From a Philadelphia church, a call for musicians to help a city waiting to exhale | Helen Ubiñas

The church doors are closed, the congregation sent home.

The voices once lifted in prayer and song and laughter inside the West Kensington Ministry, silenced.

These days, the Rev. Adan A. Mairena is more likely to see parishioners and neighbors standing in line outside the church waiting for food — an all-hands-on-deck effort by the city and area nonprofits to help some of Philadelphia’s most vulnerable residents during the pandemic.

» READ MORE: Tireless Kensington minister takes on coronavirus needs in his community.

“We’ve become a food distribution center,” Mairena said, incredulous.

Overnight, the world was upended. How was he, or any of us for that matter, to know how quickly that would happen?

Between sorting hundreds of boxes of food that always go too fast, the Honduran-born pastor found himself upstairs in the old, mostly unused sanctuary.

The church holds most of its events and gatherings downstairs, where there is heat and air-conditioning and wheelchair accessibility. But even in its fading glory, the sanctuary, which dates back to the 1860s, maintains its grandeur.

Before getting back to work, he took it all in, snapped a photo, and posted it to Facebook: “Any musicians want to play?”

He had almost forgotten about the callout when he got a text from Nicholas Handahl.

Mairena had met Handahl about a month earlier, when the pastor and other members of the Friends of Norris Square Park were cleaning up outside.

Handahl was charmed by the sight of the community coming together and stopped to talk. Mairena, always eager to recruit more hands, introduced himself. Handahl was a flutist who among other gigs was a teaching artist for the Philadelphia Orchestra.

» READ MORE: In a community already in need, coronavirus adds another layer of stress.

He told Mairena that every time he passed by the old church, he wondered about its acoustics. Mairena told him he should come through.

But then came the virus, and everyone went into survival mode. Days turned into weeks turned into endless, draining uncertainty.

When Mairena got Handahl’s text, he briefly thought he’d taken on too much. He had food to sort, boxes to break down, parishioners to check on. One elderly congregant was already fussing that he wasn’t making time for her.

Handahl came with just his flute. Mairena, at a safe distance, pointed his camera at him, and livestreamed the impromptu concert.

Flanked by the old organ’s disconnected pipes, Handahl played some Bach and then, at the pastor’s request, “How Great Thou Art” and “Amazing Grace.”

On Facebook, the heart emojis and comments substituted for applause.

“Inspirational,” one viewer wrote.

“Fantastic,” wrote another.

Mairena sat and listened as the music bounced off the walls and stained glass windows, lingering in the empty space around them.

“It was the first time in however many weeks it’s been that I sat and thought about how abnormal all of this is,” he recalled. “To not be in community, to not see my kids from the neighborhood, to have people waiting on lines that wrap around the building waiting for food.…”

He thought of the pastors who’d come before him, and how they had welcomed back their congregations after past catastrophes. How he’d eventually have to do the same.

The music pierced his thoughts. “That’s so soothing,” he told Handahl. “We need that right now.”

What he didn’t say is that he had been holding his breath for weeks, and he knew he wasn’t alone. He saw it on people’s faces, in their eyes peering out over masks as they thanked him for the food.

He couldn’t welcome them back to the church, not yet. But Handahl’s playing gave him an idea: What if he could offer his parishioners an opportunity to take a breath by replacing the fears and uncertainty with a little music?

Handahl was happy to help. “Hopefully, when we get through this pandemic, everyone is a little more tuned into realizing what makes life a little more genuinely sweet,” he said.

So, consider this an open call from the good pastor. You can find him on Facebook. Or, he says, you can reach him at 267-879-6310. He’s already got some other musicians lined up for Fridays at noon. Tune in. Nothing fancy. Just musicians who want to play to a city waiting to exhale.