September 11, 2011
It was one of those mornings
that only seem to come in early fall.
Bright blue sky, air crisp,
leaves just beginning to turn.
I remember driving down I95 towards Philadelphia Airport,
listening to NPR, with a program about a newspaper column in Texas,
and laughing at the observations they made.
There was nothing remarkable about that morning in the airport,
other than an absence of the things we take for granted today:
long lines, taking off your shoes, removing liquid from your carryon.
I boarded, hefted my small red suitcase into the overhead bin,
and settled down with a book for the journey to Austin via Atlanta.
We took off on time, 8.10am,
and it all seemed like a normal flight, until we landed in Atlanta --
though I did wonder why we seemed to slow down at around 9.25, somewhere over North Carolina.
But it wasn’t until we landed, that we knew something was not quite right. As we stood to take our belongings out of the overhead bins, there was an announcement. “Please stay where you are for a minute. We have an important announcement to make that will affect you all.”
I don’t remember the rest of the announcement. I do remember getting off the plane and walking into the terminal,
and on the TVs overhead at the gate, seeing the first tower
fall.
I remember talking with some other passengers, planning to hire a car together to drive to Texas.
I remember the signs at the car hire booths, saying no cars available, and standing in line at the check-in counter, because we didn’t know what to do, or even what was going on,
and because the cell circuits were down in the north east but were fine to call overseas,
getting what information we had
from a person who had a family in Russia, who were watching the news and relaying it to us.
I remember finally getting a phone call from someone on an email list with me, who had picked up a relayed message that I was stranded in Atlanta, offering me somewhere to stay.
I remember calling my father at 6.05am Australian time on the twelfth, and discovering that he had spent the first five minutes of his 64th birthday wondering if I had been on one of those planes.
And in the days that followed, watching CNN non stop, and trying to explain to a 10 year old that this wasn’t a movie,
and eating southern fried chicken in the airport on the way home with my fingers, because we weren’t allowed even plastic forks.
And the calls and the emails,
trying to find out
who was safe
and who was not.
We all have memories of that day, all of us who are old enough,
memories of the horror, and the uncertainty and the fear.
Some of us lost family or friends;
others of us were involved with the recovery at Ground Zero
or caring for those who were bereaved.
This last week
we have been bombarded with news stories, about those who died,
and those who survived,
and about the children whose lives were changed forever,
even before they were born.
And I suspect we have all reacted a little differently.
I’ve found myself turning off the television.
It’s just too overwhelming.
for others, the television reports are exactly what they need.
But through it all, I’ve found myself wondering,
what difference does it make in our response
that we are Christians?
In those early days, it made a huge difference.
We had a community to turn to, and more importantly, we had God to turn to.
I remember reading aloud, at every service in the Cathedral where I was working, the names of the 42 parishioners from our diocese who had died. I remember gathering with the Australian and New Zealand communities in New York, and the families from among them of those who had died,
and realizing how much of a difference it made
to have a faith, to be able to trust in God.
Even when we didn’t know the words to pray
we could draw on the words of the Psalms,
of Psalm 22, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”
Of Psalm 42, “ Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him,
my help and my God.”
But in some ways, our faith has also made it harder.
Because where the voices around us
called for revenge,
we had to deal with the voice of Jesus saying,
“Love your enemy”
and when someone injures you, forgive them. Forgive them not just once, but seventy times.
And when your gut is churned up with grief, that just feels wrong. It feels almost like betrayal
to forgive someone
who has caused this much destruction, this much pain.
And yet, this is what Christ calls us to do.
To forgive, with no strings attached.
It’s hard
to be a Christian
in this world of ours.
But Christ's words, as hard as they are,
also reflect common sense.
Because the danger, the danger that I have seen this last week
is that we can become mired in the anger.
It’s so easy to live as if everything stopped
that glorious and tragic autumn morning ten years ago.
One of my friends was severely injured in the Oklahoma City bombing. She still bears the scars
of the hundreds of stitches that sewed her skin back together;
her injuries were far less than they might have been, because when the blast hit
she happened to be standing sideways in a doorway
and was slightly protected.
And one of the things Susan has said
is that there comes a time
when you need to stop.
To stop the anger, the rage, the hatred.
To accept the verdicts of the justice system,
to move on with life.
Because otherwise
you get stuck.
She herself testified
against the death penalty for the bomber.
Because no matter how much he had hurt her,
she believed that there was no future in an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life.
She wanted to reclaim the grace, the gift, the freedom
of forgiveness,
of a life lived
in company
with Christ.
The physical scars
will remain,
but what I have seen in her,
is that God has indeed healed her
through and through,
and her life
is a blessing, not just to her,
but to everyone
that she comes in touch with.
We as Christians
experienced the grace of God
in those difficult days and weeks following 9/11.
And it is as Christians, followers of Christ
that Christ calls us
to forgive. To work for peace.
To be reconciled, and share that news of reconciliation with the world.
It’s not easy.
Jesus never said it would be.
Following him
was like picking up the very cross that would kill him, and us with him,
and carrying it, risking everything
for his sake.
That’s what it means to be Christians.
That’s what it has always meant.
Letting go of our selves,
and letting Christ lead us, even when it hurts,
lead us in the way of healing, and forgiveness
and peace.
© Raewynne J. Whiteley 2010