All Souls Church, Unitarian

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Archived: Nov 08, 2001 at 23:36:49

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11/08/2001				11/18/2001

Listen to the Sound of Our Cry
By Robert Hardies
A sermon delivered to All Souls Church, Unitarian
Washington, DC
September 16, 2001

"This is the hour of Lead," writes Emily Dickinson. "Remembered, if outlived, as Freezing persons recollect the snow First, Chill, then Stupor, then the letting go."

It is now five days since unspeakable tragedy befell our nation. We find ourselves, in Dickinson¹s words, somewhere between Chill and Stupor. The chill -- the shock -- of the first hours and days has slowly given way to a confusing stew of grief, loss, anger, fear.
In the days after the tragedy we Americans flocked to churches and gas stations. We bought bottled water and American flags. We sang "God Bless America" on the Ellipse and recited the Twenty-third psalm at the cathedral. Some demanded justice. Many demanded war. A few attacked innocent Muslims. Some marched for peace. On Friday the rain fell in New York and Washington and nature mirrored for us our somber spirits. And now it feels as though we¹ve entered an uneasy period of waiting, fearful of what will happen next. First, chill, then, stupor. Then the letting go. We are in a stupor, indeed. We are a long way from letting go.

In our confusion, we look for answers. We grasp at them like straws, trying to make sense of it all. In our service here on Tuesday night, Bill Sinkford, the president of the Unitarian Universalist Association, asked, "Where is God?" Others, with Job, ask how such horrible things can be visited upon good, innocent people. A reporter from the Washington Post called to ask, "What solace can you offer people amidst such tragedy?" When I try to respond to questions like these, I¹m reminded of the words of the late African American poet Gwendolyn Brooks who said: "Beware the easy griefs . . . that fool and fuel nothing." Beware the easy griefs that fool and fuel nothing. Beware, in other words, the pat answers. The comfort wrapped too neatly with a bow. The denial. The scapegoat.

In Manhattan, street preacher Tom Brown passed out apocalyptic pamphlets promising redemption in another world if only we could stick it out here for a little while longer.
In one 90-minute stretch this week he handed out 500 flyers. "People usually think this stuff is baloney," he said, "but now they¹re listening." Beware the easy griefs.

On Thursday, Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson blamed the ACLU, feminists, gays and pagans for the bombing arguing that these "demonic" groups had somehow brought God¹s wrath upon America. Beware the easy griefs.

In the days after the tragedy some Americans took to the streets to commit acts of vandalism against Arab Americans and Muslims. Islamic centers and mosques were firebombed in Chicago, Seattle, Cleveland, in Texas and upstate New York. Beware the easy griefs.

The op-ed pages of the Washington Post sound a near-unanimous call for war and retribution.
A drumbeat echoed throughout America and summed up so well by Senator Zell Miller of Georgia who said: "I say, bomb the hell out of them. If there's collateral damage, so be it. They certainly found our civilians to be expendable." Beware the easy griefs.

There are, however, some things that are true. There is solace to be found. Though we feel we are drowning in confusion and sorrow and anger, there are lifelines cast out to us.
Lifelines that can pull us to dry land or at least keep us afloat. Part of coping with grief and tragedy is learning which lifelines to hold on to, and which to let go of. Today I offer you three that have helped me find meaning in the wake of this tragedy. Not all are comforting. None offer easy solutions. But all have helped me before and help me now as I seek understanding.

The first is this: Don¹t be afraid to mourn our broken world. I don¹t mean simply mourning the tragedy of this week. Begin there, but a shock of such profound proportions often opens wider channels of grief. A deep, existential grief. Grief for a broken world in which tragedies like this occur. For ours is a broken world, torn by violence, stricken by poverty, plagued with injustice. It¹s been that way for a long time. In fact, according to the faiths that draw their lineage back to Abraham, its gone on since Cain killed Abel, asking, "Am I my brother¹s keeper?" So many of us, for so long, have avoided, ignored, denied this brokenness. But now I ask that we allow our sorrow to open us in compassion to others who suffer. To the homeless at our front door. To the Palestinian child who lives in squalor. "Life is suffering," taught the Buddha. Allow yourself to feel, for a moment, that fundamental brokenness. And mourn it.

Those times when I have allowed my heart to be broken open to the world¹s pain I¹ve discovered a strange thing happens. I¹m overcome not by suffering and fatigue, but an overflowing love and compassion. Compassion means literally to "suffer with." That "suffering with" joins me in solidarity with all who suffer. A solidarity that offers our only hope for a better future. A solidarity that is the only path to mending our broken world. A solidarity born of the realization that I am my brother¹s keeper. I am, in fact, my brother. May we find the courage to mourn our broken, broken world.

You taught me the second lifeline I¹ve discovered amidst this sea of sorrow. It is simply this: Love what is mortal. Over the course of Tuesday, this congregation slowly assembled itself here from our scattered homes and work places. Some were called by our tolling bells, others by the certain feeling that the church is where they needed to be now. But steadily, through the course of the day, we huddled together around the television. We held each other during the service Tuesday night. We lingered afterwards over coffee, not wanting to leave.

Because, frankly, being with other people and sharing our sorrow with them is one of the only things that makes us feel better right now. That¹s why its at times like these that I¹m glad I¹m a member of a church community. That¹s why I¹m glad to see you all here this morning. We need each other now, more than ever.

Death is a teacher, and what it appears to have taught us this week is to love more fiercely that which is still alive. I wish it didn¹t take death to keep reminding me of life¹s fragility and therefore, its preciousness. I wish that understanding came without such a high price. But it rarely does. And so in the midst of tragedy we reach out to one another.

The poet Mary Oliver says that to live in this world, you must be able to do three things:
"To love what is mortal, to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends upon it. And, when the time comes" but only when the times "to let it go." Now is the time to grab your loved ones. Hold them tight. Love what is mortal.

My third wish for us this morning is this: that we make of ourselves instruments of peace.
Many of you have expressed to me this week your fear. Fear of future terrorist activity.
Fear of our country¹s response to this attack. Fear of where our feelings of anger and vengeance might take us.

For years now, Americans have watched from a safe distance as hate consumed other parts of the globe: Israel and the Occupied Territories, Northern Ireland, Rwanda. We¹ve watched and shaken our heads in pity. "Don¹t they know that the cycle of violence and vengeance is killing them?" We ask. "Can¹t they see it?" Now we must ask ourselves. Can¹t we see that a cycle of violence and vengeance might kill us, too.

We can be instruments of peace. In our interactions with others. In our public behavior.
Our hands, our mouths, our feet, our pocketbooks, can become instruments of peace. We can help our nation in its time of trial seek justice and not war. We can help prevent our nation from entering that dangerous cycle of violence and vengeance. Let us make ourselves instruments of peace.

Finally, let me say this to you. This church and its people have seen one another through crises in the past. We were here during the Civil War preaching abolition and caring for the wounded. We were here during World War II, speaking out against fascism, and harboring Japanese American children who could find no other place to go to school. We were here when 14th Street burned after Dr. King was assassinated -- when artillery and tanks were stationed in the park across the street, much as they are stationed downtown now. And in this city torn by racial strife, we provided a place where black and white could come together. We¹ve seen each other through a lot in the past. Thanks, I think, to an unflinching assessment of evil combined with an indomitable faith in the human spirit and in human community. Those strengths can deliver us again. I commit and may way all commit -- that this church will be here for us now, and will continue to be here for us wherever our future may lead us. We need each other now, more than ever. Amen.