blog first published on September 11, 2016
In some ways, it seems to have been a lifetime ago and yet I will never forget. Although fifteen years are past, the memory of that horrific day in September is as vivid and deep as the sky was blue. It remains a memory of a dark place.
It started out as a regular Tuesday morning. I was at my desk at the church following up on a few things that came up during our Rally Day celebration just two days before. The church's administrative assistant Doris came in with news that there was an accident - a plane crashed into the Twin Towers. As we listened to the breaking news, accident morphed into an attack as a second plane struck the other building. Our nation was under a terrorist attack right in my backyard.
Faith Lutheran church, the place where I was serving as a pastor at the time, is nestled on top of a rolling hill in a picturesque bedroom community. It is on the commuter rail to New York City. On September 11, 2001, there were about two dozen folks at Faith who worked in the Towers and financial district. As my colleague and I shifted into a pastoral care mode, we tried to make contact with our people. The phone lines were dead. Being the tallest structures in the metropolitan area, the Twin Towers held the cell phone antennas. When these giants fell, we found ourselves cut off and entered the uneasy unknown.
It was like we were suddenly thrust into a dark cave without a lantern. The darkness deepened as people started to wander into the church office and stories began to emerge. A working mother of two little ones who ran late that day missed her regular train into the city - a train that would have brought her right into the center of the chaos. Sitting in our office, she was safe but shaken to her core. A salesman who usually didn't go into the city was scheduled to meet a client later that morning downtown. He missed that meeting but made it to the sanctuary of our church. Another did not. A father of three small children, who opted at the last minute to switch his Boston flight from Monday night to Tuesday morning, found himself on fatal Flight 11. By mid-day, Pastor Mac and I were sitting in the living room of this man's widow doing what we were called to do - be a pastoral presence.
I remember that on our return trip to the church, we saw emergency vehicles barreling down the emptied highway with sirens wailing. Fire engines. Ambulances. Police cars. All heading into the city to do what they could. That night we would respond to this crises in our own way. As a community of faith in the midst of turbulent times, we gathered for worship. Usually, it takes weeks to prepare for and announce special worships. On that day, in just a few hours, worship was planned and the word got out.
In a darkened and full sanctuary, the people of God gathered in their horror, confusion, anxiety, fear, anger, numbness, and uncertainty. Absent was the confidence, arrogance, pride, and facade that can plague suburban churches. We lit the Christ candle and clung to our hope in the resurrection. The familiar words of Psalm 46 were spoken and heard in ways unimaginable before:
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.
In the dark cave of our communal despair, we sought the comfort and peace that passes all understanding. From the depth of our being, we yearned for God in our corporal time of need. We were not let down. God was indeed in the midst of our assembly. That biblical truth of Psalm 46 was given new experience and reality. When all else seemed to be amuck, we grasped on to our faith in God's presence and eternal care. God gave us strength and touched the core of our spirits.
Sitting in the darkness of that night, the Christ candle burned brightly. Although it was only a single candle, the light of hope pierced the darkness. In the flickering light, we were given a glimpse of what resurrection looks like. In the hours, days, and weeks to follow, we worked as a community of candles to shine light into many dark places. What is more, by the grace of God, we found a path that eventually led out of the cave.
And so my memory of this dark day is one that is lifted from the terror by the strength and power of community and light. Although it is true that we were forever changed by the evil circumstances of 9/11, it is also true that we were made anew by the graceful action of God. It is in this light that I will be going to worship on Sunday's anniversary.
Permission granted to share with family and friends. Copyrighted 2016. Walt Lichtenberger