It’s been a while since I’ve blogged. That’s because last month I took a week-long vacation in Copenhagen, which was fantastic and awesome and so many things I still can’t begin to describe even now - but that attempt is for an upcoming blog.
Today is the tenth anniversary since the attacks of September 11, 2001. For the last three years, I’ve kept the memory of that day at St. Bartholomew’s Church in New York City, where I regularly attend Sunday services. I say this in mild surprise because ten years ago, I was in a completely different place in my life, and indeed I wouldn’t have imagined myself in church on that day or any day.
Ten years ago, I called myself more of a seeker than religious. I’ve mentioned already how I was raised Roman Catholic, and, although being gay never made me feel God loved me any less, I was sorely disappointed with the church as an institution, which often times excludes as much as it includes. However, in 2001 I was a junior in college, had already declared religion as my major, and in fact had been studying the subject on my own since the eleventh grade. I was familiar with the latest scholarly analyses on the Bible, especially the New Testament, and their theories on the origins and development of Christianity. So comes the curious fact then that, by the time I decided to pursue religion, in particular early Christianity, as my area of study, I no longer believed in the central claims of the Christian faith.
In 2001, I preferred to attend Jewish worship services on Friday evenings on campus. Although Judaism, like all faiths, is rooted in stories that can also be called mythical, there was a certain breath of fresh air I felt during worship. The intimacy of our group, the ancient Hebrew melodies that I still fondly remember, and the unique Sabbath rituals were all certainly a factor. But in Judaism, God is God. God is the Eternal One, the Name, the Presence, the Place, etc. Of course, God is not just an abstract idea in Judaism either, but since God never became man as in Christianity, that immediate personal connotation is removed. Even God’s name is unknown. Thus there is a deeper mystery behind the Being of God, deeper than the mystery of how a son of God can be God too. So in a way, what you believed about God was, for the most part, your own business. What mattered more was how you acted in life. At the time, this was the type of God that I was looking for. I couldn’t explain how the personal God of Christianity could allow such bad things to occur in the world.
That all changed after September 11th. I never went back to Jewish services on campus because my faith even in that concept of God was shattered.
I remember that morning, not vividly, but clear enough. I woke up at 8:45am, so just when the first plane struck the North Tower. Sometimes I watched the news as I was getting ready for breakfast, but that morning I decided not to. The day before had been extremely hot and humid, but it had cooled during the night. Morning in Philadelphia was crisp and bright; the sky was a consistent blue.
I walked into the Dining Center at Haverford College, got my breakfast, walked into the dining area, and to my surprise, everyone was quiet. Well, it was by this time 9am - who wants to be talkative at that hour, especially as classes are beginning? Yet when I sat down next to my friends, they also were quiet and staring into the distance. I asked one of my friends if there was something wrong, and she told me that a plane had just struck the World Trade Center. My immediate thought was the accident involving a plane striking the Empire State Building soon after it had been completed. A tragedy, sure, but accidents happen, right? At this point, word hadn’t reached us that a second plane had just struck the South Tower.
I finished breakfast and hopped on the bus. At the time, I was in my third year of Hebrew classes, but these were taught at Bryn Mawr, our sister college, a 15-minute bus ride away. When I got there, I saw a good friend of mine waiting for me at the bus stop. Though she and I took Hebrew together, I could tell she had been waiting precisely for me, and not just to go to class. She looked worried, and asked if I was okay. I said that I was and asked where this concern came from. That’s when she told me about all the other things that had transpired. By this point, it was almost 10am, so the South Tower was in the middle of collapsing.
I don’t remember much of class that day, but returning to Haverford, there were already events being organized to reflect on the morning. Although my mother, who lives in New York City, had called me to tell me she was alright, it suddenly occurred to me that, if I hadn’t known about the second plane while it was happening, what if something else was going on that I didn’t know about. I tried calling her back, but all I got was a busy signal. Later on in the day, though, I spoke to her again, and she assured me our family in New York was fine.
I remember going online. At the time I had a Danish penpal that I corresponded with often over ICQ. I remember logging in and receiving so many messages of compassion and support from random people in different parts of the world. That really touched me.
I remember our school’s emergency meeting that evening. Haverford College is rooted in the tradition of the Society of Friends (the Quakers). Our meetings, though of course not religious, retained the central element of Quaker worship by letting people speak as they felt moved to. One girl was inconsolable as she told us how her mother worked on one of the high floors of the World Trade Center, and she had not heard from her mother. My heart broke as I listened. (Next week, we learned her mother had made it out safely.) That was the first time the tragedy hit home.
Up to that point, I knew things had changed, but it didn’t really register. Even hearing that all airplanes were grounded until further notice didn’t change that feeling. It wasn’t until I returned to New York for fall break in mid-October that I understood the magnitude of September 11th. Formerly, as I rode the bus from Philadelphia to New York, the World Trade Center was one of the first things you could see about 45 minutes away, but now the Twin Towers were not there to welcome me home. I tried visiting what was now Ground Zero only to find that there was no getting past Canal Street, though even from there, you could see the rubble. In fact, portions of the rubble, I later learned, were still on fire, a fire that apparently was not completely extinguished until December.
Through all of this, my faith in God eroded away, and I decided not only to bury God, but also never to visit his grave.
Ten years later, I was reflecting on this in church, as I listened to the soaring, yet sorrowful, music commemorating the departed. The details of how I got here will be for another blog. All I can say now is that I have not returned to the faith of my childhood, nor will I ever. But I have returned to a different perspective on faith that has an even richer meaning to me. I’ve learned that faith is humility. Faith is not knowing all the answers. It is not about correct doctrine, but correct action; not about belief, but correct living. That is, after all, what I had been learning from the Jewish tradition. God’s name is hidden so that we seek, not to define him, but to understand how to act in his ways. I just couldn’t word it like this at the time.
However, I learned an even more important lesson. Faith may not be about correct doctrine or belief, but these are meant, not to separate religious from infidel, but to point us all in the direction of God.
I don’t pretend to know what the early Christians meant when they preached Christ crucified, dead, and buried, and risen on the third day. I wasn’t there. But I do know this. I had buried God and resolved never to visit the tomb I laid him in. And yet God still arose from that tomb without my knowledge and returned to me, not in the same way I knew, but transformed, in a ghostly yet clear image, with a soft voice that opens and explains ancient words in a new light, making my heart burn with it. Isn’t this what we read that those early Christians claimed to have felt? Jesus’ Resurrection remains the central claim of Christianity, but not of my own personal faith. Rather I know now, because of that claim, that resurrection occurs every day. There is an opportunity for new life every day, a possibility to change your life every day, perhaps not in drastic ways, but certainly in the ways that matter most. And because I know this, every Easter takes on a new meaning, and I can confess with my whole heart: “Alleluia! Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed!”
Religious language is poetic language. The same way a poem turns ordinary words into meaningful ones, so too does a faith story turn ordinary life into one with meaning and purpose. The birth of Jesus acknowledged as the salvation of Israel should teach us that the birth of every child is full of hope for a better future. The Virgin Mary’s bearing of God in the human form of Jesus should make us wonder how purely and sincerely we bear God to one another. We learn, then, to focus more on those things we know better, and be humble about the things we don’t. Thus in the midst of inexplicable tragedy, we hopefully learn that, while we cannot explain the roles of tragedy and violence in the divine plan, we already know the parts that love and charity play in it - and that that’s where we will continue to find God.
But behind all this language, what strikes me most is the intention behind it. Christianity, among many faiths, teaches that God is with us in the here-and-now. But when in church we are greeted with “The Lord be with you”, I know that that means: ‘All that is holy, good, and full of light, I wish for you now.’ When we greet each other with “the peace of the Lord”, I know that that means: ‘I hope from the bottom of my heart that you have wholeness in your life today.’ I couldn’t ask for any wishes more sincere than those that call upon whatever higher power there may exist, and pray that it walk with me. And when we say “Blessed be God” or “Praise the Lord”, I know that that means: ‘What’s truly precious in life is not the latest hit movie or TV series; it is not the latest fashion, or song, but it’s that which cannot be described or bought. Blessed be that!’
And so, with that in mind, prayers for the departed on 9/11 no longer offend me, as they used to. To me, it was pointless praying to a God that put the fallen into that situation in the first place. But I recognize now that that is not the point. The point is the intention, and so with that, I can say:
For all those who died on 9/11, and for all those who have died in like manner:
May endless choirs of angels lead you into heaven with song.
May generations of patriarchs and prophets stand at the door in cheerful applause.
May golden-crowned apostles and saints welcome you warmly with open arms.
May bright-robed martyrs and confessors greet you lovingly with a holy kiss.
May ever-blessed Mary and all the host of heaven exult in your homecoming.
May the very being of God - Father, Son, and Holy Spirit - embrace and enfold you.
May the very voice of God whisper: “Well done, good and faithful servants.”
No comments:
Post a Comment