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Copyright, © Thomas D. Wintle, 2002
A sermon by the Rev. Dr. Thomas D. Wintle delivered at the First Parish Church in Weston, Massachusetts, on September 16, 2001. The scripture readings were Romans 8:31-39, Psalm 46, and John 14:1-7.
"For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord" (Rom. 8.38f)
I
At times like we have known this week, it is said, cognitive abilities are reduced – which explains why so many of us could not find the right words last Tuesday. Many of those heroic firefighters, interviewed while coming back from the World Trade Center, said simply the scene was "indescribable." There are no words to adequately express our collective national shock and sadness.
What we have been able to do is to reach out to our families and friends. Just to talk with those we love has been important. Just to hear the voice of someone who worked in or near the World Trade Center was a gift of incalculable joy for many. . . and a gift denied to many. The uncertainty of not knowing what has happened to a loved one has got to be the worst kind of helplessness. I spoke with a fellow last night who had worked on the 94th floor of the World Trade Center – ninety of his friends and co-workers are missing – ninety!
That sadness, more than shock or anger, was the prevailing mood here Tuesday. What happened at First Parish was actually quite extraordinary.
I came into the office to rewrite the brief heading for the Parish newsletter, and decided that we should open the church for a prayer service that evening. Sue Spencer got on the phone to other clergy in town, I ran into Rabbi Weiss and Congregationalist minister Joe Mayher at lunch, and invited them to join us. I called a Muslim friend, active in the local mosque, and told him we’d especially welcome them. Sue put a make-shift sign on the front lawn.
That was all the advertising there was. I wish we’d had the capability of emailing everyone, but email was very slow that day and we’ve not yet collected everyone’s email address anyway. Actually, I’m glad we were able to get the Parish Post out on that very hectic day.
And then that evening people began to gather. Matthew Chase was ringing the bell, just like the days when the Puritans called townsfolk together in the meetinghouse in times of crisis. And people kept coming. I was deeply moved that so many Muslims came, making up perhaps a quarter of the congregation. By the end there must have been a hundred people here, all from a sign in the front yard. People hugged, people cried, there were prayers and readings of Psalms. Rabbi Weiss told us of learning that afternoon that David Rettig, a member of his congregation in Wellesley, had been on Flight 11. The president of the Islamic Center read a prayer by Mohammed for times of crisis.
But most of all, we sat in silence – not the silence of emptiness, but the profound silence when hearts are so full that not a sound can come out of us.
It was Tuesday night, and when I invited people in our prayers to name, silently or out loud, the people whose safety was yet unknown . . . well, I didn’t count, but there were many. Real names. Real people. Not numbers.
Perhaps that’s where we still are today: shock and uncertainty have given way to the overwhelming sadness of names becoming known, photographs seen, relatives pleading for information. That’s why people gathered here at noon Friday and another hundred folks gathered with candles on our front lawn on Friday night with Sue Spencer.
We have not heard the end of all this, and we will not for a long time.
II
There is some information we might seek: where is God in this? How can we understand this theologically?
This is not an academic question. It is THE important question, for it asks where do we find hope, where do we find strength to go on, what possibly redeems us from the evil we have encountered?
In some ways, you know the answer already: we have witnessed an extraordinary outpouring of caring and compassion and unity and fellowship in the past few days. If that’s not holiness, I don’t know what is. We are beginning to hear, and will continue to hear, stories of great heroism — moments of grace in the face of disaster:
- the young husband on the fourth plane who called his wife to say they were going to challenge the hi-jackers, and may have prevented it from reaching the White House;
- the firefighters in New York whose actions have amazed the world, including the injured man who simply asked for a peanut butter sandwich, then put on his helmet and went back to work.
- And the Franciscan fire department chaplain who went down under the collapse while giving last rites.
If there is anything that has been central to Christian faith, it has been the recognition that God’s love becomes incarnate in human life. "Incarnate" means "taking on flesh" – that is, talk about God is not just about something that happens off in other-worldly, heavenly realms, it happens right here. God acts upon and through people, inspiring us to deeds we could not imagine ourselves doing, giving us strength when we believed ourselves at the end of our rope, giving us hope to go on when we thought we could not survive another minute.
I was reading recently a prayer written after the Oklahoma City bombing. The author of the prayer spoke of identifying with the children who were killed, with the parents, with those who mourn, even with those who planned the bombing. And she concluded with these words: "I cannot hold it all. I hand it to you, Jesus. Hold it with me. And suddenly I see that I am handing you the cross: here, yo carry it. I cannot. And he has taken it up. He is carrying all of this, all of this. The dead, the wounded, and those who mourn; the killers and those who were killed; the frightened, the angry, the sorrowful – he is carrying all of this, all of us, every part of us, into the loving heart of God." [Margaret Bullitt-Jonas, Women’s Uncommon Prayers].
It has always seemed to me that the real meaning of the Cross as a symbol of human suffering and God’s love is the idea that somehow in the crucifixion of Jesus, GOD experienced first-hand what it is like to suffer. That’s really an amazing idea. It says, to me at least, that God does not promise to save us from all danger – to do so would be to take away our freedom to act, to choose good or evil – but God does promise to BE WITH US in all our troubles and joys. That is "Emmanuel" – God is with us. That is "where God is."
If you think about it, no religion which has as its central symbol a cross should be used to promote easy answers or cheap grace. It is a tough grace – grace that operates in and among the disasters, the falling buildings and angry men, grace that does not give-up, grace that lifts us when we stumble, comforts us when we cry.
It is precisely that perseverance, that unwillingness to give-up, which is the real power of God. It’s not just thunderbolts or earthquakes, it’s the quiet rain on a parched desert or the breeze on a rescue worker’s fevered brow. It’s the people who keep coming back to do good even when the world seems to conspire against them.
And that is why God wins, always.
III
Oh, there are other questions, other issues to be raised. There is a justifiable concern that Arab-Americans not be targeted for revenge. I was pleased to see Imam Talil Eid on television saying "we are Americans too" and we grieve. And I remember that we are taught to love our neighbors as ourselves. There are questions about whether we should use the language of war or of crime, of whether we seek restorative justice or retribution. There is the question of why some parts of the world see America as the great Satan while most parts of the world would like to move here. There are questions about balancing security and liberty.
But, you know, my friends, those are NOT questions for today. Now, today, is still the time to grieve, to mourn, to pray for families, for magnificent rescue workers, for the dead and for those who fate is unknown. Now is the time, as Mrs. Bush said, to "reassure children that they are safe."
Now is the time to hear again, and to remind ourselves of, the ancient words of promise from St. Paul. There are no words better than these.
"For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God" (Rom. 8.38f).
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