Easter at Ground Zero
Introduction:
The Capital “R” Robin
In
Wisconsin, you always know for sure when it is summer and when it is winter.
One evening in late fall you pull a cozy quilt over yourself and fall asleep,
and wake the next morning buried under a fluffy quilt of snow. It's a yearly delight, but it doesn't last
long. In a typical winter, the thick layer of snow on top turns into a shroud,
and winter becomes a tomb with a huge stone rolled in front of it, holding
spring captive. By the end of February, for sure, you’re crying out: "Who
shall help us roll the stone away?" And then one day, a solitary Robin
appears and hoists her wings against the stone. Some think she’s silly and
snicker at her. After all, it’s only early March, and there’s surely one more
good blizzard hiding in the wings. But the lengthening days, the whiff in the
air, the biological clock within --
they assure the human spirit that the back of winter has been broken, and that
from now on it's the snow that's
silly. The Robin eventually wins, and spring bursts forth again with all its
“Intimations of Immortality.”
I have a kind of mystical appreciation for the
Robin. That ‘s why I always spell Robin with a capital “R.” The appreciation comes
partly from an old German neighbor, Annie Rauber. She taught me to always
vigilantly watch for "my first robin." Though she’s been dead for ages, I still obey her. To this very
day I vigilantly watch each spring for “my first robin.” It’s become a kind of
ritual and religious experience for me.
My mystic appreciation for those harbingers of
spring was greatly enhanced one year by a Robin who performed for me an
unexpected and most remarkable drama, for which I had a box-seat ticket. She
nested on the elbow of a downspout outside my kitchen window. I watched her go
through all her "appointed rounds." In conformity with an eternally
unalterable blueprint, she built her nest. In blind obedience to a mandate
within, she brought her sacred eggs to term. With unquestioning fidelity she
kept uninterrupted vigil over her chicks, sheltering them under the protection
of her wings, against a silly snowstorm of late winter. With nature’s know-how,
she nourished them out of the scarcity of early spring. And then one day, led
by an eternal ordinance that governs all growth and love, she let go of them,
and they flew away.
In some strange way, her “appointed rounds” seemed
to reveal to me that life isn’t really a “round” at all. That it isn’t really cyclical, seasonal,
circular … going nowhere. That it isn’t
really a momentary spring that summits into summer, only to fade into fall with
its falling leaves, and be buried again in the tomb of winter. In some strange way, her “appointed rounds”
seemed to reveal that life is linear, is a
straight line … going somewhere. Call this mystical talk, if you will, but it’s
the best talk we have, especially on Easter morning at ground zero.
(The Easter Question)
On
September 11th, 2001, Todd Beamer, 32, talked 13 minutes with a GTE
operator by cell phone from hijacked Flight 93. The plane was supposed to land in San Francisco; it crashed
instead in a rural area 60 miles from Pittsburgh. Just before 10 A.M., the
operator heard Beamer signal an attack upon the hijackers, calling out, “Are you guys ready? Let’s roll!” There
followed some screaming and then silence. Todd left behind two sons, ages 3 and
I, and Lisa, his pregnant wife, who on January 9, 2002, delivered a baby girl
named Morgan Kay Beamer. (Morgan was Todd’s middle name, and Kay is Lisa’s
middle name.) Lisa later made this
quotable quote: “Some people live their whole lives, long lives, without having
left anything behind. My sons will be
told their whole lives that their father was a hero, that he saved lives. It’s
a great legacy for a father to leave his children.”
On
that very same apocalyptic morning of September 11th, Fr. Mycal
Judge, a Franciscan priest, one of the four chaplains for the New York City
Fire Department, rushed to ground zero where he died in the line of duty. Almost immediately legend sprung up around
his death: the story started circulating that he had taken his helmet off to
give the last rites to a dying fireman when suddenly a mass of debris came
crushing down upon him. He died there on the spot, and his body was carried off
to a nearby church where it was laid upon an altar.
The
articles say that Fr. Mycal Judge had an encyclopedic memory for people’s
names, birthdays and passions. He knew everyone from the homeless to Mayor
Guiliani. Though he was a true New
Yorker, born and raised in the City, he lived on an entirely different plain of
priorities from that of most New Yorkers:
he was non-acquisitive (not grabby), unselfish, and uncomplaining. TV covered his entire funeral because
everyone loved him. When a memorial was
held for him, an endless flow of priests, nuns, lawyers, cops, firefighters,
homeless people, rock-and-rollers, local politicians, middle-age suburbanites,
straights and gays, recovering alcoholics, all streamed into Good Shepherd
Chapel on Ninth Ave, an Anglican church, to do a memorial for a Roman Catholic
priest, himself a recovering alcoholic.
One article says his death was dolled up with a bit of myth and legend
because people “wanted him to die gorgeously and aptly, in a way that expressed
the depth of his faith and his immense humanity.” Michael O’Shea, a man who
often worked with Fr. Mycal and knew him well, writes: “In the wee hours of
Oct. 23 (shortly after 9/11), my wife, Tauna, went into labor. At 11:47 a.m. I
helped deliver a healthy 7-pound, 15-ounce boy. We decided to name him Mycal.
I’m such a jerk about my son. I spend hours each day holding him. He is so
gorgeous, and I think he already has Fr. Mike’s great Irish smile. He now has
his name. I hope some day he will also have his humor, his courage, and his
incredible humanity.”
On
January 23, 2002, Islamic terrorists in Karachi, Pakistan, kidnapped Daniel
Pearl, journalist for the Wall Street Journal. After one long agonizing month,
the State Department had enough information to officially declare Pearl
dead -- murdered by his Islamic
captors. His widowed wife, Mariane
Pearl, French citizens, made this quotable quote: “The terrorists who say they killed my husband may have taken his
life but they did not take his spirit. They may have taken my life, but they
did not take my spirit.” She added, “My hope now in my seventh month of
pregnancy (her first) is that I will be able to tell our son that his father
carried the flag for the values we all share: love, compassion, friendship.
These far transcend that so-called `clash of civilizations’.”
I
recently spent a month in Texas near the Houston area. The trial of Andrea
Yates, the Houston mother who drown her five children in the family bathtub,
was the lead story in the media for weeks. That unspeakably tragic story with
its insane verdict of “not insane” competed for attention with another tragedy:
the kidnapping and murder of seven-year-old Danielle Van Dam of San Diego, Cal.
At
the beginning of Lent, we reminded ourselves that this is our first Lent at
ground zero in Lower Manhattan. At the
end of Lent we now remind ourselves that this is our first Easter Sunday on
that same sacred ground. The unspeakable tragedy of September 11th
with its Todd Beamers, Fr. Mycal Judges, and Danny Pearls becomes an avalanche
of snow dumped in front of the tomb, holding Easter faith captive. The
unspeakable tragedy of that Houston mother or Van Dam family, as well as the
tragic dimension present in all our human lives (which sooner or later are
peppered over with the taste of death) becomes a huge stone rolled in front of
the tomb, holding Easter faith captive. On this our very first Easter Morning
after 9/11, we ask as we have never asked before the Easter Question: Does goodness really overcome evil? Does
life really overcome death? Does the light really overcome the darkness?“
The
Easter Question is universal because
it is a human question. Not only Christians but Jews and Muslims as well ask
it, for all are human beings. [1]
It is important for us Christians as we go through our whole liturgical cycle
of Christmas and Easter to be aware all along the way that we are not as alone
or separated we might believe , despite the appearance at times, That sense of common ground with other
religious believers will make us tolerant of them. Better yet, it will fill us with good will toward them, and it is
that which, at the end of the day, makes us truly religious. The same must be said
of Muslims and Jews. They too in their own cycles must find in themselves
common ground with other religious believers. That fills them as well with good
will, and it is that which, at the end of the day, makes them truly religious. [2]
The
Easter Call for Help
Standing
at ground zero this Easter of 2002, we not only ask the Easter Question, as we
have never asked it before, but we also cry out now for Easter Help, as we have
never cried out for it before. With all the living victims of 9/11, and with
the Yates and Van Dam families, we cry out, asking, “Who shall help us roll the stone away?”
“Why, of course, the Robins of spring shall help us roll the stone away.” (I’m still in mystic talk.) Robins like Mariane and Danny Pearl with a newborn son baptized for the mission of “transcending that so-called clash of civilizations” -- they help us roll the stone away. Robins like Fr. Mycal Judge with Michael O’Shea’s newborn son baptized to perpetuate his goodness -- they help us roll the stone away. Robins like Todd and Lisa Beamer with a newborn daughter baptized to announce that birth is God’s way of telling us that life must go on even at ground zero -- they help us roll the stone away.
For me they are like that Robin who nested on the elbow of the downspout outside my kitchen window a long time ago, and helped me roll the stone away. In their own way, these mystic Robins in this spring of 2002 reveal and prove something to us standing on ground zero, which our poor human heads having only poor human words cannot formulate into a “nifty proof” for Easter. There are no “nifty proofs” or “nifty words” for Easter, especially for the Easter of 2002. For the most part, there are only the “nifty Robins” of spring who help us roll away the huge stone, holding the Alleluia of Easter captive. Perhaps old Annie Rauber knew all that down deep in her heart of hearts, when she gave me the solemn injunction to “vigilantly watch for my first Robin.”
Conclusion
One “nifty word”
On second thought, there is one “nifty word”
for Easter, and it is Alleluia.
A mystic word it is. At the beginning
of Lent, the church put a gag order on it, only to release it with a vengeance
in the Easter Vigil of Holy Saturday. Alleluia: a
strange mystic word which for most of us isn’t really a word at all but just a
kind of ecstatic babble. Alleluia: a strange mystic word having
no meanings of the head to get in the way of what the human heart wants to
say. Alleluia: a strange mystic word; you can sing it with ecstatic joy
at the birth of little Morgan Kay Beamer or you can sing it with profound
sorrow over the bodies of 353 fallen heroes who were trying to extinguish the
flames of hate. Alleluia: a strange mystic word which, like the bells of Christmas,
can either peal out or toll. Alleluia: the only word you have at
ground zero which doesn’t make you angry, or doesn’t sound hollow, but simply
allows your Risen Lord and your “first
Robins” to speak to you and in you and for you, especially at ground zero where
there are no words at all..
