"The Last Love and Testament"

I forgot today was September 11^th.  OK, so I knew it was the 11^th, I just forgot it was 9-11.  OK, I really forgot that we have to “remember 9-11.” 

The truth is, I know about 9-11; I remember what happened on 9-11, 2001.  But when we drove out of our driveway, and the temporary American Flag that the local cub scout den puts out on the important dates—it seemed out of place, since we just had Labor Day, and the flag had come for Labor Day but got taken down again—so when I asked my wife, she thought it was Patriot’s Day.  And then when I asked at staff meeting, we discovered “Patriot’s Day” was a movie but that today might be PATRIOT DAY in honor of the victims of 9-11. 

In the devotional we’ve been following for our staff meetings at Church, Walter Brueggemann, in referring to a passage from Job 29, invited us to consider that “9/11, date of a searing terrorist attack against the United States, signifies in our society the loss of a well-ordered would in which doing good leads to well-being.  The facts of 9/11 lead us to nostalgia for the good old days that are over and must be relinquished.” 

Brueggemann’s probably right; I’m just not sure I’m ready to believe and follow. 

I remember 9/11.  Seventeen years ago, I was just waking up to the news that “a small airplane” had collided with one of the twin towers—it sounded bizarre and looked even more bizarre-er with all the thick black smoke that wouldn’t have been the result of the impact of a small plane.  The NBC station on the cable system was a live feed of the NBX station in New York because the cable provider had not worked out an agreement to have what would have been a more local affiliate.  And I watched “live” as the second plane hit the second tower before the newsroom was fully aware of what had happened. 

It was like I was standing on the street below looking up at impact. 

The small congregation I served, wasn’t near any population center.  We had a session meeting and other activities that proceeded as planned that day.  We didn’t know what else to do.  By evening, all the gasoline supply in our area had been exhausted, caused by hysteria and people “wanting to get theirs” before it ran out.  The state’s attorney general’s office would later file charges against many of the local dealers for price gouging which reached nearly $20/gallon—a local shortage caused by greed.  And rather than “sharing” and leaning on each other, I’m sure most people were locked and barricaded behind their doors waiting for the worst of things to happen. 

By Saturday, one of my colleagues in a larger city, was offended that everyone blithely agreed to call the firefighters “heroes”—for his city, involved in a bitter debate about benefits that should be paid to firefighters and police officers, he thought it was immoral to reduce benefits, but then insist they be called “heroes.”  It was unjust, he claimed, to expect poorly paid laborers to protect life and property of others at the expense of their own health and well-being, not to mention their family’s. 

I learned a lot on 9-11 that I haven’t forgotten and don’t think I ever will. 

I also learned, that like most of these kinds of the things, it becomes about retributive justice.  A torrent of violence was unleashed against Americans that day, and we’d be sure to return the favor.  We’ve fought at least two wars since then, further adding to the body count many times over. 

We’ve spent billions of dollars on security and safety, designed to keep Americans safe.  We continue to watch people in other places suffer, because the human rules of retributive justice and revenge are indiscriminate—like sin.  Our insatiable desire to be avenged always leads, rather, to death and destruction though—unlike Jesus, whose suffering and death changes the trajectory of the living. 

So often, when we talk about what happened, and who did it, and how many died, we are awash in the emotions of grief, anguish, loss, and suffering.  It’s easy for anger to be our response; for us to justify horrific acts on our own in attempt to recover “justice” or the moral high ground. 

“You flew planes into our skyscrapers, but we can bomb you back to the Stone Age.” 

“You hurt us, but we can obliterate you.” 

It’s not long before we can justify the very worst. 

But someone reminded me THIS September 11^th, such justification, violence, and vengefulness dishonors the victims and the sacrifices of those who laid down their lives in service to others. 

If you’ve heard or read much about the victims in New York and Washington, DC, and in Pennsylvania that day, you undoubtedly have read or heard that the last words from people in the towers and on the planes that day, over and over again, were the same: "I love you." "I love you."  

Novelist Ian McEwan wrote in The Guardian, September 15, 2001, "Love was all they had to set against the hatred of their murderers."  

Rather than asking ourselves what we remember of our loss, perhaps we should ask what we remember about their love? 

The last words, in response to horror and undoing, in facing death, were love. 

Love. 

That more rightfully can affect our world in far more profound ways. 

When we seek to love those who serve us.  When we seek to love those who disagree with us.  When we seek to love those who make mistakes.  When we seek to love ourselves when we need our own second chances.  When we seek to love—rather than to win at any cost.  When we love, rather than destroy.  When we love because that’s what God does.  Particularly, what God does in Jesus whose life is not answered by death, but by life! 

Love.  You see, this started with that cub scout den who puts flags on people’s lawns.  It’s a service project and fund-raiser all in one.  They ask for permission and a donation and then they bring the flags on the right days.  When they talked to my wife, the first year, she didn’t have any money to offer and they did it anyway.  For free.  Because they knew what it was to love us anyway. 

How do we learn more love?  I think that’s why God sent us Jesus. 

It might be 9-11.  But I’m trying to remember how I can make my last word be love. 

© Rev. David Stipp-Bethune; Teaching Elder and Pastor, The First Presbyterian Church of El Dorado, Arkansas