screams so well.”
I realized Michael was not only a talented musician who
played both piano and guitar in addition to singing, but that he was also quite
the musical history buff. He had encyclopedic knowledge of bands both
groundbreaking and obscure. He told me he considered Procol Harem grossly
underrated.
“You gotta listen to their stuff. ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’ isn’t
even close to their best work.”
Our conversation covered music of the 1960s and 70s, the
Bible, and animal rights. He called the latter a misnomer. “We’re animals too,”
he explained, “so really, when you think about it, animal rights also
incorporates human rights. They’re one in the same.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Minister Steve hurry by. He
tapped on the door of Alex’s trailer, but I couldn’t hear what he said.
We were interrupted by what sounded like a loud gong. I
looked over my shoulder to see a man in a hooded jacket banging something
against a presumably empty propane tank.
“Minister Steve’s giving a sermon,” Michael said.
The chapel was one of the few wooden-beamed structures at
the site – heavy, translucent plastic for the walls, a large blue tarp for the
roof. An organ sat unassumingly in the corner near the pulpit. The seats were
worn, but colorful. I chose one in the fourth row, between Michael and a solemn-looking gentleman with downcast eyes.
Minister Steve entered the room, and we were silent. His
very presence commanded attention, before he’d even said a word. So began his
sermon, his powerful voice filling the recesses of the chapel, overshadowing
the roosters’ crowing, the wind, the rustle of the dry leaves. He began with a resurrection-centered
reading from Corinthians, then imparted a eulogy for a recently-deceased resident named Slavik, who was, I gathered, a friend of both Alex and the man to my right.
Then, his sermon veered in the direction of the injustices
that had taken place over the past week – the police confiscating the residents’
sole source of warmth, the bulldozers, the harassment. How he was a
twelfth-generation American, whose vision of a adopting a sustainable lifestyle
and embracing simplicity could make our nation one we could be proud of.
And in those moments I, a former college campus minister/
theology student turned-non-believer, recalled the words of Christ’s disciples:
“Did our hearts not burn within us?” (Luke 24:32) Indeed, the phrase “tongue of
fire” took on quite a different meaning for me there in the chapel.
Had his voice been actual fire, the absence of wood stoves
in the camp would definitely be a non-issue. I bowed my head and, for the first
time in many years, said a prayer. For Michael, Alex, Clarence and his wife, and all
those I now considered friends. And Slavik too, even though we'd never met.
