One bright autumn Sunday morning, I got up early to do a walking tour on my own of sites in lower Manhattan associated with Phoebe Palmer, the mother of holiness revivalism. I was hoping to visit the haunts of that remarkable woman of a century ago, whose impact on charismatic and Pentecostal revivalism has far outlasted her influence on Methodism.
I planned to end my walk at a yet-undecided church service. I knew intuitively that the Spirit would show me some fitting place to glorify God.
Manhattan is not religiously lifeless. It has a vital Catholic population, with ethnic churches everywhere. And the woman who in her time influenced the elections of Methodist bishops, Christian higher education, and women’s public roles is still expressing her influence through numerous small holiness fellowships in the Lower East Side.
I took off carrying rough notes for my probable trajectory: first the Pine street synagogue, which had once been a Methodist church. As three strangers got off the subway, I discovered that one of them was the person who had told me about this oldest Methodist church building in New York. He corrected me: not Pine, but Pitt Street near Broome. So I headed north.
I was looking for whatever remained of the Five Points Mission that Palmer was instrumental in beginning in 1848. The mission offered food, housing assistance, job training, and alcohol rehabilitation. Lincoln had stopped at the mission in 1860 to encourage down-and-outers to do their best.
As I walked toward Chinatown, I saw a sign in Chinese and English: the Chinese Methodist Church. Without pondering, I entered. Something told me unmistakably that this was where I belonged as a worshiper this morning.
A service in Chinese was going on. In the narthex, I spoke with a young usher, told him I was from Drew University, had written on Phoebe Palmer, was interested in the history of her mission, and wanted to join them in worship.
This young man, the pastor’s son, said his brother was considering applying for the Drew Ph.D. program. He then welcomed me into the service, where I sat down beside another young man, who at the time I did not know was the pastor’s other son, Joseph.
Joseph kindly took me step by step through the service of the Lord’s Supper. The Eucharistic service I grew up with was the traditional Wesleyan service in the old pre-1968 Methodist hymnody—hardly tampered with since 1784 when Wesley commended it to the American churches. A strange serendipity soon became evident to me—I was following along with the old service I had grown up with, grown to love, but which the modern Methodists had largely discarded as antiquated.
To my surprise, I found that even in Chinese I was in familiar territory. I could quote in English what the congregation was saying in Chinese, far better than the new forms of our “updated” liturgy. The church was almost full; the preaching, earnest; the hymns, mostly tunes I had known from childhood.
The invitation was given to partake of the Lord’s body and blood. In Methodist churches that means Welch’s grape juice (Welch, a Methodist, started his huge business supplying temperance-oriented Christians). Joseph, not knowing I might be his future teacher, explained that I would be welcome at the Lord’s Table if I had accepted Jesus as Lord and had been baptized.
Suddenly, I was profoundly aware of the unity of the one holy, universal church, the wholeness and harmony of the worldwide apostolic tradition. As I walked down the aisle, I was moved by the intense piety, friendliness, and sense of the oneness of the church. Many faces bore marks of suffering and saintliness. As I left the kneeling rail, I truly felt I was worshiping with all the saints and a great cloud of witnesses.
It now seems Spirit-led that I was brought to that obscure congregation. A whole series of insights and images coalesced: Phoebe Palmer’s mission drew me there. And there I met the whole church around the world, felt the deep piety of people living in a harsh environment, recalled happily a former student who had served that congregation, and above all, tasted once again the body and blood of Christ.
As I left the Communion table, I felt I was in a state of grace due to nothing I had done, but solely to the mercy of God. As I went back out under a darkening sky into the crowded streets bathed in the aromas of Chinese food, I thanked God heartily for leading me there.
