Subways and Sermons

Riding the subway brings me in contact with NYC. I'm struck now, when driving, by how private and isolated the car is. Sometimes it's a relief to be in a car. I don't have to worry about how much stuff I'm carrying with me, I don't have to take a round about route, and I get to just sit for long stretches. But most days, I enjoy the subway. I enjoy the people watching, the moving, the life of it.
Yesterday on the train I was reading and noticed that I could hear what sounded like a Celine Dion song. I looked up, expecting to see someone's headphones blaring, but instead saw a man in his twenties holding his sidekick up to his ear and quietly singing along. He was wearing shorts, a t-shirt, a ski cap, and winter gloves.
Then a middle-aged black man in ironed jeans and a tucked in button down shirt stepped onto the train at 46th Street in Queens. He walked a couple of steps into the train, clasped his hands in front of his body, and looked around with gravity. He took a breath and began projecting his powerful, lilting voice with a West Indies accent. For a few seconds, it was charming, as that accent is, and then I felt the subtle rage. He was quoting Scripture, and then he was preaching, about salvation, damnation, the fiery lakes of hell. He spoke with controlled pace, clear enunciation, and a volume that punctured the ear drums. His voice rose and fell in a melodious pattern that mocked the angry tone and subject matter of his sermon.
"The judgment has already begun. The Lord is using his army to judge the church...And it will be a multitude, this multitude is mentioned in Revelations...But do not rejoice that the churches are being judged. Know that the world is also under judgment. For thus sayeth the Lord....If you remain, you SHALL die. You may read Jeremiah 38, verses...You may read St. Luke 21:20."
Everyone on the train sat silently ignoring him. I tried to read, but found I couldn't shut out his voice. Unlike the beggars or performers, his spiel didn't end after a couple of stops. He persisted for twenty long minutes, until at last, he came to the end of his message, and he stopped as abruptly as he began, standing in silence as the train rocked in the dark underground tunnel that brought us into Manhattan.
My day ended at a dessert party for the Storytelling Group that I've come to love. One of the storytellers was an extremely tall black man with dreadlocks tied up in a dark blue head wrap. He charmed us all with his voices, faces, and songs. And then he got out his guitar and began to strum a song about Water, Water. A Samaritan woman went to a well, but when she saw Jesus, she dropped her bucket. But he gave her Water, Water, living, loving water. And as his soft voice sang this story, I was filled with joy and elation. And I thought that I wanted some of that living, loving water. And I wished that Samaritan woman had stepped on to my train this morning instead.