Remembering 9/11 along the Jesus Way

Submitted by Patrick Burrows, September 14, 2010

This past Saturday was the ninth anniversary of the tragedy of September 11, 2001. Everyone remembers where they were when the news of the events in New York, Washington, D.C., and Pennsylvania came across the airwaves. I was sitting in Mrs. Bowman’s 8th grade English class when our principal made an announcement in a choked voice that still stands as the only time I witnessed her emotions. For the remainder of the day, the entire school stared at the television, transfixed by the horror that was happening too close to home. For my generation, this moment in time sits as a pivot: that moment when suddenly, everything changed.

Last year, President Obama made a call to service in remembrance of 9/11 and of those who perished on that day. The Life Together program, in conjunction with the Episcopal Diocese of Massachusetts, organized its second annual day of service stemming from this call. We came to serve alongside our brothers and sisters from across Eastern Massachusetts, both inside and outside of the Church. Service in this way struck me as an act of radical protest. By serving, we protest against the violence and hatred of that day with humility and love–the opposite virtues–rather than with violence and hatred as some are wont to do. This is what Christianity is about: Love in the face of hatred and fear.

I had the privilege on Friday night of travelling with another intern to St. Stephen’s, Lynn to watch the premiere of the youth group’s short film, “I am Lynn”, which many of you will have the opportunity to see at Diocesan Convention in November. In it, I heard the youth of St. Stephen’s recount stories of violence and fear from their past that shook me to my very core. But the striking thing was not the fear, but the fact that these youth were able to stand up in the face of these horrific moments and show compassion, not only towards the people around them, but also on themselves as witnesses, survivors, or perpetrators. Though they would likely be hesitant to view it this way, the love I witnessed in these youth who have so much slated against them blew me away. Rather than buckling to fear, they counter it with love.

It strikes me, then, that three days after September 11, the Church celebrates the Feast of the Holy Cross. The collect of the day reads: “Almighty God, whose Son our Savior Jesus Christ was lifted high upon the cross that he might draw the whole world to himself…” quoting the Gospel according to St. John, 12:32. For first century denizens of the Roman Empire, the cross was the symbol of the most shameful, most horrifying way to die imaginable. But upon that cross, Jesus stretched forth his arms in a loving embrace, not bowing to the violence of that moment. And through that embrace, the symbol of the cross—once the incarnation of terror—has become the symbol of God’s saving act of love for us.

This is the Jesus way: to stand boldly in the face of terror, violence, and hatred and proclaim peace, humility, and love.

Show up, fall down, love: a redemption

Tis true, tis true, O Caroline,

the fault ascribed--alas!--is mine,

Though my honor may now be wholly spent,

In dust (and ashes) I repent

and do your trust again beseech,

begging forgiveness for my grievous breech.

Though now at risk of being thrice the liar,

I promise you what you require

By this night's end. 

And if not by midnight then by one,

until the blaggard blog be done.

Till then, my long-forsaken dear,

though my verse be deadly...queer (?)

I importune your patience,

as you await your recompense,

And I await the restoration

of my once great reputation.

Most penitently yours,

Nicholas

-Nicholas Hayes, 6:05p.m., Sunday July 18 2010 to LifeTogether blog administrator in pursuit of his six-month-overdue post

The writing of this blog entry is something of a miracle. I’ve been committed to doing
a blog entry for LifeTogether since, I believe, the second week of January, and though reminded
regularly—at monthly intervals, at least—of my failure to make good on it, still I have
managed to evade my duty. At last, however, in the concluding week of the program,
conscience—and the concerted forces of Caroline, Waetie, and public shame—has
caught up with me. It may also be that as the program ends, I feel a natural need to
record some of my reactions. So, here I am.

Closing in on the final week of the program, many things—emotions, thoughts, regrets,
reminiscences—are coming up for me. (Since I’m an Enneagram 4, they’re all of course
of the utmost intensity, and all thoroughly tinged with melancholia). At moments I feel
overwhelmed by feelings of one kind or other, at other moments, almost frighteningly
numb. Within the cacophony, however, I’m surprised at persistent leitmotif, refusing
to stop trumpeting at me. I’m starting to think it may be the most important lesson
I’ve learned this year. Simply put, it reduces to this: love means not running away.

I was reminded of that on Tuesday, at our final SLAM Tuesday prayer meeting, as all of
us-- the SLAM house, Arrington, and John deBeer—sat gathered around our improvised
table made from a neglected door, spread with a wonderful, incongruous half-consumed
banquet of quiches and fruit salads, pastries and redundant yogurt. As the inevitable
food coma set in, John DeBeer broke the complacently falling silence to ask our house
whether we’d learned anything about the relationship between falling in love and loving.
Though I didn’t express it exactly in those words, the answer which came to me, with
surprising speed and certainty, was: love means not running away.

There were so many times this year when I wanted to run away. Some of them took
place right in those Tuesday morning prayer meetings, after the nice thrill of the “honey
moon” with intentional community was over. There were the mornings when I woke
up anticipating a conflict that I didn’t want to deal with, or those when I woke up afraid
(more deeply than I would have admitted) of being called out for not doing the dishes, or
those when I was just tired of showing up to these same people, so agonizingly different
from me at times, and plumbing the dwindling reserves of sympathy and attentiveness
week after week. The urge to run was intense, and often that meant running into my
head, into the future—or my imagination of it: checking out mentally. Why should I
have to care so much? I would sometimes wonder. “We’re not even together for a year.
We’re not family. Once this program ends, I’ll have no obligations. At the end of the
day, I don’t have to deal with this—what does it really matter to me? I can just move
on."

Yet I showed up to those meetings, and kept showing up. My housemates did too.
Showing up became our habit—our habitual choice—and we grew (mostly) to trust it,
even when we didn’t feel like it or want to, because at the end of the day there was
really no other genuine option, not if we cared for each other. And we did. So we didn’t
run away from each other: we showed up. That I wonder at, and will, I think, for a long
while.

There was also the urge to run from work. Man was that strong at times, particularly
around April 10th. There too I think of reluctant mornings, the mornings I’d wake up to
with a desire to simply stay in bed and forget—forget all the importuning emails and
meetings and phone calls. There was too much to do and too much to get wrong and
final failure seemed to be waiting for me just around the corner, grinning expectantly,
waiting to unveil to the world the rot underneath all my masks and fine performances.
Sometimes I did stay in bed, longer than I should have. But getting out became a habit.
Caring for my work, and the people I’d drawn into it, proved stronger than fear. So I
didn’t run away: I showed up.

I keep coming back to that as we prepare to take our leave of each other this week. In
spite of all the temptations to zone out, or begin forgetting prematurely, or to try and
convince ourselves that somehow this experience wasn’t as meaningful as we once
were so sure it was—we have to resist the urge to run away. We have to show up. I
have to show up.

Somehow, in spite of all the urges to act against it, feeling that sense of obligation alive
within myself is deeply joyful.

For the witness of my work, and the witness of my fellow interns in giving it to me--
Praise God.

~Nicholas