From my life and times.

Saint Marks in the Bowery.

One of the oldest places of western worship in NYC.

Peter Stuyvesant, whose bones I met, are entombed in its walls. He was Mayor of this then Dutch colony 1647 to 1664. Till the Brits invited him to get lost.

The wall along Wall Street was slapped up to keep out the Brits.

Natives had long been forced out. Tho’ some still held portions of upper Manhattan. This around my future childhood home of 127th Street. If told to go back where I came from. It would involve a short subway ride. …the local would take longer.

Saint Marks whose first service was in 1660 and portions of which were built by Slaves. Has for the last 130 years or so been known as the Artists Church because of its close relationship to that community. If you’ve heard of them, they performed prayed or got drunk there. It’s also where for decades my friends in the radio biz had their memorials and where I want mine. It’s where I learned I had a talent for obituary orations. Everyone needs a hobby.

Like all institutions, and people it's changed over time. In my 40-year experience it went from a non-denominational welcome to any faith or no faith congregation. To a Christian only space. Then back again. Basically, it’s Holy Ground. All welcome.

On meeting Peter Stuyvesant.

One day I looked to my left, and noted I had an interesting pew mate. Mayor Stuyvesant or some portion of him was entombed into the wall next to me. Well. I'd heard he was lurking somewhere. There are poets, and assorted troublemakers planted about the grounds. Even a Vice President or two. However, I never thought I’d run into Pete’s bones. Heck of a town this.

On the matter of faith.

I had faith in deities’ ideas institutions and certain pastries.

I’ve witnessed these as profoundly and willfully mis-used. Perhaps we should have the faith of children. They exist in the now. A place of continual wonder.