A Visit to St. Paul’s Chapel

Saturday was a gorgeous spring day, so I decided to take a walking tour around City Hall Park. I took the 2/3 train to Park Place, where my tour started at St. Paul’s Cathedral on Broadway. The small church looked like its own little world, nestled amongst huge downtown skyscrapers like the famous Woolworth building. I hadn’t planned on going inside the church, but something drew me to its doors.

Other than the fact that this pre-Revolutionary War church still has a pew specially designated for George Washington, I did not realize the true significance of this little chapel until after I walked in behind a small crowd of tourists.

The walls and ceilings are painted baby blue and pink, and the interior is lit by sparkling Waterford chandeliers hanging from the arched ceiling. But I didn’t even notice the colors or crystals until much later. Instead, what caught my eye was an enlarged photo hanging on the wall to the right of the tiny vestibule. It was a picture of a tall, handsome priest, all dressed in black, standing in a lot littered with rubble and papers, and covered with the thick dust of the former World Trade Center towers. Wearing a white handkerchief over his mouth and nose, he stands with a hand on one hip, facing Ground Zero, an expression of resignation in his eyes. I stared at it for several minutes before entering the church.

As I entered, I saw that this chapel housed the memories of those lost in the 9/11 attacks and stood as a tribute to the FDNY, NYPD, and other souls who joined in the search for survivors in the aftermath. I was OK until I got to the first display on the left and came face-to-face with real pictures of “the missing.” Lots of them – old and young, male and female, fat and skinny - all with smiling faces looking into the camera long before September 11. Some were shown with spouses at their weddings, others with their children or friends. These “missing” posters had once hung on the fence outside the church. It was gut-wrenching looking at them. Seeing Ground Zero is one thing. Seeing the faces of human beings who were burned or pulverized in the fallen towers is another thing altogether.

I went from one display to the next in St. Paul's, trying to hold back tears. I didn't succeed. Before long I had to step outside for air. I went to the back of the church, walked out, and realized that the back yard – an old cemetery under a canopy of trees – was directly across the street from Ground Zero. I hadn’t realized just how physically close the church was to the site. Literally, the edge of its property sits 30 feet from the WTC site. I sat on a bench and found myself looking directly at World Financial Center 2 & 3. Looking at those two buildings (ranging from 33 – 54 stories high), I realized just how tiny they are in comparison to the twin towers, which were two to three times as tall.

In my visit there I learned that, in the aftermath of 9/11, St. Paul’s quickly became a sanctuary for disaster recovery workers, who would come into the church for a few hours’ rest on tiny cots before returning to the disaster site to continue digging through the rubble in search of survivors. There were none. The priest in the photo is shown on video later saying that first aid sites were set up to help the injured – but none ever came. The priest said that they waited and waited and just couldn’t believe it. Everyone was dead.

It was tough being in St. Paul’s. And remembering. And seeing the faces of the dead. That was the hardest part. I was touched by the numerous notes, murals, letters, and works of art sent to NYC by children all over the world on display in the chapel.

While I was there, a touring choir from a Wisconsin high school set up and began singing. Once again, my timing couldn’t have been better.

I left to tour City Hall Park and the municipal buildings of New York before returning to the chapel’s gift shop to buy a heavy 800-page book of photos called "here is new york," (www.hereisnewyork.org), and a DVD about the events of September 2001. I went through the entire book of photos last night. Some of the pictures are graphic. All are disturbing. It made me angry, and it made me sad. It made me wonder how the hell things like this can happen. Like most people, to this day I still can’t make sense of it.

I got through almost the entire book without crying. It was the little boy in his mother’s arms at his father’s FDNY funeral that brought tears to my eyes. His mom was obviously trying to be strong for her son. I could tell she was holding back sobs. The photo is reminiscent of the famous Time-Life photo of the young man standing in salute at John F. Kennedy’s funeral.

Like that photo known by so many, we must never forget September 11.