High definition billboards, chain stores five stories high open every night until 2, hawkers in our faces coercing us to buy scalped tickets for Jon Stewart’s last show that night. The chaos of Times Square is like no other. The High Hopers clutched their bags and focused their eyes on the beacon of Gordon’s blue shirt as he made his way forward, until we finally stepped into the quiet lobby of the Lyric Theatre, a white flag of surrender amidst the chaos of the war outside.
Earlier that day, our group confronted a different chaos. It is not every morning we awake in a church sanctuary, the coolest space in the building, and rarer still to sleep on the floor next to 50 pounds of onions on the pew next to you. But that night we did. Our wake up call was the arrival of three food distribution volunteers who entered the sanctuary at 6:30 AM to set up the food that had been delivered the day before. The temporary pantry was our sleeping space, the coolest room in the building. We rubbed our eyes, brushed our teeth, and caffeinated our hospitality, before we joined the volunteers in the preparation to hand out countless bags of groceries to a couple hundred of Brooklyn’s neediest. At my station, I offered folks the choice of cranberry juice concentrate, a 16 ounce box of raisins, or a can of pureed cranberry sauce.
One. They could pick only one. Neighborhood families could choose between raisins, a small bottle of juice, and a can of corn syrup, gelatin, and pureed fruit. No high definition billboards herald choices like these.
For the next three hours each of us manned a station. Natalie and Caroline offered a choice of three cans of soup from a selection of five varieties. Ian offered the choice of brown rice, white rice, or a box of pasta. Clara and Isaac offered bags of onions and bags of carrots, by far the most popular table in the line. Each of us young and privileged. Each of us trying to overcome the barriers of English, Spanish, Polish, and degradation to explain that each could have only some and not all.
Later that night, we emerged from the song and dance utopia crafted for us and stepped back into the square, its anarchy just as acute as it was several hours before. We had informed our youth that we would take 45 minutes to break into small groups and visit one of three stores. One group would go to a popular chain clothing store, one group would go to a cheesecake stand, the rest could wait at the Starbucks while others shopped.
One. They could choose one.
45 minutes later we met at the Starbucks bathed in the sensory overload of lights, noise, activity, and painted women. Like a waddle of penguins pressed together for warmth, we banded together and pushed our way down to the subway platform below.
As we boarded our train, Ian said softly, “This morning I was trying to explain to an elderly poor Polish woman why she couldn’t have an extra bag of rice and tonight I watched adults throw $30 at souvenir T-shirts in Times Square. How can anyone process this?”
How can anyone process this? Do we even choose to try? What does our choices say about who we are?
Choose wisely, friends.
~Beth Jarvis, Youth Ministry Director