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Sermon Index

A TIME TO MOURN

by the Reverend John Parker Manwell
and the Reverend Phyllis L. Hubbell
at the First Unitarian Church of Baltimore
on the 16th of September 2001

Reverend Manwell:
I can remember the shock I felt upon hearing the news of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. But that was far away, and I was t10 years old, and in the home of my grandmother, whose love reassured me that all would be well.

I can remember the shock I felt upon hearing of the shooting of John Kennedy, and 5 years later, of Martin Luther King, Jr. and soon after, Robert Kennedy. Each one left me stunned, yet each was just one person, and assassinations are a tragic yet familiar fact of life.

This week this week has been different. Nineteen sane men committing deliberate mass murder in simultaneous suicide attacks. This does not happen. Not of 10 people, or 20 or even 50, but 10,000, 20,0000 ... the more the better. Unknown men. An unknown motive, beyond sheer anger at Americans. This does not happen. But it has.

We have had four services here at the church this week, and here we are today gathered as a congregation to mourn, to rage, to search, to feel the reassurance of each other's presence. We are the survivors, but it could have been us, still could be us. We are in this together, we and all who live in this country. Here we are, and we are together.

We face now the task of burying our dead¾ those, at least, who can be identified¾ and of celebrating their lives. We mourn, and after that we begin to pick up the pieces of our shattered lives. And we are left with questions. Not just "Who did it?" In time, we may know that. But the harder questions: What does it all mean? How can we ever feel safe again? How can we carry on with life, in a way that honors those who have died, and makes life safer for our children? How shall we respond as a nation? Where is God in the face of such enormous evil? Where is hope?

We are not the first to ask these questions. They echo in the voices of those who survived the Holocaust, and later genocide in many places. They echo among Palestinians, displaced from their homeland. And even though their nation was the first to attack our own in a world at war, now 60 years ago, the civilian populations who survived in Hiroshima and Nagasaki must surely have asked these questions, too.

Where is hope for any of these survivors of earlier tragedies? Where is hope now for those who now face, each night, an empty place at the dinner table, who lie awake at night wondering and waiting and weeping?

Where is hope even for you and for me, who do not know, or do not yet know that we know, anyone lost in this week's disasters?

Where is hope when we do not even know our enemy, cannot begin to comprehend the anger that could fuel such incomprehensible destruction of self and untold numbers of innocent others? Where is hope when we cannot trust?

Reverend Hubbell:
For us, right now, there are no simple answers to these overwhelming questions. There are no answers at all, in this early time of mourning and waiting and wondering and raging. We must let the tears flow, and the rage out, as we hold onto each other so that at least we are do not bear the pain alone. For a part of all of us has died. We all must mourn. Only one thing is clear, for me: We must not let ourselves react in the heat of our own anger. We must wait, patiently, until the answers begin to become clear.

And yet ... even now, signs of hope emerge .... Yesterday I had a message from a couple who want to dedicate their infant little child. Yesterday, another couple came to the church to be united, and I counseled still another couple who wants to marry in the spring. Life goes on. Life must go on. New life emerges, and with it innocence and¾ dare I say it?¾ new hope?

I do not know whether humanity can survive. I do not know how long I may survive, how much longer even this historic congregation can survive. But I do know that I have not experienced any time in my entire life¾ not the wars, not the genocides, not the desperate assassinations¾ when I have felt a greater need for us all to come together¾ in a congregations such as this one, in synagogues and mosques, and in other places of religious faith¾ to do the work of compassion and justice, than I feel right now, in the aftermath of this shattering week.

Even now, as our government pieces together the clues that may tell us who mounted this attack; even now, as our political leaders plan for some kind of military response¾ even now, we as people of faith are called to marshal such faith as we can muster, to call for restraint lest we avenge our wrath against the innocent, whether they live in Kansas City or Kabul. I do not know what our nation should do in these days ahead. There is so much more we need to know. But I pray that whatever action we take will not simply raise up new generations of terrorists.

Hope requires justice, not revenge. But hope requires more even than justice. First, we must mourn, and remember, and claim for ourselves the gifts that our lost ones were to our lives, for they are part of us. We cannot hurry the mourning, for our loss is very great. But slowly, and over much time, we will face the challenge of putting our lives back together. The pain will never go away, and we will not forget¾ but we can draw on these gifts and memories to give to the world what those who have died no longer can give. We can join with each other in tasks that will make the world a safer place for our children, and their children and all the world's children. In the end, that must be our memorial to those we have lost.

This week we have begun the mourning, as we have opened our doors for quiet prayer and meditation, and together have sat down and wept.

And today, though we continue to mourn, we have begun the work of healing, as we have joined in a collection for those whose lives have been devastated by death and destruction.

In the days ahead, as a nation, we will bury our dead and celebrate their lives. We will continue with the work of healing. We will begin to clear the wreckage, sift the evidence, and plan the reconstruction of ruined structures. And we will begin also the rebuilding of our national life and our individual lives. It will not be quick. It will not be easy.

But in the days beyond that, we will grapple with the largest question of all¾ the question of hope. in the end, I believe that we shall discover that hope is not something that exists out there, to be found. It is something that we create. It will live in the spaces between us. Hope lies in the work of building bridges of understanding. This is precisely the work of our nation's religious communities.

The hope we create will not drive out evil from the world. But day by day, person by person, it can build a better world. We, after all, are not called to obliterate evil from the world, or even from our own hearts. We are called to do what we can do. We are called to help each other with the work. Hope begins with us, right here, right now, as we mourn, as we join hands with those around us and build bridges, as we keep faith with those who have died, with their children and with ours.

Let the work begin.