The faithful and non-believers alike line up for hours on Smith Street outside the Brooklyn Tabernacle. They are all ages and nationalities. Some are looking for musical bliss, others for the promise of eternal life. No one leaves disappointed.
Clap if you will, sing if you can. The words “Nothing but the blood of Jesus” are seen on the screen. The young Irish fiddler puts down her instrument and performs a jig. As many as 3200 visitors will be lifted to a state of near rapture for exactly 2 hours at which time the control booth reboots for the next service. If you’re using Access-A-Ride, enter 533.
After the devotion a number of congregants board the F Train where they see the shape of a man writhing under layers of clothing. Even the Gutter Punks and Crusties with their pit bulls crowd to the ends of the car, away from the liquid flowing along the length of the floor.
He is the least of their brethren but no one bathes his feet or anoints him with oil. Homilies are no match for New York City.
