TEN YEARS LATER. Wellesley Congregational Church September 18, 2011 Martin B. Copenhaver Psalm 46

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1 Wellesley Congregational Church September 18, 2011 Martin B. Copenhaver Psalm 46 TEN YEARS LATER On Tuesday night, September 11, 2001, many of us gathered for worship in this place. We needed to be here. We made calls to as many members of the congregation we could reach and when we opened the doors of the church that night, we poured in, a flood of worshipers eager to be in the presence of God and in one another s presence. We felt drawn and compelled. We had to be here. Together we read the 46 th Psalm, the same scripture President Obama read last Sunday at the site of the terrorist attacks. We read the psalm that night for the same reason we turn to it again and again to anchor ourselves in the promises of God: God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea; though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble with its tumult. Those ancient words became new in our hearing. After all, ten years ago we were all buffeted by a consuming swirl of different responses to what had happened. There was shock and grief and anger and fear, such shifting realities that it felt almost as if the ground beneath us might give way. Last week at this worship service we remembered the 10 th anniversary of 9/11 in our prayers and in the tolling of bells. But it was not the focus of the sermon. That is not only because there were so many other important foci for our gathering on what we call Welcome Sunday. I also discerned a need to step back, to reflect. The anniversary was the cover story of every major magazine, the subject of every news program on radio and television, the occasion for countless remembrances, speeches, commemorations, stories, tributes, interviews. Much of it was moving, some of it was informative, perhaps even helpful, but when there was such hyperfocus on the anniversary, both last Sunday and in the days leading up to it, I found it difficult to reflect. I am a card-carrying extrovert, so I can t believe I am saying this, but last week I found myself thinking, Say, can t we just be still for a moment? The psalmist enjoins the faithful: Be still, and know that I am God. And if we can t do that entirely, maybe we can just be still. And now, a week later, when there is very little talk elsewhere about the anniversary, I wonder what more need be said, what more can be said. But I do think it is worth taking pause to consider what these ten years have brought, what the legacy of 9/11 is ten years later. The day after the terrorist attacks, September 12, our Deacons met. In my sermon the following Sunday, our first Sunday worship service since the attacks, I told a story from that Deacon s meeting. I told about one of the Deacons saying, You know, I think this is an opportunity for us to learn how to be Christians. If we can learn how to approach this like Christians, maybe we can learn to live like Christians. Then in that sermon I said, I think he s right, but I don t think it will be easy. It s hard enough to follow Jesus when things are going well, when we are not particularly fearful, when loving our neighbors doesn t seem threatening, 1

2 when we do not feel hate awakened within us. It will be more difficult now. It will not be easy, but we must do it. Ten years later I find it painful to read those words because, for the most part, it seems to me that in the intervening ten years we have been led more by our fears than by our faith. Now fear is not necessarily a bad thing in itself. Fear is what told our ancestors to run from predators and spurred them on to go faster than they otherwise could have. My friend Tony Robinson points out that there are really two kinds of fear: One kind of fear shatters illusions of control and leaves us frightfully, terribly open. We feel suddenly vulnerable. We can no longer hold to the assumption that we have all the answers or to the illusion that we don t need each other, or need God, for that matter. And that was largely the response immediately after the attacks on 9/11. On that first Sunday after the attacks every church was filled with people who were empty. People poured into houses of worship like it was Easter Sunday, but with this difference: I remember the look on so many of your faces, eager for a word, a word of good news. The only other times I remember looking out at a congregation like that, so obviously yearning for the good news, is at funerals. At such times, we wear our need on our faces. And in those early days after 9/11 we all turned to one another. In neighborhoods and workplaces, around the kitchen table and on the train, we talked to one another out of our depths, for once, and not just out of our shallows. We also talked to strangers as if they were important people in our lives because, for once that seemed to be true. We said tender things to people dear to us words like, Please take good care of yourself, or, I love you, words that suddenly resonated with greater urgency and more genuine feeling. And in those days we shared silence, as well, a silence suddenly made deeper and richer by the experience. Here is the way Tony Robinson put it: And there was in our terrible emptiness and vulnerability an openness that was somehow holy. For once, the ancient words of Scripture seemed neither distant nor veiled but immediate and transparent. Hymns and prayers ground smooth by familiarity were newly strong and resonant. He concludes, In those first days, we felt the full fragility of our lives. That s a hard thing to feel, but not always a bad thing to feel. Wouldn t it be wonderful if that were the only way fear is manifest? But there is a second kind of fear that, in the case of the aftermath of 9/11, largely replaced the first. Hold onto fear long enough and it can have a corrosive effect. A fear that is held long enough may not prompt us to do the right thing, but rather the very thing we would never choose to do were it not for the influence of such fear. As Cardinal de Retz once observed, Of all passions, fear weakens judgment most. Or, as someone else put it, Fear is never a good counselor. It seems to me that we have been listening to the counselor fear whisper in our ear for the last ten years. And isn t that what terrorism is all about? The intent of terrorism is not merely to 2

3 kill some people, but to instill fear in everyone. And, by that measure, the terrorists have succeeded. It is this second kind of fear that contributed to our country s political leaders decision to wage two wars. It is this kind of fear that would prompt us as a country to sanction practices that otherwise would have seemed unacceptable, even unthinkable, practices like unwarranted wiretapping, secret prisons and torture. It reminds me of nineteenth century British historian James Anthony Froude s observation that, Fear is the parent of cruelty. It also reminds me of the old adage, Choose your enemies carefully, for you will come to resemble them. This second kind of fear also has stirred more religious intolerance and prejudice. And I am not just talking about loony Koran-burning pastors here. In the immediate aftermath of 9/11, when it seemed that fears could not run any higher, 51% of Americans said that their religion is very different from Islam. Six years later, as fear had taken a more corrosive form, 70% of Americans said that Islam is very different from their own religion. In 2002, 39% of Americans held an unfavorable view of Islam and Muslims. In 2010 that number jumped to 49%. Yale ethicist Miroslav Volf offers this reflection on those findings: The increase [in the unfavorable view of Islam and Muslims] was not a fruit of deepened insight but of stronger prejudice. For many Americans, Osama bin Laden is the paradigmatic Muslim, an absurd conviction for anyone who has lived with Muslims. Prejudice is a form of untruthfulness, and untruthfulness is an insidious form of injustice. So part of the legacy of 9/11 are these two different kinds of fear. And just as there are two kinds of fear, there are two kinds of remembering. One kind remembers wounds in a way that feeds the desire to inflict wounds on others. The other kind remembers in order to seek healing and a life beyond the suffering and violence. And we have seen powerful manifestations of both kinds of remembering since 9/11. A while back my wife, Karen, ran into a man we know in a physician s waiting room. In the course of that conversation, he took out his cell phone and on the little screen he called up a short video of the twin towers of the World Trade Center burning and collapsing on 9/11. He said, I watch this every single day. I never want to forget what happened on that day. I never want to forget what they did not us, why we went to war. That sentiment, often expressed in less extreme terms, is one I have heard over and over again in the past ten years, and particularly in the anniversary commemorations: We must never forget. And I appreciate the need to remember those who lost their lives. And we couldn t completely forget the traumatizing events of that day if we tried. It does seem to me, however, that you can reach a point, both in our individual lives and in our collective lives, when remembering no longer serves us. As important as it may be to remember what happened on 9/11, if those memories are held so intently it can cloud a person s judgment or even the collective judgment of an entire society. We must never forget what happened on that day is some of what he heard from those who wanted us to enter the war in 3

4 Iraq. We must never forget was part of the rallying cry of those who defended the use of torture. It is some of what we heard from those who said that the compromise of civil liberties was necessary. We must never forget what happened that day. These are all manifestations of that first kind of remembering that feeds the desire and impulse to strike back at those who have wounded us. And I do worry about what happens to us as a country when we insist on remembering so intently. I think it is dangerous when the most powerful country in the world continues to nurse an ongoing sense of victimhood, even ten years later. I have concluded that there are times when memory no longer serves, when something more like forgetfulness is required. Let me explain what I mean when I say, something like forgetfulness is required. We are not talking literally here about a complete loss of memory. We are not expected to erase every memory of hurt or injustice from our cerebral hard drives. Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard says that forgetting is the opposite of creating. In creating, you make something out of nothing. And in forgetting, you make nothing out of something. He says that choosing to forget hurt or injustice suffered at the hands of another is like taking something and putting it behind your back it s still there, if you were asked about it, you d have to grant that it exists, but you don t look at it, it s not between you, but behind you. And perhaps something like forgetfulness, in this sense, is what allows us to remember in ways that prompt us to seek healing and reconciliation. If, as it seems, the past decade has seen increased religious intolerance in many quarters, it is also true that efforts to increase interfaith understanding and cooperation have also increased. A recent survey finds that the number of congregations that have participated in some form of interfaith celebration has doubled in the last decade. The number of congregations that have participated in some form of interfaith community service has almost tripled. Mind you, the number of congregations who have participated in such activities is still relatively small, but the trend is encouraging. And, by the way, I am grateful to be a part of a congregation where we worship and serve with people of other faiths on a regular basis. Our ministry to homeless families, Metrowest Interfaith Hospitality Network (which we celebrate today) is just one example. So there are examples of attempts to remember in a way that is healing. And, I must say that I am particularly encouraged by the attitudes and convictions of a particular generational cohort, those who are now in their late teens and twenties. These are the ones who were most shaped by the events of 9/11. A generational cohort is different from a generation. A generation comes along on a regular basis every 35 years or so. A generational cohort is a group of people who were at a formative age say, eight, nine, ten years old, through much of the teen years when something happened on a national or international scale that shapes the way they approach the world. 4

5 For instance, my parents grew up during the Great Depression. They responded to that event differently, but it clearly shaped their attitudes, not only toward money, but toward life more generally. That event influenced the way they approached risk, the ways they understood obligations to family and neighbors, and in a host of other ways, as well. For me and my generational cohort, that shaping event was the Vietnam War. So it may not be surprising, then, that I am still skeptical of political leaders who make the case for going to war and, more generally, I often chafe under authority and I can be quick to criticize institutions. (Unfortunately, we don t get to choose the shaping events of our lives.) Although it will take a lot more time to see all of the ways 9/11 shaped the generational cohort of people who are now in their late teens and twenties, I am enormously encouraged. Generalizations are tricky here, but I meet so many people in that cohort who display a stunning commitment to service, to social justice, to interfaith understanding and cooperation, to reaching across borders and whatever else might divide us. This summer I had a conversation with someone who heads an organization that seeks to help people tap the impulse toward service and generosity. He was telling me about a meeting he had with the head of another organization that aims to equip young entrepreneurs. So the head of the organization for entrepreneurs said to the head of the organization that seeks to foster service and generosity something like this: We need you. We need something. I mean, kids today just aren t as interested in making money. That s not enough for them. They want to change the world. Hearing that story, I thought, What are you going to do with kids these days? Well, maybe follow their lead. There is a way to remember that does not seek vengeance, but healing. I want to bring Jesus into the room (not that he wasn t already here), but it strikes me that at such a time it is essential to remember Jesus on the cross. Now, remembering Jesus on the cross has not always been helpful. There are two kinds of remembering, and one leads to demonizing and violence, and through history remembering Jesus on the cross has lead to pogroms and persecutions. But if we remember in the second way, in a way that seeks healing, Jesus on the cross is a reminder of Jesus own sacrifice in the cause of peacemaking and reconciliation. When we think about how we as Christians are to respond to the events of 9/11, it is helpful to remember no, it is essential to remember that Jesus endured an act of violence for the purpose of putting an end to violence. That is the most important thing of all to remember and puts all the rest of our remembrances in the right context. 5