NEW YORK

 A final thrust of the crowbar cracked the wooden crate open, and the architect, the anthropologist and the mortar expert leaned in to look at the oddity that had drawn them to an out-of-the-way warehouse.
 


It was a 3-foot-by-10-foot section of timeworn brick wall, its predictable rows abruptly interrupted by three distinct, deliberate-looking triangular shapes. Once part of a warehouse, it now does nothing but raise questions.

Painstakingly preserved from a 175-year-old building in lower Manhattan, the brickwork symbol is part of a tantalizing historical whodunit. The setting conjures both New York's mercantile past and its future, and those who may be involved include a prominent, deeply Christian businessman.

Could the design be a cryptic marker of mystical beliefs? A tradesman's signature? A bit of architectural shorthand? A creative way to patch a hole?

Speculation, some backed with scholarly authority, has generating enough gravity to pull in community leaders and persuade a developer to spend $13,000 to save the artifact from demolition.

"Whether you believe in this stuff or not, it suggested so much and pointed to so many things," said Alan Solomon, a historian who pushed to preserve the symbol and probe its meaning. "It's just a cabinet of curiosities."

The design is simple, but clearly intentional: It centers on a triangle framed with a strip of mortar, framed by two rougher triangular forms.

It sat unheralded for years in a building on Pearl Street, at the edge of the financial district. Solomon, who works for a vintage-lumber dealer, spotted it several years ago while engaged in an effort to save the 1832 building.

Most of the building was demolished to make way for an apartment tower's parking garage, financed in part with tax-exempt bonds intended to spur redevelopment after the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks. But the facade and the brick symbol were saved.

City tax records show the building, a onetime warehouse, was built for William Colgate — the civic-minded, deeply Christian soap entrepreneur who founded what is now Colgate Palmolive Co. and helped establish the American Bible Society. A spokesman says Colgate Palmolive has no record that the company, then headquartered elsewhere in Manhattan, used the Pearl Street building. But Colgate prized it enough to make special note of it in his will, Solomon said.

To Solomon and some historians, Colgate's ties to the building suggest the brickwork pattern has religious resonance.

The triangle has traditionally been used to represent the Christian concept of the Holy Trinity. Some scholars, while stressing the need for more research, think the Pearl Street symbol evokes esotericism — efforts to delve for divine meaning in numbers, geometry, nature and elsewhere. The symbol was even the subject of a presentation at an academic conference on esotericism in Amsterdam in 2005.

The triangular forms could encode a message in their proportions, said Joscelyn Godwin, a Colgate University music and medieval studies professor who examined esoteric ideas in "The Theosophical Enlightenment."

Alfred Willis, a scholar of esotericism's influence on architecture and a university librarian at Hampton University, suggested that the proportions may point to Bible verses.

No one has claimed to be sure of the artifact's historical merit, and some have questioned whether it has any. They include Rockrose Development Corp., the company building the new tower on the Pearl Street site.

Rockrose's construction experts placed the brickwork pattern sometime in the 20th century, company planning director Jon McMillan said. But the developers agreed to pay for removing the artifact intact after fielding requests from Solomon, City Councilman Alan J. Gerson and others.

Tests in June dated the mortar to 1950 or later, though the bricks themselves may be older, said John Walsh, a mortar expert and geologist at Testwell Laboratories Inc. in Ossining.

Solomon is now trying to track down recent owners and occupants of the Pearl Street building. He wonders whether the artifact might have originated in the 19th century and later been reassembled with modern mortar.

The symbol's significance may never known, but enthusiasts see value in the questions. Some feel its pull as an imprint of human inventiveness.

"Whether it was made in the 1970s or it was made in the 1850s, somebody still made this thing," Rocco Leonardis, an architect and brick aficionado, said as he looked it over in its warehouse crate. "No matter how we slice it, it's meaningful."

TERRORIST WARNINGS NO LONGER GET ATTENTION THEY MAY DESERVE
Sat Jul 21, 2007

We just don't believe them anymore. We no longer take seriously the warnings of terrorist threats coming from White House functionaries. So, earlier this month, when Homeland Security Secretary Michael Chertoff told a Chicago newspaper about his "gut feeling" that the nation faces an increased risk of a terrorist attack this summer, nobody paid much attention.

They've frightened us so many times before with false alarms and phony threats and hyped intelligence that we've stopped paying attention. We've forgotten where we put the duct tape and plastic and gas masks. And don't forget those color-coded alerts. Do they still do that?

When Chertoff issued his vague warning, even the White House sought to rein him in, sending out a spokesman to assure us that there was "no credible intelligence" pointing to an imminent attack.

Here's where it all gets maddeningly frustrating: This time might be different. The latest National Intelligence Estimate -- a summary was released last week -- reports that al-Qaida has regrouped and recharged. In other words, Osama bin Laden is still alive, still at large and still hell-bent on destroying this country.

And President Bush is delusional enough to believe that history will restore his reputation?

The NIE, which represents the consensus of the nation's intelligence agencies, warns that the United States is in a "heightened threat environment," with al-Qaida "creating new capabilities and overcoming security obstacles." Further, al-Qaida will "intensify its efforts to put operatives here."

Six years ago, the White House had the opportunity to pursue a relatively small group of jihadists across the Earth. With the support of every country that mattered, we went into Afghanistan to oust the Taliban, who had given sanctuary to bin Laden and his mad dream of global jihad.

Then, the campaign against al-Qaida took a strange turn. For reasons that remain elusive, the Bush White House allowed bin Laden to slip away -- figuratively commuting his sentence -- and pointed the finger at Saddam Hussein, who had nothing to do with 9/11, who distrusted bin Laden, who threatened his neighbors but not the United States. Just as reliable intelligence reported that bin Laden had escaped to the caves of Tora Bora, on the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan, the Pentagon began dispatching Special Forces operatives to Iraq.

It was a strategy that Osama himself might have mapped out. Not only did we bog down in Iraq, provoking a multi-faceted insurgency that we have been unable to contain, but we also gave bin Laden just the recruiting tool he needed. Lawrence Wright, author of the Pulitzer Prize-winning account, "The Looming Tower: Al-Qaida and the Road to 9/11," writes: "Al-Qaida's duty was to awaken the Islamic nation to the threat posed by the secular, modernizing West. To do that, bin Laden told his men, al-Qaida would drag the United States into a war with Islam -- 'a large-scale front which it cannot control.'" The invasion of Iraq did just that.

Bush continues to dissemble and distort the facts -- he recently insisted that "the same folks that are bombing innocent people in Iraq were the ones who attacked us in America on September the 11th." Although al-Qaida in Mesopotamia didn't exist on 9/11, its recruits now have battle-tested maneuvers they can bring to American shores. There is no reason to believe they can't fight us there and here at the same time.

Even if the Bush White House had remained focused on Osama, splintering his organization would have proved difficult. It's hard to stop every fanatic with a bomb or a gun. But we might have been better prepared if the president and his advisers had used the terrorism threat to shore up our defenses and ramp up our emergency planning rather than to manipulate us into voting for their candidates and supporting their foolish war.

In our sixth summer since 9/11, after countless color-coded alerts and shoeless shambles through airport security, we no longer believe the hype. This may be just what bin Laden had in mind.

July 22, 2007 · Sunday morning in Kansas City, Mo., Ann and Don Bender pushed 19 small American flags into the grass in front of their house. The new flags joined more than 3,600 already on their lawn to mark the number of U.S. military casualties in Iraq.

The display is in an affluent section of a reserved Midwestern city where political yard signs are rare.

The flags are arranged in a long strip 10 flags wide between the Bender's white fence and the road.

Don Bender has a huge yard but he's almost run out of space.

"We'll have to talk to our neighbor to see if we can expand into his yard if we have to," he says.

As Don adds more flags, his wife Ann is updating the pair of simple black and white signs that bookend the rows. The new total is 3,632.

Ann and Don Bender, who both grew up in Kansas City, were hesitant about putting out the display. Ann notes that this is the Midwest where people usually don't like to call attention to themselves. And they've never done something like this before. But she says their frustration with the war in Iraq finally overcame their inhibitions.

"Our children hear us talk about it, express our unhappiness with what's going on," Ann says. "We finally thought they need to see us doing something, take a stand in some way."

The Benders originally put the flags out in the middle of the night on July 3.

They planned to take the display down after the Fourth of July, but they got so much positive response that they've decided to leave it up.

Veterans have stopped by to thank them. People have left notes.

Ann has found it surprisingly moving for her, too. One night, a storm knocked many of the flags over. She and Don went out to straighten them.

"It was my first exposure to starting at one end and working our way down. And I just became so overcome by 'every flag's got to be straight.' And every one of these is somebody who's died over there and their mothers would want their flags standing up straight."

The Benders aren't calling for an immediate pullout of U.S. troops.

Neither of them claims to have the answer for the war in Iraq. They say they simply don't know what the solution is, but in the meantime, they hope people who drive past their house each day remember how many American soldiers have died in the war.

Companies that reclaim the plastic resin from empty beverage bottles say they can't get enough of the stuff. However, fewer than one-quarter of the billions of plastic bottles Americans purchase every year are recycled.

Some of the worst places for recycling are large public events. For instance, baseball games at Boston's Fenway Park draw more than 36,000 fans, but there are no recycling containers in sight.

A Little League park in Mansfield, Conn., may have a better game plan — a transparent receptacle with a recycling symbol stamped on the outside. The containers have increased the recycling of bottles and cans in town parks by about 60 percent.

"It was like 'Yes! This is the answer to public events!'" says Virginia Walton, Mansfield's recycling coordinator.

Walton says the key to getting people to recycle more is to give them a way to do it — and make it a no-brainer.

'Bottomless' Demand for Bottles to Recycle

Public recycling bins of any kind are rare in the United States, but the industry that recycles the bottles' plastic resin, known as PET, is hungry for more to make fabric, carpets and new bottles, says Michael Schedler of the National Association for PET Container Resources.

"The demand is almost bottomless at this point," Schedler says. "There's so much new demand coming on and existing demand can't be met."

Across the country, recycling programs for plastic bottles are a hodgepodge — each state and town does its own thing. Some recycle plastic at the curb; others at drop-off centers. Some don't recycle at all.

Allen Hershkowitz of the Natural Resources Defense Council says container deposit laws, also known as "bottle bills," give a financial incentive to recycle.

"People realize in bottle-bill states that throwing out a can with a deposit on it is, in effect, throwing out a dime or a nickel," Hershkowitz says.

Many Grocers, Bottlers Oppose Deposit Laws

The 11 states with bottle bills account for more than 60 percent of the PET plastic recycled in the United States. But many grocers are against deposits.

"It's somewhat dirty, it's inconvenient and it actually costs us money," says Ken Capano, who owns two ShopRite stores in Connecticut.

Capano says the deposit law in his state places too much of the burden of recycling on grocers, who have to provide space and machines to take the bottles back. It costs each of his stores about $20,000 a year, he says.

Bottlers, who have to administer container deposits in some states, also oppose the laws. Susan Neely, president of the American Beverage Association, says curbside programs work better.

"The key is a comprehensive program that draws in not just bottles and cans but milk jugs and newspapers and magazines and detergent bottles and all the things that make up the waste in our communities," Neely says.

In California, the deposit program funds curbside recycling. Jim Hill of the California Department of Conservation says the state uses the money from bottles and cans that aren't returned. That adds up to $250 million a year.

"Curbside systems, drop-off systems all working together, I think, is the best approach to get the best bang for your buck," Hill says.

California also addresses some of the grocers' concerns. Instead of supermarkets taking back the bottles, independent redemption centers do. The state also puts a deposit on all beverage containers except milk and wine.

Some Say Laws Should Target More Than Bottles

Kim Jeffrey, president and CEO of Nestle Waters North America, says he's not against container deposits, but he says beverages should not be the only containers targeted.

"Everybody that sells a plastic container that's recyclable should have some deposit on it if we're going to do this thing the right way," Jeffrey says.

And he means everybody.

"If it's P&G with a detergent container; if it's ConAgra with a peanut butter container; or if it's me with a bottled water container; or if it's a dairy with a one-gallon milk container — this should be a level playing field on this," Jeffrey says.

Hershkowitz says that if Americans don't recycle more plastic, other problems will get worse.

"Petroleum-based plastics emit enormous amounts of hazardous emissions and greenhouse gases during the acquisition of the petroleum and the transformation of that petroleum into a plastic product," he says.

Hershkowitz says recycling avoids that pollution, but making recycling work isn't a national priority. However, the growing market demand for empties may trigger a new commitment.

July 23, 2007 · A sea of black-robed seminarians is crammed into a basement chapel at the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C. It's early May —- graduation day for Wesley Theological Seminary. The graduates are giddy and godly, more women than men. Some are just out of college, but most are launching their second careers. They fiddle with their caps, anxious to begin their journey.

Chris and Katie Bishop are among the youthful minority. They are members of a generation that came of age at the turn of the century with an inclination toward altruistic work. Over the next year, NPR will follow the Bishops and several other young religious leaders, from a spectrum of faiths, as they begin ministering to an increasingly diverse population of Americans.

The Bishops met on the first day of seminary, when Chris threw a Frisbee that broke the nose of Katie's roommate. The mishap yielded a marriage rather than a lawsuit. Katie is 23, a small brunette. Chris, 25, is a strapping guy with a stubbly red beard. They are expecting their first child in a few months.

As they prepared to walk down the majestic aisle of the National Cathedral, Chris said he was "chomping at the bit" to leave seminary behind and begin full-time ministry.

Katie said simply, "I'm ready." She paused. "We'll find out."

Hearing the Call

Ministry has a mysterious job qualification: a "call" to serve God, adopt a life of low pay and help others — without expecting anything in return.

Katie remembers when she received her call. She was in fifth grade, and the minister at her Presbyterian church asked her to preach on Youth Sunday.

"On the way to church that morning, I was all ready to preach and I was very excited," she recalls. "My mother turned to me at a stoplight… and said, 'Katie, are you nervous?' And I said, 'No Mom, this is what God is calling me to do.'

"I know we sat through two or three turns of the light," she adds, "because we both realized that was not something that I had said, but it was something that the Holy Spirit was saying through me."

For Chris, it was more gradual. He had little epiphanies while on mission trips or playing sports with his youth group. He says God even spoke to him while he was working as a kayaking instructor. The message: "I have more in store for you than just going down a river," Chris says. "You're going to share your faith…even when you're teaching people how to kayak."

Chris recalls his spiritual mentor, John, testing his resolve:

"He said, 'Chris, if I can convince you to do anything else with your life, that's what I'm going to do.'"

Now, Chris says, there's nothing else he'd rather do than spend Friday nights at a bake sale or hanging out with his church youth group — or organizing a yard sale in 95-degree heat.

Long Hours, Low Pay

A month after graduation, Chris is at Middletown United Methodist Church, in rural Maryland. He and about a dozen high school students are sorting through donations for the next day's fundraiser: toys, CD players, karate pads and mountains of clothing. The high school students give Chris the highest compliment – he's "a regular guy, not as uptight as other ministers," says one.

Chris knows these children. He grew up in the relatively wealthy, 1,200 member church. He was recruited by the pastor to be second in command, preaching and working with the youth. Katie has been assigned to two small churches nearby.

Ministers work notoriously long hours, evenings and weekends, for small sums. The Bishops will each make $33,000 a year, plus a housing allowance.

"I know we could make a lot more money doing other things," Katie observes. "I just don't think we'd be happy."

She acknowledges it will be tough to raise their children on two pastors' salaries. But she believes "we'll get to show our children something that's worth more…than a big house of our own."

Chris agrees. Having never had a first career, he and Katie don't know what it's like to have a big paycheck.

And the Bishops are part of a lucky minority: They have no debt – a problem that has driven some newly minted pastors out of the ministry, or discouraged talented young people from choosing ministry at all.

Katie and Chris are fortunate in another way. Unlike many other denominations, the United Methodist Church places two-clergy couples in the same vicinity. Katie is serving at two rural churches tucked away on "the mountain," as the locals call it. As the assistant pastor, she preaches at one church one week, then switches with the senior pastor the next.

Winning Over One's Elders

For Katie, who grew up in a suburb of Washington, D.C., moving to a place where people actually make hay, and where milk is delivered to your doorstep in bottles, has been a bit of a culture shock.

Driving to church one Sunday morning in late June, Katie points out a flock of turkeys. "I almost ran over those turkeys last week," she reports. "What are turkeys doing on the road, anyway?"

At the red brick church, next to the potato farm, Katie greets 50 or so people streaming into the lobby. Most are elderly, some of them farmers; all are distantly related to each other. At 23, Katie could be the granddaughter of most of the flock she's leading. She recently counseled a young couple on "God's plan for marriage;" at the time, she had been married less than six months.

"I get a lot of people calling me girlie," she laughed. "'That's a good sermon, Girlie.' Or, 'I couldn't hear you this morning, Girlie.'"

Katie adjusted quickly — but the congregation wasn't so fast.

"Most people didn't take well to a female minister," said church member John King. "There are a lot of older people, so they have that mindset. But once they get turned around, which they have, it's completely different. They just love you."

Katie remembers one Sunday shortly after she arrived: "I was here, greeting people, and someone came in and didn't know it was me and not Pastor Randy who was preaching. She turned around and left."

"That was very shocking for me," Katie continues. "But several months later, I went to go visit this person, and she said, 'After getting to know you, I realized that you are called to be a pastor.'"

Katie presides and preaches with the sureness of a veteran. She has memorized virtually all of the communion service, a testament to her memory — and to the fact that she's been preaching since the fifth grade.

A Future of Uncertainties

So, what terrifies Chris and Katie the most about the year to come?

"I don't know. I'm kind of nervous about being a dad," Chris answers. "The ministry stuff doesn't worry me so much."

The baby, due in October, figures into Katie's worries, too:

"The first day I wore maternity pants to church, they fell down in the middle of the sermon," she says, cringing at the memory. "Fortunately, I was wearing a robe. But I get nervous about those little things happening. Like my water breaking when I'm preaching. My church wants to put a tarp down on the altar area. I think it's a joke."

The year ahead already has its broad outlines for the Bishops: negotiating marriage as a two-career couple, serving God and, soon, a more demanding taskmaster: their baby girl. That much is known. The rest, Chris says, is not.

"I think I've found that, whenever I think I've got it figured out, or I know what's going to happen, God has just the opposite in store," Chris says.