Blessings @ Bliss Plaza
Tuesday mornings from 8:30-10am, I stand in Bliss Plaza—under the 46th St. stop on the 7 train—and offer blessings and prayers to anyone passing by. Every week a handful of folks stop by: some people have become “regulars,” but each week there’s always at least one person I’ve never spoken to before. I ask their names, and if there’s something on their heart, and I ask if I can put my hand on their shoulder as I offer a prayer or a word of blessing.
There’s lots of time in between these direct encounters. So I just look at the people passing, and I keep my eyes soft, and I think about how much God loves them and delights in them. I wonder what burdens they might be carrying, about the gifts they have that no one has asked about recently. When people make eye contact from across the way, I give a small bow to show honor to all that, to honor them as creatures bearing the image of God.
This week marks the 1 year anniversary of the first Tuesday I went up to Bliss Plaza and stood there in my vestments, with my little sign that said what I was offering—and what I wasn’t. Especially given all the associations I have with street evangelism, I wanted to be clear that I wasn’t aiming to trap anybody, to sell anything, to create anxiety because I have the thing that you don’t even know you lack. I wanted to be clear that I didn’t need anything from these neighbors: I was offering a little sliver of God’s grace, which comes to all of us free—lavishly, joyfully given.
I’ve missed Tuesdays because I was sick or our daughter was sick, or because I was on vacation or retreat, or because I had a meeting with the Bishop. But it’s been a year. And that was what I committed to when I began this experiment: to stand out there on Tuesdays for one year in a posture of blessing, and see what happened. To see how others responded, and to see what happened to me, as I tried to show up as a faint reflection of how God shows up for us: available but unobtrusive, ready to listen—not to judge, but to heal, relieve, and bless.
I’ve prayed with folks on their way to get scary medical test results; I’ve prayed with people about their kids’ seizures, about rifts in their families, about their need for a new job, or safe and stable housing. I’ve chatted with Mercedes and Julia, who for a time had a friendly rivalry, selling tamales out of their handcarts, until Mercedes disappeared a month or two ago. I’ve been screamed at by a man who was angry—rightly angry—about the Church’s complicity in slavery and the genocide of indigenous peoples. I’ve had a dozen arguments with Doris, who is really upset that my sign has a Pride Flag sticker, and that I believe that transgender folks are made in the image of God. I’ve offered hundreds of blessings on some variation of this theme: “______, you are a blessing to me, and to those you meet, in ways that you know and do not know; and I bless you in the name of God who is Father, Son and Holy Spirit / who is Lover, Beloved, and Love that overflows even the grave.” I have bowed in silence probably thousands of times to passersby. I have looked on the people of Sunnyside with soft eyes.
I don’t know if this “does” anything—if it achieves anything, changes anything. But I never feel like the time was a waste.
On Tuesday, a woman named Maria came up to me and asked, “were you here last year?” I chuckled and said yes—one year, every Tuesday. She said that I’d given her a blessing last year, and that she just wanted to say thank you, that it meant a lot to her. And then she smiled and turned away before I could say anything.
Maybe I’ll get a chance next week. Or next year. I’ll be there.
