January/February 2002

SPECIAL REPORT

Searching for Meaning in the Rubble

Psalms of September by Alan Dowd When the wicked take aim at the innocent with arrows and hate... where should we turn? - Psalm 11

Within two hours of the attacks on New York and Washington, the World Trade Towers fell from the Manhattan skyline, erasing not only over 6,000 lives but perhaps the most visible trappings of wealth and worldly power on the globe. The Pentagon smoldered for three days, the gash in its side a fiery metaphor for the physical and psychological wounds inflicted upon America and the civilized world. And Air Force One, that silver symbol of might and independence and freedom and modernity, was reduced to hopscotching across a dazed country -- its zig-zagging flight back home a reminder that everything had changed on September 11, 2001.

Grasping for comfort, for an anchor to hold on to, some turned to history. They compared the attack to Pearl Harbor, to Oklahoma City, to the Titanic, to Antietam. But the comparisons proved woefully inadequate. As the gravity and enormity of the assaults began to sink in, an awful reality curdled up -- September 11 was one of those moments in history without precedent, without parallel, without equal. And as such, history could offer little solace, only silence. But when history is mute, when human words fail us, Scripture whispers with the voice of God.

I work for the United States government. And as the jetliners became missiles and slammed into our world that awful Tuesday morning, my friends and co-workers scrambled away from their offices on Capitol Hill. We were on the phone with them as the buildings were emptied. "I've got to go," one of them shouted. "I've got to go now."

Across Independence Avenue, another friend of mine was covering a hearing in the Capitol as the Pentagon buckled and burned. "They ordered us to get out, and we headed to the street," he recalled after a terrifying 72-hour stay in D.C. "I was sure the Capitol Dome itself was next."

Blocks away, friends of my wife were ordered to evacuate the White House and other executive- branch buildings. As an unknown number of guided missiles sliced through the skies of New York and Virginia and Pennsylvania, an orderly evacuation turned into a haphazard, chaotic dash away from what was once the safest address on earth.

Watching the slow-motion moments of siege -- even from half-a-continent away -- was terrifying. Like anyone who witnessed the attacks, my emotions were a swirl of sadness and anger and shock. But something changed inside me -- and inside many others, I suspect -- when the Trade Towers finally succumbed to the weight and flame. What was shocking and tragic had become debilitating and crippling. A kind of breathless despair fell upon me, like the layers of ash that covered Manhattan's ground zero.

This was not supposed to happen, not here. The towers were supposed to defy gravity, to protect those inside their steel and glass, to withstand the blows of hatred. The feeling of security and safety that I had known my entire life was gone. Perhaps it was nothing more than an illusion of safety I had enjoyed; whatever it was, it was shattered. When those twin spires turned to jagged mountains of rubble and steel, the sadness and shock turned to sickness -- a deep and gnawing sickness.

As the days passed, it grew. I couldn't eat or weep or sleep. Everything seemed a shadow of its former self. Hugs weren't as warm. Laughs weren't as full. Life was not the same. I felt guilty when I smiled, when my thoughts turned to diversions and amusements that filled my life before September 11 -- football games and bike rides, shopping trips and TV shows. As I told my wife, it felt as if there was no joy left, no song in my heart.

But in that dark hour, I stumbled toward two shafts of light -- one gave me hope for tomorrow, the other offered comfort for today.

It was Psalm 77 that provided the comfort.

Like me, like us, the Psalmist "was in distress" when he penned his prayer. His spirit grows faint, even as he tries to smile. In his numbness and grief, his mind races back to "the former days, the years of long ago." When he looks upon the bleakness of his world, he is left only with questions, grim and desperate questions about an absentee God. "Will he never show his favor again? Has his unfailing love vanished forever? Has his promise failed for all time? Has God forgotten to be merciful? Has he in anger withheld his compassion?" The questions pour out like tears.

Yet his soul cannot be comforted until he turns to God, until he deals with God, until he recalls all the miracles and mighty works and promises of his Lord. "I will remember your miracles of long ago," the Psalmist declares. "I will meditate on all your works and consider all your mighty deeds." To defy the heartsickness and hopelessness of the present, he remembers the happiness of the past. And so should we.

"You are the God who performs miracles; you display your power among the peoples," he exclaims, as if to convince himself of what he once knew. It is God who orders the rain and lightning; it is God who redeems; it is God who shepherds a wandering flock. And it is God who will carry him -- and us -- through the pain of today, not around it.

As today gives way to tomorrow, the Lord offers hope and assurance in Psalm 11.

"When the foundations are being destroyed," David cries, "what can the righteous do?" When the wicked take aim at the innocent with arrows and hate, when the shadows grow long, where should we turn?

David knows the answer before he finishes the question: We turn to the Lord, and we trust him to lead us, to vanquish evil, to chase away the shadows -- and to expose those who lurk there.

"The Lord is on his heavenly throne," David cheers. "He observes the sons of men; his eyes examine them." God knows our hearts. And for those hearts poisoned with wickedness, there will be no shelter. "A scorching wind will be their lot," David declares. "For the Lord is righteous -- he loves justice."

The authors of modern terrorism may seem beyond the reach of justice, but the Psalms say otherwise. Terrorism is only the latest manifestation of the eternal struggle between good and evil. We are not the first generation to be drawn into that struggle and tremble in its wake. We are not the only people to look skyward and ask why. We are not alone in a thirst for peace and justice and comfort.

Only when we look upon September 11 with the eyes and heart of the Psalmist can we see that no one is beyond the reach of God's justice. And no one -- no nation, no moment in history, no victim, no widow, no orphan -- is beyond the reach of God's comforting arms. 

Alan Dowd is a congressional aide and freelance writer. The author of more than 100 articles covering everything from faith to philanthropy to foreign policy, his work regularly appears in The Washington Times, The World & I, The American Legion Magazine and other national publications.

O Say Can You See?

by Tom Ehrich

Like many whose lives were disrupted by the Vietnam War, I became confused about patriotism.

As a child, I had clarity. Patriotism meant stirring songs, the Pledge of Allegiance, the flag in our classroom, photos of my father in

uniform, collecting candidates' lapel pins, feeling grief when President Kennedy was assassinated.

But then patriotism got confused with politics. As an unpopular war proceeded, some claimed that true patriots were those who held one set of views, and all others betrayed flag and country.

Maybe it is always thus. Maybe partisans always seize the powerful symbols of patriotism to advance their cause. They do so with religion and race, as well, sometimes joining all three in a powerful demagogic brew.

I lost more than innocence. I lost touch with Pledge and Anthem. If patriotism meant one angry slice of the American pie and not the foundation on which we all walked, if the symbols of patriotism could become weapons in a fight against each other, familiar rituals lost their joy.

Terrorists attacking our nation's largest city and capitol have cleared that air.

This is our homeland under attack. Not the Republican Party or the Democratic Party, not liberals or conservatives, not hateful suspicions, not economic theories, not a majority race or a majority religion, not one set of family values versus another, but our homeland, this "sweet land of liberty."

On the first Sunday of this new era, leading worship in the next county, we set aside the usual hymns and liturgical niceties. We substituted patriotic songs. I asked a veteran (U.S. Marines, Lebanon, 1957) to carry the American flag in procession.

I could hardly sing a word of "America," not because I was still confused about patriotism, but because years of loss surged to the surface and I needed to compose myself.

Instead of ritual words, I told about my week since the attacks began. I asked the faithful to tell where they were on Tuesday and how their week had gone. They told powerful stories of worry, pain, anger, disbelief, shutting down, clinging to family.

I offered brief homiletic guidance, as well, but mainly I was confirmed in my belief that this is a time for us to talk, not to orate; to listen to each other, not to stake out positions.

Driving home, I listened to the start of a BBC concert. An American conductor happened to be at the podium in London. He said the British musicians had altered the program and would perform "from our hearts and souls to yours."

From the nation whose shelling inspired the original came: "O say can you see, by the dawn's early light, what so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?"

I sang along, as best I could manage.

As if for the first time, the Anthem was not the backdrop to American athletes preening at the Olympics, not a prelude to some political convention that would marginalize all but true believers, not the comforting ritual whose Amen is "Play ball!"

Composed nearly 200 years ago, the last time America was attacked by a regressive society which found American freedom threatening, the anthem suddenly gave voice to a live question.

Through rockets and bombs, through the smoke of "war's desolation," is the flag still there? Is "the land of the free" intact?

We must not let patriotism get squandered again. We will disagree in these tense times. Some will cry for vengeance, others for restraint. Some will pick up arms eagerly, some reluctantly, some not at all. Some will rally around the president, and others will question his every move. Some will demand justice through missiles, and others will insist that we study hatred toward America.

Patriotism isn't the property of one political persuasion. It is the ground on which we all speak freely, disagree openly, hold our leaders accountable and worship as we feel called.

The "star-spangled banner" waves over a land where mosque, synagogue and church can share an intersection, where flaws can be mended, where "liberty in law" is real, and where brotherhood -- multihued, multivalued, sometimes offensive, never complete but always yearned for -- does spread "from sea to shining sea." 

© 2001 Religion News Service

An Episcopal priest, Tom Ehrich is a writer and computer consultant, who lives in Durham, N.C.

I Pledge Allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible,...

by Charles Haynes

The day after. From my office in Arlington, Virginia, I see smoke still pouring out of the Pentagon. Rescuers continue to risk their lives as hope fades for finding more survivors.

Day and night, desperate friends and relatives of victims stand near the wreckage here and in New York, praying for a miracle.

Millions of us join their vigil in our hearts. We offer prayers, fly flags, donate blood, send money, but we still feel helpless in the face of unspeakable tragedy. Words fail us. America is forever changed.

It will be many months before we fully grasp the magnitude and implications of these horrific events. But we already know that life in our nation will never be the same.

Never again can we take our safety and freedom for granted. Terrorism is no longer a crisis that mostly affects people in other lands. Terrorism is now a fact of life in the United States, aimed at shaking the foundations of our republic.

What kind of nation will we be?

Much depends on how we respond to this supreme test of our national character. We can react in ways that restrict our liberties and divide our nation, or we can respond in ways consistent with the ideals and principles that define America. Many of the early signs are heartening.

Who will ever forget the thousands of police, firefighters and medical personnel in Arlington and New York who rushed in to help -- and in many cases sacrificed their lives? Or the images of countless volunteers, of long lines of people waiting for hours to give blood?

Consider also the resolve and unity of our national leaders. With one voice they resolve to defend freedom, but to do so in concert with our allies around the world and in ways that uphold our commitment to justice.

We are a caring people. We are a determined nation. This bodes well for the nation we will become in the aftermath of this tragedy.

Sadly, however, there are some Americans -- let's hope it's a small minority -- who are responding with hate and fear. Less than 20 hours after the first attack, I had already received e-mail messages condemning Islam and threatening violence. One writer called for the deportation of all Muslims "back to the desert hell holes where they come from."

As I write this, news reports are coming in about death threats and violence directed at American Muslims. Bullets shatter the windows of a Texas mosque. Bricks hit an Islamic bookstore in northern Virginia. Vandals deface Islamic centers in various parts of the country. Muslim leaders advise American Muslims who wear

Islamic attire to stay out of public areas for the immediate future.

This is the dark side of America -- the America of militia movements, hate groups, white supremacists, anti-immigration zealots, race-mongers and religious extremists. These are the people who attack freedom in the name of freedom, much like the hijackers themselves.

Their numbers may be small. But if we aren't careful, if we don't speak out, the voices of hatred can infect the body politic in this crisis time.

That's why we need to be very clear that authentic Muslims could have had nothing to do with the attacks on the Pentagon and the World Trade Center. Those who carried out these murderous acts are evil criminals without conscience.

Whatever religion they invoke in support of their cause, they do not, by definition, have anything to do with the genuine teachings of Islam, Judaism, Christianity or any other of the world's major faiths. These terrorists are no more Islamic than the killers in Northern Ireland are Catholic or Protestant.

Unfortunately, promoters of hate and fear ignore such distinctions. They exploit times like this by creating scapegoats and perpetuating false stereotypes. If we care about our nation, we must not let that happen.

The America we must defend in the coming weeks and months is the America of freedom and justice for Muslim Americans, Christian Americans, Jewish Americans or Americans of any other religion or creed. Defending the rights of all citizens is at the heart of what it means to be an American.

In the near term, we must find and punish the perpetrators of the attacks on our nation. And we must take all the necessary steps to prevent future attacks. But in the long term, the best and surest defense of freedom is the practice of freedom.

As I write these words, I look up to see that the smoke has finally cleared at the Pentagon, exposing the gaping hole in the side of our nation's symbol of military might.

But then I look across the river and see the Lincoln Memorial gleaming in the afternoon sun. And I recall the words inscribed there, spoken during another great test of the American character and the American nation.

"We here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

© 2001 Religion News Service

Charles Haynes is senior scholar at the First Amendment Center.

What Really Matters

by Tom Ehrich

How has your perspective changed since September 11?" I ask my Sunday School class.

Answers run the gamut: A fresh appreciation of family, more attention to making each day count, rediscovered patriotism, a sense of kinship with other religions and other peoples, awareness of life's fragility, signs of God's goodness and new attitudes toward warfare.

No one says, "I am more determined than ever to make a ton of money." No one says, "I want the biggest share of the pie." No one says, "If life is short, I am going to live it up in style."

Meanwhile in a box on page one, the Sunday New York Times apologizes for a special section on men's fashions, printed before the terrorist attacks. Its 144 ad-filled pages now seem "inconsistent with the gravity of the news," the paper says.

Photos show pouty young studs with smirking lips, living extravagant lives, lounging in wealth of Getty proportions, in a pampered world where an expensive suit defines "state of grace" and servants wear blank expressions.

What once would have seemed a silly but harmless glimpse into a world where indolence connotes merit, now seems symptomatic of something sad.

Who were the heroes of New York? Wool-clad hunks playing idly with designer dogs on designer carpets accompanied by designer babes with open thighs, or men and women wearing grimy fire-resistant blends and face masks, risking their lives for strangers?

Whose wrenching decision do we honor? A red-faced newspaper's decision to proceed anyway with a 144-page ad bonanza but with a disclaimer to avert any tarnishing of the news side's extraordinary coverage of painful events, or the financier who actually could afford to buy these high-end togs, but instead is mourning the loss of colleagues and pledging millions to care for their families?

Once the smoke clears and a new equilibrium emerges, I wonder if we will notice that, when our world was shaken, our first instinct wasn't to grab the gold. Wealth didn't seem so important. High style seemed absurd. Carefully crafted images of luxury without labor evaporated. Leather-clad dreams that seemed so compelling two weeks ago now required a front-page apology.

This unmasking is familiar. When a loved one dies, no one prefers mourners wearing Armani over those wearing Sears. One looks into eyes for signs of caring. Grief support requires substance, not style. Grace is a shared tear, not a fashion statement.

For that moment, and maybe afterward as well, a lens shifts and then having more than enough doesn't feel so necessary.

I wonder if we will remember that our first instinct after September 11 -- not a submission forced on us, not a grim stifling of real dreams, but our finest humanity, our hearts' pure flow -- was to give blood, send relief aid, call a friend, gather family, weep for strangers, sing of homeland, join hands across aisles, support Arab-American friends against thugs.

Will we remember that humankind's enduring dream -- to dress in purple and fine linen and to feast sumptuously no matter who is starving at the gate -- no longer seemed compelling? Not because it was wrestled from our grasp, not because some pushy preacher goaded us with guilt or some angry revolutionary held a gun to our heads, but because, with life and hope on the line, wealth didn't seem so critical.

Yes, some turned to looting, some to hate crimes, some to new forms of spam e-mail ("Get your flag here!") and computer viruses ("Vote for war!"). Many returned quickly to their daily rounds, hoping to find them unchanged.

But there was a moment when vast numbers of supposedly ugly Americans stepped off that cultural canvas that depicts us as craven, sex-obsessed seekers of indolence, posers and ornaments determined to eat while others starve.

What emerged was compassion, generosity, brotherhood.

When our humanity was tapped, out came goodness. And that goodness had nothing to do with wealth.

Will we remember that? When the gravy train starts chugging again, will we remember that the sound of a child's voice mattered far more than the sound of coins falling onto a large pile? 

© 2001 Religion News Service

An Episcopal priest, Tom Ehrich lives in Durham, North Carolina.

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