Crowded. That’s my neighborhood in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. People from just about every corner of the world: Haitians, other West Indies islanders, Southern American blacks, Hispanics from many countries, Muslims from the Middle East, plus a lingering contingent of longtime Jewish residents and older Catholics who live nearby but pass through our area. Newer immigrants—and there are many of them—are constantly approached by their countrymen who belong to a whole spectrum of sects, especially the Jehovah Witnesses.
Street preaching turned out to be more fun than I had anticipated. As a matter of fact I didn’t think it would be fun at all. It’s not supposed to be, I guess.
I brought along a young man—he was a student of Scripture studies and a construction worker—to help me set up and to make sure that no one walked off with the two loudspeakers or microphone. These turned out to be indispensable. Without a loudspeaker it seems almost meaningless to preach from a corner platform. With the buses, street vendors, cars, fire engines, police cars, and the constant rush of people, it would be impossible to be noticed, much less heard.
My platform was set on three small stepladders, and I had a pile of books and pamphlets to give away, not to mention a $29 police permit for the loudspeaker. I am supposed to get a permit for each day I use the loudspeaker.
The corner we chose was the busiest corner in our parish. It included a bus stop, a subway entrance, a shopping area, and lots of people coming and going, especially toward the middle of a Saturday afternoon, which is the time I selected.
Nervous and feeling a little foolish, I stood on the platform, turned on the loudspeakers, and started to speak about the gospel. It was a spring day, pleasantly warm, and I was dressed in my clerical blacks and collar.
The young man who had helped me hung around nervously for the two hours that I talked. He decided that what I was trying to do was crazy and never came back to help after the first day. He sometimes stopped to greet me but just as often passed by on the other side of the street. He still studies Scripture and attends parish meetings, but says this isn’t his thing.
A man wearing West Indian dreadlocks arrived shortly afterward I did to sell oils and incense. He asked me with a clear tone of annoyance how long I planned to be there. As time passed, I was completely absorbed in what I was doing, and I only gradually realized what the problem was. When I concluded my preaching, I got down from the platform and assured him that I wouldn’t be taking his spot any more. Besides, I was beginning to notice that there was a much better spot across the street, right in front of the subway station, and it wasn’t occupied (because the police frequently raid that location to boot out illegal vendors).
During my first weeks of street preaching, I read aloud passages from Scripture, discussed teachings of the Church, sang hymns, and made Catholic religious literature, such as Pillar of Fire, Pillar of Truth, available. Then I began to realize that everyone was in so much of a hurry—walking by with shopping carts, getting on or off buses and out of taxicabs, entering or exiting the subway, stopping to buy watches, batteries, and articles of clothing from street vendors—that they weren’t really listening. There was no such thing as people meandering by on their lunch hour. In this kind of neighborhood there is no lunch hour. And so I began to do two things: First, I made sure that people knew who I was and why I was there. I put up a large sign identifying the parish that I represented and saying that I was there to preach the gospel of Jesus. And I began to focus in my preaching on the following themes:
1. God so loved the world that he sent his only Son so that those who believe in him might have eternal life.
2. The salvation of Jesus is for all men of goodwill, as the angels sang at the birth of Jesus.
3. The Catholic Church was established by Jesus to proclaim this good news and is therefore one, holy, universal, and from the apostles.
4. This message is a proclamation of happiness for people who are poor in spirit, who suffer, who are pure of heart, who are meek and gentle, who are merciful, who hunger and thirst for holiness, and who suffer because they try to do good.
5. All mankind is invited to the wedding feast of the Lamb—our job as representatives of the local Catholic parish is to present everyone with this invitation.
6. We will all be judged on whether or not we loved Jesus in our neighbors by caring for them as best we could.
I started to repeat this basic theme over and over, sometimes in different words and constantly in different languages, but always the same basic theme and always with references to the sacraments, especially confession and the Mass and Holy Communion as the Body of Christ. And I emphasized the urgency of accepting this invitation if one is to save his soul. I didn’t neglect the importance of recourse to the Blessed Mother.
In addition to repeating the basic theme of the love of Jesus for all who passed by, I sang this message using popular hymns, and I played tapes of Marian music. I spoke and sang in Spanish and English, and occasionally spoke with my limited French and a smattering of Haitian Creole. I switched rapidly from one language to another, repeating the same biblical phrases in each language, occasionally identifying myself as a Catholic priest speaking in the name of the local Catholic parish and giving the address.
I tried to avoid sounding preachy. I discovered that some of those whom I welcomed to share the microphone with me tended to use phrases like “You must . . . .” or “We must . . . .” On hearing this I cringed. I instructed them that we are there to proclaim the basic message of the Good News: basic information and the positive theological orientation of the gospel.
The impact is interesting but hard to measure. Frankly, the overall the impact seems to be minimal. Few people seem to be listening. They are all intent on coming or going. One gets the impression that the very subject of religion has little attraction for many. Hardly any of the passersby seem to have the leisure or desire to stop and listen.
On the other hand, when there are literature or holy pictures to display or distribute, the materials are snapped up quickly.
On one occasion a black man came up to me and asked, “What the —- are you doing here? Don’t you know that this is a black neighborhood?” I said that I was born in this neighborhood, that he was made in the image and likeness of God, and that God loved him just as he was. He replied, “Pray for me,” then left. A man who declared himself a Protestant told me he was happy that I was declaring that the gospel was meant for all peoples. Another Protestant, a woman “pastor” whom I know quite well, told me how happy she was that I was doing this work. Another woman, who declared that she was a Protestant missionary, told me she was happy to see me there and gave me tracts to give out, which I gratefully accepted and stuffed in my pocket.
Every Saturday morning, when I arrive, there is a group of up to a dozen Jehovah Witnesses giving out their literature. Most of them are Haitian. That’s why I speak some sentences of my basic message in my poor French or Creole. As soon as I begin talking about the universal love of God for all people, about his loving invitation in Jesus to the marriage feast of the Lamb, and about Jesus’ command to baptize “in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,” they begin to drift away because, I suppose, they are taught not to listen to such evil talk from the likes of a Catholic priest. They try to get out of earshot as soon as possible. Just as well. The damage done to them by their confused, narrow, and restrictive theology is painfully evident.
On one occasion when I arrived a little late, closer to noontime, a local vendor was already in the place I usually occupy and began to remonstrate with me as I started to preach my message with the usual blast of the loudspeaker. He felt it interfered with his selling of ties. One of his helpers was a bit drunk and began to look disturbed by my presence. I decided it would be wiser to desist rather than occasion unpleasant hostilities. Since all the other spots were already taken, I didn’t preach that day. Weeks later that same vendor came to me with thanks for allowing him to sell his wares without my “interference.”
My relationship with the local vendors, most of whom are either black or Muslim Pakistanis, is cordial. One day one of the vendors, I don’t know why, came up to me and genuflected in front of me. I don’t know if he was a Christian.
Another time, shortly after I had begun this apostolate, black racists came to me and tried to hammer down my throat that God hates white people. On occasions like this the loudspeaker is especially helpful. I just kept on proclaiming the gospel—loudly. They finally left.
Catholics come up and give joyful and supportive greetings. Depending on the temperature, someone will arrive with some kind of refreshment—cold water in hot weather or a hot coffee or chocolate in cold. Some stand with me for a while and sing with me either in English or Spanish. One fellow comes by periodically and is anxious to take the microphone and preach in Spanish. He is well known to me, and I am happy to have him. He shows much enthusiasm. But still the crowds pass by as if not noticing.
I don’t consider myself a good organizer, so I didn’t wait to form a team or to train lay people. Anyway, I wasn’t sure of just what I would do and how I would proceed. I decided on the equipment I thought I might need, bought what I didn’t have, asked the young man mentioned above to help me set up—and that’s how I got started.
As I began to inform the parish, particularly the Hispanic members, of what I was doing, and as some came out to investigate and saw what I was doing, a few began to pitch in and help me. They started with much enthusiasm, but with the pressure of other responsibilities, many began to fade. During the first summer the number grew to six or seven at a time, sometimes more. During the winter the helpers dwindled to one, who stood near to protect me if necessary and to give me lunch. And sometimes, for a few of the hours, I have been alone. A few parishioners, if I thought them capable and allowed them, helped in preaching the basic message or joined in the singing.
My parishioners are hardworking, trying to raise families, and they need time for other things. Some simply get tired of coming out week after week. So they help for a while and then drop out for a while, coming back after a few weeks of involvement in other things. Of course, the novelty of what I am doing has worn off. People are used to seeing me at the corner—at least, when the weather and parish duties allow. (I can’t stay out when it is raining or snowing because of the possible damage to the loudspeaker, and sometimes I have a marriage on Saturday afternoon.) Normally I stay out from about 11:15 in the morning (I have to get there before the vendors take my spot, which is the best in that area) until 3:15 in the afternoon—four hours in all. Only a few of our people are able to stay out with me for the whole time.
Is it worth all the bother? I think so, even if I can’t prove my position with statistics.
The people who pass by—and they number the thousands each day—hear repeatedly that the Good News of Jesus is a loving invitation to all, especially to those who have already discovered the happiness of poverty of spirit. To all passersby this apostolate says that the Catholic Church proclaims the Word of God (I usually have a Bible in my hand). I think that this is important because nominal Catholics in our area are under siege from a wide variety of sectarians who are constantly on the attack, aggressively maligning the Church with lies; they present facile, deceptive answers to often-asked questions and to problems in our people’s daily lives. It’s important to demonstrate that our parish is not afraid to stand up and tell the whole neighborhoods that we are there to proclaim Jesus, his Vicar, the Blessed Mother, and the sacraments, especially confession and Communion. What’s more, this work tells the thousands of new immigrants, especially Mexicans, many of whom are poorly instructed, that there is a parish to which they can come and that the restricted theology of the sectarians is not the gospel.