09/24 - Homily for the University Eucharist of Remembrance, 11 September 2002

I. Introduction:

Shocked and saddened by the terrorist attacks of last September Eleventh, a year ago this afternoon we gathered in prayer in this very building. On that day, heavy with emotion, we commended the victims of the attack to the loving mercy of God. At the time, the victims for whom we prayed were nameless. In the following days and weeks, we learned the enormity of the loss that our nation had suffered. We also learned the deeply personal toll that the attacks had taken not only on our nation, but also on our University family. With heavy hearts, we buried the dead. We enshrined their names on a plaque in our chapel--and in our hearts. We consoled those who mourned. The nation went to war to track down an elusive enemy and to make the world safe for democracy.

In the first days after the attack, like so many in our nation we looked for quick answers, swift revenge and easy grace. None were forthcoming. The act was too dastardly. The destruction too great. The causes too complex to comprehend in a short period of time.

And so a hard and bitter year has passed. In spite of public ceremonies and private prayer, the wounds that we felt last year may be less raw, but they are no less deep. And bearing these wounds, we come to this day of remembrance. As we do, we continue to search for answers and for grace. Most of all, we continue to mourn. And because we mourn, we find ourselves torn between protest and longing.

II. Mourning and Searching.

Our hearts continue to protest against the events of that day. In fact, we protest everything about that day: the enormity of the loss of life that it brought, the senselessness of the victims' deaths, the unfairness of young lives snuffed out before they blossomed, families torn apart and left to grieve. We protest the loss of national innocence. We protest the loss of peace. Fueled with anger, sometimes our protests have turned into curses. And our curses have not been genteel. We have cursed the sun for rising that day. We have railed against the fact that the hatred that motivated the attacks could so distort the human heart. We have cursed our enemies. We have even cursed a God who stood by and let the awful scene that we have reviewed a thousand times before our unbelieving eyes unfold in the first place.

But neither our year nor our hearts have been caught up only in protest. In the still moments of the past months and in this quiet moment we find ourselves filled with longing. We long for those we lost that day. We long to have them back. We long to hear their voices; to see their faces; to put up once again with their quirks and their practical jokes. We long to turn back the clock and make our hearts whole again. We long to meet our friends on the other side of grief, where, as the reading from the Prophet Isaiah promises, all those who mourn will be comforted in a great feast of fellowship. With all our bruised hearts, we want to believe that Isaiah's second promise will be fulfilled--and quickly: "they shall build up the ancient ruins; they shall raise up the former devastations, they shall repair the ruined cities." We long for a world once again made whole. We long for peace.

Our protest and our longing meet and mingle in the strongest and most eloquent protest against the fragility of human life: in our memories. We remember the events of the day. As we do so, however, we realize that the day has bequeathed to us two very different sets of memories: the circumstances in which those we mourn died, and the manner in which they faced death. Both sets of memories continue to haunt us--but for very different reasons. The remembered images of the attacks--so swift, so cruel--are the stuff of nightmares. Therefore, they continue to mock our faith in the essential goodness of the human heart. They continue to test our belief in the faithfulness of God. The way in which the victims faced their deaths, however, continues to fill us with wonder. They did not rail against the unseen enemies who struck them down. Rather, in the last minutes of their lives, they left us a legacy that will take us a lifetime to pray over and to figure out. In word and gesture, they redefined fidelity, heroism and valor. They made it possible for us, the citizens of a cynical age, to believe once again in honor and in grace.

Their gestures were larger than life: a firefighter racing up a stairway in the Trade Center to help people he had never met. When asked why, he responded simply: this is what I do. A man who, offered the chance to flee and save himself, simply could not bring himself to leave a wheelchair-bound friend. A knot of police officers who refused to leave the building without a woman who was a little slower than others to negotiate the smokey and chaotic stairs. Officers who refused to seek the safety of a distant command center. A plane full of passengers who gave up their lives to protect the city of Washington. On that day, uncommon valor was commonplace. Ordinary women and men put on the armor of grace and gave their lives so that others might live.

If their gestures were heroic, their words were eloquent beyond measure. Faced with an unspeakably horrible death, they did not curse the unfairness of it all. They did not curse their enemies. Rather, in their last moments they whispered words of love and encouragement to those whom they would never see again. Their last words were words of comfort for those who would spend their lives mourning.

Their words and gestures have captured the attention of the wondering world. They have struck an especially responsive chord in the hearts of Christians. And rightly so. In their words and gestures, they lived the mystery of the cross. They became occasions for grace for all of us. In the process, they taught us how to live. They laid down their lives for others; they spent themselves in the service of others. And the memory of their words and gestures invite us to do the same.

III. The Lord on the Shore:

These friends of ours who have borne the cross lead us at last to the gospel that we have just heard proclaimed. There, in the gospel we find ourselves in the presence of companions in grief: the disciples. Like the disciples, we have wrestled with the mystery and darkness of the cross. Like the disciples, we have labored through -- not a long and fruitless night of fishing but a hard and bitter year of mourning. And what do we discover? As He did for the disciples, Jesus stands before us, on the shore on the far side of grief. And what does He offer us as He stands before us this afternoon? The easy grace and quick answers that we crave? Far from it. He never bestows easy grace.

As our reading from the Letter to Hebrews tells us, He has been where we have been. He was like us in all things--except sin. Like ourselves, he has known the pain of loss. More to the point, however, the Letter to the Hebrews reminds us that He was like the victims whom we mourn so deeply. He was like them both in life and in the manner of His death. Like them, he spent Himself in the service of others. Like them, He tasted death too young. Like them, He suffered a cruel and ignominious death. And there, on the far side of our grief He stands with the message that we have longed to hear: that for those who embrace the cross life is not ended, but changed and made glorious by the saving power of God. Standing there, in His risen life, he is God's protest against the power of evil and death--and it is a far more powerful and effective protest than we could ever mount. And, in a gesture that we have longed to see and to receive, he prepares a meal to share with the disciples and us at the end of our long nights of sorrow. Let us go to His table with Him, for as He did for the disciples, he wishes to feed us--at His table and with His own body and blood. He wishes to console us with the sure and certain knowledge that since our friends conformed their lives to His, He has taken them to Himself to feast forever in the home that Isaiah could only dream of.

Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.