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Our world has seen its fair share of tragedy. Even as we continue to reel under one (the pandemic), I found something that reminded me of another – the 9/11 attacks. I was recently doing some clearing for a dear friend, when I found an old piece of paper with a poem printed on it. This piece by Godfrey Rust on the aftermath of the 9/11 tragedy was convicting, as it was heart-wrenching. Borrowed and blue, though it be, I put it here and share some of my own thoughts along with it, because I am convinced that if we persevere through the tunnel, we will walk out into the light of love!
September 11, 2001
After the accounting of the dead,
When the insurance claims are settled,
And the markets are back to their normal jittery selves,
We have all seen what hell looks like. In future
We will avoid tall buildings, slowly move away
From cities, fly less often, view
Our fellow passengers with circumspection,
Seek refuge in more virtual reality and trade
Within the safer evil of the Internet.
We will listen doubtfully to our leaders’ words
As they struggle to fill their own shoes
Four planes just flew out of Pandora’s box
And when men armed with just razor blades can bring
The whole world to a juddering halt,
We know too much and we care too little
To believe that this will be the last time.
The big game of Monopoly is over
The loser’s tantrums have become too dangerous
Even before our anger cools we see
The moral high ground is just
A pile of smoking rubble, Jesus kneels
And writes with His index finger in
The white dust of Manhattan:
Let him who is without sin
Launch the first missile.
Who is the enemy
And what can we fight with him?
Where are our allies? Where was God
On September the eleventh? He was begging
In old clothes in the subway
Beneath the World Trade Centre
He was homeless in Gaza, imprisoned in Afghanistan,
Starving in Somalia, dying of AIDS in an Angolian slum
Suffering everywhere in this fast shrinking world;
And boarding a plane unwittingly in Boston,
Heading for a meeting in the 110th floor.
When the time came, He stretched out His arms once again
To take the dreadful impact that would pierce His side
His last message on the cell phone
Once more to ask forgiveness for them all, before
His body fell under the weight of so much evil.
We bring our cameras to His massive tomb
For any chance of resurrection. Now we know
The kind of story that it really is
United by this common enemy –
Sin’s terrorism – that we never dreamed
Could bring such devastation. This is war.
We line our weapons up: faith, hope, obedience,
Prayer, forgiveness, justice:
The explosive power of love.
© Godfrey Rust, www.wordsout.co.uk
It is eerie how much some of these words apply to our own tragedy today, but that is not what my heart was stirred on. No. It was convicted on its lack of love.
As I sit here and read this, a safe distance from the 9/11 tragedy, I tell myself that I relate to both the raw hurt, as well as the unfathomable love that Rust had managed to feel. My so-called enemy from 20 years ago, in an unknown land and whom I will never see face to face; him, I have no problem loving. The person I can’t seem to stand though, is the one I share my couch with. I am convicted today, that if I am to love my enemy, my Church or even God perfectly, I must be willing to start where I am – home. I hope that the esteemed and inspired Mr. Rust won’t mind if I put down my own humble thoughts alongside his.
The explosive power of love – the theory,
I’m well aware of. I can talk for miles
Of Jesus who, all for love, was beaten,
Spat on and crucified.
I can talk of love for the neighbour,
The poor, the enemy, the friend.
But no, let’s not put faces to the labels
For then my talk must end.
How do I find love for my brother,
With whom I can’t see eye to eye?
How do you love your disappointed mom
When she just shrugs and sighs?
The manipulative son, the arrogant daughter,
The angry wife, I can’t love,
How is it that I can somehow love,
My Father, up above?
I guess it's perfection I demand for love,
What a perfect hypocrite I can be!
So today, I must pick up the phone or put it down,
And start loving (with a “Dear Lord, help me!”)
The poem September 11, 2001 has a longer, equally (if not more) powerful version that you can find here. Do check it out!