Never Forget: Thoughts on Christian Faith and National Tragedy

I am a proud American and an even prouder Christian. Every year, September 11th generally brings some complicated and mixed feelings for me as a pastor. Let me explain by way of oversimplification...

A major factor is that I am academically trained. I went to school for a long time, and being in that environment makes deep impressions on us as pastors. Here is why this matters: Whether as a point of conviction or simply as a corrective to majority assumptions, the academy usually views nationalism through a predominately suspicious lens.

One thing I learned in the academy is the almost irrefutable truth that the tendency to blend theological conviction with nationalism has historically almost always had hazardous and oppressive results. And when I look into my congregation and across the American church, I see that the overwhelming majority still function with some kind of conviction (often nebulous, but occasionally stated explicitly) that Americanism is fundamentally and organically Christian. Even if they agree with the notion that the kingdom of God is not identifiable with the United States of America, there is still a default understanding that what is good for Christianity is that America be strong, and vice versa. Americans seem to have been converted as much to Christendom and they were to Christianity, so nationalism is a hallmark of faithful Christian discipleship.

So what do I do when 9/11 roles around?

If I post a picture of the twin towers with #NeverForget, what am I communicating? First off, am I identifying myself fundamentally with Americanism? Or am I trying to communicate my solidarity with the thousands of Americans who died in a tragic act of violence? Further, am I somehow condoning the military action undertaken as a part of the war on terror as a faithful and Christian enterprise? Theologically speaking, am I guilty of helping others not love their enemy? Finally, what is it exactly that I don't want people to forget and why?

This is the problem with hashtags in general, and hashtag theology in particular. It is so vacuous that it actually operates almost thoughtlessly.

Or do I go on the offensive and actively speak against such remembrances as expressions of Christendom? I could criticize the idea of "not forgetting" as patently unfaithful to the gospel of reconciliation. But will it be heard, or will it be misunderstood, because I have chosen the worst day possible to try and make a point in one Facebook post that it took me more than 10 years to come to understand (and that still not completely).

Sure, at some level all communication breaks down and the speaker cannot control what the hearer (or reader) takes away; however, I want to be as responsible as I can with my words, especially when I am trying to speak according to God's will. And in this light, I offer my own thoughts to this dialogue. Not as THE answer, but as an answer that I have found some peace in.

I do think that there is value in national remembrance that is not simply propagandizing. While recalling tragedy in our national story can often serve some miserable jingoism or xenophobia, it could also be argued that sometimes remembrance is used as a connection to our deeper humanity--both in terms of the value of human life as well as in terms of human brokenness and depravity. And that deeper humanity is an essential and necessary voice for a nation to hear that may influence its people to not simply give into the nation's most institution-preserving impulses. In that sense, memory serves the cathartic and restorative function of correcting nationalism with basic human pathos (which is a fundamental kingdom orientation).

This is especially important for American Christians (academy or not) to remember on days like today--that remembrance is not simple patriotism, but also is an expression of a deeper belief in the kingdom of God. We remember, not to hate, but to forgive. We remember, not to raise our ire, but to raise our eyes to see those who died and those who loved them mourning and hurt by the brokenness all too prevalent in our world. We remember because lives matter. We remember because things that hurt are often worth remembering. We remember in order to heal and help others heal.

#NeverForget to love your neighbor
#NeverForget to love your enemy
#NeverForget that our hope is still coming

The Hour of Darkness - a good friday meditation

The hour of darkness is upon us…

Three times Jesus awakened them—three times. His heart was breaking, his fears were mounting, and his knees were covered in the dirt of the garden floor. Three times the Lord went to pray and pour out his soul in anguish to his Father… each time his disciples went to sleep. God forgive us, are we not also unfocused and distracted.

The hour of darkness is upon us…

Peter stood at the fires in the courtyard of the high priest and three times denied his Lord, Jesus—three times. Submitting to a false court in a sham trial that was an outright mockery of justice, Jesus was saving the world. And in an outright mockery of faithfulness, Peter was saving his own tail. God forgive us, are we not also cowards and liars.

The hour of darkness is upon us…

Judas betrayed the hope of the world for 30 silver pieces. Only too late did he realize that he did for 30 silver pieces that for which they would have paid 3000. He betrayed his master and friend… with a kiss. Trusting God’s promise, Jesus hung on a cross forgiving the world its sins that put him there. Doubting God’s grace, Judas hung himself in a tree haunted by his demons. God forgive us, are we not also haunted by our demons and do we not also kiss you with our lips then betray you for our own gain.

The hour of darkness is upon us…

It was religious people who struck Jesus first. Driven by fear, they raised their hands in violence. Driven by love, my Jesus knelt in humility. Honoring falsehood as testimony, they condemned the truth itself. Making sure not to wander too far into the home of a Gentile, they kept ritual purity as they handed over an innocent man to be executed. Their voices shouted first for the release of a man who took life, as they demanded the death of the giver of life. God forgive us, are we not also violent and full of compromise when we should be full of the Spirit.

The hour of darkness is upon us…

Pilate has washed his hands. The magistrate found no guilt in him, but did not pardon him. Pilate chose to play politics, and in so doing he handed over the true King to die. God forgive us, are we not also addicted to popularity and often look no further than our own reputation.

The hour of darkness is upon us…

The soldiers have mocked my Lord, and beaten my Lord, and spit on my Lord. They placed a crown of thorns on his head and paraded him through the streets. They were just doing their jobs—it wasn’t personal. They were just following orders as they walked the King of Glory through the streets of shame and beat him down under the weight of his cross. God forgive us, are we not also often an unwitting part of so much systemic injustice and evil that we can’t tell the difference between doing our job and insulting our Lord.

The hour of darkness is upon us…

They played dice at the foot of the cross—gambling for his clothes. Jesus, the Savior of the world, is dying for them right above them, yet they are too busy playing games to notice. God forgive us, are we not guilty—some of us—of still playing games at the cross of Jesus.

The hour of darkness is upon us…

Even the criminals beside him have turned on him—as if some how they who are truly guilty are better than him. They join the mocking crowd and heap insults upon him and shame him. It is better to die a scoundrel with my own guilt than to bear the shame of this innocent man I helped kill. God forgive us, are we not also blind to our own culpability and sin and do we not also flee the shame of the cross.

The hour of darkness is upon us…

The apostles are hiding. His closest friends and his devoted followers—all of them save one were missing. Fearing for their lives, they hid. Saving their own skin, they hid. Not understanding what their teacher had told them over and over again, they were bewildered, confused, and afraid. God forgive us, are we not also guilty of letting our fear and confusion drive us away from where we belong.

The hour of darkness is upon us…

The sun has gone black. The light of the world has been extinguished and all that is left is night. The earth itself is shaking in furious upheaval. For nothing has come into existence that was not made by him—the author of all living things has been killed, and all living things shudder in revolt. The temple curtain is torn and the graves of the saints are empty because even in darkness the light will bear its witness. So we take heart even as…

The hour of darkness is upon us…

In the stillness and silence we hear no serpent in the grass for his head lay crushed beneath the foot of the one who would not want anything. Listen and hear nothing, for the great and terrible Accuser is silent. He is defeated. His tongue finds no words, his lies have no more power, his accusations find no purchase on the perfect life and wholehearted devotion of my Jesus. The ancient evil dragon who would conquer the world and overthrow God himself is humiliated and vanquished by the love and peace of a slaughtered lamb. Satan did his worst, but God’s best was even greater.

Here we gather at the cross, "where the dearest and blest for a world of lost sinners was slain." Here we gather at the cross where in "blessed backwardness the immeasurable one was held but did not resist." Here we gather at the cross and surrender ourselves to the great cost and greater joy of Good Friday. Here we gather at the cross and find that we are forgiven… that we are loved… that we are chosen… that we are victorious.

The hour of darkness is upon us… thank God. 

i am not ashamed of the gospel

I have to tell you about what happened this last Wednesday. Let me set the stage...

Our auditorium seats almost 800 (by architect-count, not by actual mid-western American butt-size count). And while we have a pretty full house at our worship gatherings on Sundays, the reality is that our Wednesday evening attendance is nowhere near that. So we meet in our largest adult classroom with room for about 130 if we get in close to one another. Metal folding chairs, a music stand lectern, and a projector screen. 

Our topic for that evening's study was "Lust." We are a couple lessons into a series on the Seven Deadly Sins and how to let God free us from temptation. I had written my lesson and had plenty of material, my biggest concern was whether I would have the voice to make it. You see, I was sick and my throat was really trying to give up. My body ached and I was pretty sure I had about 30 minutes of hoarse voice to try and stretch over an hour. I knew that I would be a joy to listen to. 

I will admit that my wording was poor when I opened the class with the question: "When I say lust, what comes to mind?" I will credit that to daytime flu medication. Nevertheless, things were going pretty routinely and the room was about half full as we began, but through the first ten minutes people really began to fill up the seats--we had a larger crowd than normal. We even had to send some folks for some extra chairs, twice (really). Within 15 minutes, the room was packed. We even had visitors--more than a handful. 

But there was a "problem"... my lesson just wasn't all that great. I mean, it wasn't horrific or embarrassing, but it certainly wasn't going to be very memorable either. It was flat. When the highlight thus far was a hackneyed Billy Graham story about how the struggle with lustful thoughts is lifelong, things are pretty flat. But I was at least crossing off the bare minimums of a passable Bible study: Having walked through the connection between lust and idolatry (biblical and theological basis--check!), and having ambled through the obligatory identification of some of our own idols (group participation--okay, it wasn't open-life, open-heart testimony, but technically other voices were saying words related to the topic, so, check!), we were meandering into a discussion of some practical ways to overcome the temptation to lust (practical application--check!) when it happened. 

A hand went up. 

Thank god! First of all, my voice was tired, and a break would be welcome even if just a moment. Second, I was honestly tired of this sub-par lesson (and when you are bored as the speaker, that should tell you something). Third, the hand was from a close friend whose faith I respected and wisdom I trusted. His comments were always helpful. So I called on him. 

"I'm have problems with this class. I'm tired of this class." 

That was less helpful than I had hoped. As he went on, I became a little scared that my flat lesson was about be crushed by his depth. It deserved it, I knew, but that doesn't mean I wanted that to happen in front of a full room--and more than a handful of visitors, mind you. Pride is a funny thing.  

He continued, "I don't mean this class, but all the classes like this that tell me that temptation is always there and will always be there, and I'm condemned to a life of barely hanging on and hoping it doesn't win." He went on, almost in tears, as he exclaimed that the Word of God tells us that we have been set free. "Free!" he shouted. Then he did cry. "I was addicted to pornography for 15 years! But now I am free! I cheated on my wife! But now I'm free!" He passionately explained that since Christ's seed was in him that life was not about outlasting a nagging and overpowering temptation, but in living free. 

There was a moment of stillness--you might expect that it was awkward, but it wasn't... it was deeper than that... holier than that... it was sacred presence. And then hands shot up all over the room. As people shared and responded some wholeheartedly agreed and others thought that sounded too much like perfectionism. Another brother shared in tears that "if we could just catch one glimpse of God and know for one instance how much he loves us, we would do anything to be with him." I watched as God's Spirit broke out through the room and people bared their hearts and lives in real dialogue about faith (not obligatory one-word answers to a scarecrow question). 

The rest of the class was dynamic. We talked about moving beyond moralistic approaches to beating the lust urge, and really dug into the gospel of God's abiding presence, empowering grace, and his transforming Spirit. We talked about purity not as the result of a few decent practices with an accountability partner, but real gospel purity that desires God above all else, that hungers for God's presence more than any other thing. We found ourselves re-evangelized last night. 

It was truly awesome. I wish more people could have seen it. And yes, the visitors probably think we are crazy. But they honestly saw something that I hope they never forget--a church learning together as the Spirit taught. That was way better than my bad jokes and sore throat. That's way better than my good sermons with full voice.  

It was powerful and moving. And it was not because of me. 

That last sentence actually hurts to write. Now, I don't want to be proud person. I know that pride is bad. But I kind of wanted to be the hero. I had that moment where I feared having my weak message "outed," but it was something I needed--we needed. I will not be ashamed that I was not the impetus for spiritual breakthrough last night, because I choose not be ashamed of the gospel. I choose to be thankful. 

I am thankful for people in church who are brave enough to say that they do not hear enough of the gospel in what we are saying. Not just complaining about an interpretative difference or changes in worship practice... but who hunger to hear the gospel more. The world doesn't need more moralism, more pop-psychology, or more optimism. The world needs the gospel. And if I am not teaching it, please tell me. In fact, your honesty just might save us all. The church needs the gospel. Every time we meet, my job as the pastor called by God to speak a word from God to the people of God is to re-evangelize the saved so that we never fall prey to a powerless moralism that robs the glory of God or a bland ritualism that abandons the power of his gospel. 

Less than 24 hours later, as I write this, I have received five different texts, emails, calls, and messages expressing thanks to me for leading such a wonderful class with so much sharing and passionate exploration and thinking. People were moved and changed. And I guess I am glad they thanked me, but trust me... I had nothing to do with it. And that's okay. 

Hope

Every now and then, I find out that people actually read my blog, and I am always surprised. I seem to break all of the rules of good blogging, such as, blog frequently, or blog regularly, or have a clear point. Honestly, I think that the main reason I blog as infrequently and irregularly as I do is because I generally blog for my own sake. That doesn't mean that I don't want people to read my blog, but rather that I write what I need to read and hear--I write what I am processing. 

In my last blog post I wrote about how I had lost a friend, and how I had recently experienced his presence again. One reader contacted me and from that conversation, I have heard a story that I want to tell to more people. 

Cameron Von St. James and his wife Heather were just celebrating the birth of their newborn daughter, Lily Rose, when Heather was diagnosed with malignant pleural mesothelioma. She was given 15 months to live. in fact, 95% of those diagnosed with this illness die within two years. Thanks to tireless effort, countless hospital visits, many doctors, and one amazing and radical surgery later, Heather is still alive and sharing her testimony now seven years later! You can watch her video to get the full story...

Cameron and Heather work hard to raise awareness for this illness that is a result of prolonged contact with asbestos. Among other things, Cameron writes a really helpful blog about providing cancer care for loved ones. 

I wanted to share this story to help raise awareness about mesothelioma. I also wanted to share this story because I want to raise awareness about hope. 

Hope is a funny thing... a powerful thing... an absolutely essential thing for each of us. Yet hope is such a rare and precious thing. 

Quite simply, I think that the world convinces us to give up on hope. Some people of faith have a high regard for the world. In Christian theology, these folks would have a strong belief in what's called "common grace"--the belief that God's grace is at work generally in the world making it possible for good things to happen and for order to be maintained. I admire these people, but I am not one of these people. I do not have much belief in common grace. To me, the world is a broken, sick, and sinful place where darkness and death seem to speak loudest. 

I realize how gloomy that sounds to say that the world is sick and broken and dark. But I pray that you will hear me out long enough to see the glorious light that I believe fills my calling...

I got into ministry not because I thought the world was great and God was happy in heaven just waiting for us to get to him; rather, I got into ministry because I think that all hell has broken loose on this world and God has come here in Jesus to fight for every last inch of reality, and I want to give my life in hope that he will redeem it all. 

And it is this funny, powerful, and absolutely necessary hope that drives me. Hope that the whole world is full of God's presence and in his presence there is light. Hope that we are not alone in our weakness and sin. Hope that the whole world is enchanted and filled full of God's Spirit and being brought into his reign. Hope that in the end life wins. 

Whatever it is that you are facing, may you find the hope to rise above, and may you know that we are never alone. You are loved, and you are chosen. 

turning 35, hunting, & being found

I turned 35 this week. 

It felt like this...

Maybe it was the sugar high from the icing on the cake or maybe the haunting feeling that the end is likely now just as close as the beginning, but I figured that now would be as good a time as any to try something new. Seeing as how habit and routine are sacred things for me, trying something new usually means ordering a different item at Starbucks in the morning. However, this time, I wanted to reach far out of my comfort zone--really stretch myself. I surprised myself when all of a sudden in the middle of a seemingly safe conversation I agreed to go deer hunting with a buddy of mine named Mark. Over the next few days I got my very first hunting license and deer tag. I felt so official and accomplished--and I hadn't even hunted yet. I got a note the night before from another woodsy friend, John, saying that he was joining us. So, flanked by two experienced hunters who were good enough friends to show me the ropes, this morning for the first time in my life I went hunting.

Now, for those of you who don't know, hunting involves long periods of silence and stillness in the woods while waiting to kill some meandering animal. Those of you who know me  realize immediately the lack of congruence here. 

For starters, there is the whole long periods of silence thing, to which I am likely not best-suited. I have been described as "chatty," and have on occasion heard someone ask my wife, "Does he always talk this much?" And apparently talking scares the deer away, so you have to just sit there mute. I expected this to be very hard, yet in reality it was easy. It was peaceful. But I don't mean that in the whole "it-was-just-me-and-nature's-glory" sort of way. What I mean is that I did not expect to find the silence so relieving. As someone who talks for a living, it was healing to my spirit to not have to fill space with words. I wonder now if this is what monks feel like who take a vow of silence. I am so noisy, and most of it is surprisingly by choice.

On the other hand, stillness was not as serious a challenge for me. I enjoy what is referred to as a sedentary lifestyle--I am possibly in danger of being overrun by a glacier. And hunting is pretty much the most sedentary outdoors "activity" I could find except for ice-fishing--which I plan to take up this winter. Still, I made my friends promise that I would not have to climb into a tree-stand. A man my size has no business climbing 15-20 feet up to sit on something smaller than a toilet seat--God did not make hippos fit for tree-climbing. So we sent John up the tree, as he is definitely not a hippo. I ended up in a pop-up tent called a "ground blind." 

God bless the great indoors

Inside the blind, I sat on a 5 gallon bucket turned upside down, which was as comfortable as it sounds. While I did not remain motionless, I stayed as still as I could. Now, I was admittedly helped by the fact that there were two of us in the tiny blind--myself and Mark, who is not as big as I am, but is also not a small man by any measure. We were a little snug in there, so there wasn't really anywhere to move to that wasn't already pretty intimate. 

It is also true that I harbor an irrational fear of guns and ammunition, and this alone has been most effective at keeping me out of the woods for 35 years now. But, this aversion to the woods has been helpful, as I also have very severe contact allergies to most any living green plant. Seeing as how gun season does not start for another few weeks, my friends had armed me with a crossbow. I had never held a bow of any kind before, but something tells me that a crossbow is to bow-hunting what gutter-guards are to bowling. So, equipped with my training-wheels I was out in the woods but inside a blind protecting me from all that leafy nature. Could life get any better? 

Now, it had dawned on me in the days leading up to my first hunting experience that I have little desire to kill anything really. But I was able to sate my mind with the observation that given my ineptitude at the whole silence and patience thing, I was not likely to see any deer; and further, that even if I had an opportunity to fire at a deer, I was almost certain to miss it due to inexperience and lack of general aiming prowess. 

Nevertheless, there I was hunting. Steam rose softly from my quiet breathing as I watched the tree-line at the other side of the clearing which itself was just being roused from the smoky jade shadows into the early dawn of a crisp autumn morning that God only makes in Michigan, when I was met by something unexpected: a friend. 

Up until that moment it had all been about me. Added to the usual self-centered myopia I live in, things were extra self-centered as I talked about my birthday and my first hunt. As a result, I honestly had not really thought all that much about Jeremy. Almost three years ago, a good friend of mine, Jeremy King, died while hunting in northern Michigan. He was only 31 years old, but had a massive heart attack and was found dead at the base of his tree-stand. In fact, it was John and Mark who had found him. And here I was in the birth of a new day with its new mercies surrounding me in the company of my friends--Mark, John, and Jeremy.

Jeremy, John, a different John, and Mark after a successful pheasant hunt

The immensity of everything met me in that clearing this morning. It was heavy at first and sacred. Then it lifted and I found breath--Spirit. It was what another friend of mine calls a thin space--where eternity and this world seem to be just a breath apart. I started to try and tell Mark, "I think I see why y'all love it out here." But that was as far as I got. I didn't say anything else--it wasn't fair to say anything else. Besides, you can't talk while you're hunting. 

I don't know that I feel all that connected to hunting... we came away empty and only saw two doe so far away that you could barely call it "seeing" them. Jeremy used to say that he felt closer to God when he was in nature. I think John and Mark feel that same way. Maybe I will too one day. But this morning, I was blessed to feel close to my friend Jeremy again. I don't know if John or Mark experienced that when they went back out their first time after Jeremy died. I don't know if they still feel it. I don't know if it will happen again next time I go out hunting, and truthfully, I am not sure I even want that. But I am so very thankful for today. 

It is interesting to me that once I get out of my routines--out of the expected and well-worn paths of my normal and routine life--I find myself encountered by mysteries more wonderful than I care to notice most of the time. I am reminded that God knows what I need more than I do. 

loved and chosen

In her book Grace (Eventually), Anne Lamott relays a story about teaching a Bible class to a group of young children. She recounts the experience moving from her initial decision to separate two trouble-making brothers (four and five years old) placing them on either side of two six-year-old boys, as well as welcoming a 3 year old (and his weary mother). As class began, she helped them get out their wiggles with a game in which they scrunch up their bodies and faces and hold it for a few seconds and then let loose and go completely limp. Once they are seated and calm...

I sat on the couch and glanced slowly around in a goofy, menacing way, and then said, "Is anyone here wearing a blue sweatshirt with Pokemon on it?" The four-year-old looked down at his chest, astonished to discover that he matched this description--like, what are the odds? He raised his hand. "Come over here to the couch," I said. "You are so loved, and so chosen." He clutched at himself like a beauty pageant finalist. Then I asked if anyone that day was wearing green socks with brown shoes, a Giants cap, an argyle vest? Each of them turned out to be loved and chosen..."

Captivated by the grace of this game, I could not even finish the chapter.

I spent the next hour devising ways to try and recreate this with several hundred adults one Sunday (not my most productive hour in the office, I will admit, but I'm getting at something so just let it go for now...).

You see, here is what's crazy... I spend so much of my time caught up in a really dumb trap. As I prepare sermons, I get lost... not lost, I get misled... actually, I get tempted. I get tempted to try and be incredible. I want to dazzle and impress. I want to remove all doubts that anyone in my church might have that I am really talented as a preacher. I work hard to come up with fascinating and spectacular content that is served by powerful and grandiose visual aids. I want to finish a sermon to a round of applause, or at least a lobby full of parishioners telling me that I just said something that they had never heard before or never considered. Really... I love the way those statements make me feel. (And all this for God's greater glory... yes, of course.)

Maybe that's a little exaggerated (maybe!), but you get my point. I have a friend who is also a preacher, and he has told me several times that I am the hardest working preacher in the pulpit he knows--I have no clue if this is a compliment. But, if I am honest with myself, the reason that I work so hard often has more to do with producing something original and impressive than it does with the simple, necessary, good news.

Sometimes I finish preaching and I wonder why I went into everything else when the one thing I really wish I had communicated was...

you are loved and you are chosen.  

The reason I couldn't read anymore of the chapter was that God was telling me what I really needed to hear most. I think most of us need to hear that. It's not amazingly smart or impressive. Nor is it all that original. But even better than those things... it's true. And it's a truth we need deep in our bones.

What if I just said that every week until we all believed it? Especially me. 

The bottom line is that no one in my church, no teacher, no mentor, no blogger can get me out of this trap. The only way out is to trust in God's grace to get me out--to trust that God's grace is enough not only for my soul, but also for my sermon.

The brilliant poet W. H. Auden once wrote:

"Some writers confuse authenticity, which they ought always to aim at, with originality, which they should never bother about."


What makes the trap so dumb is that I am the one creating it. I know some churches are preacher-eaters--but mine is not. No one at my church tells me I have to be amazing. No one even tells me that I have to be smart. What they really want most is for me to be myself--to be my creative, passionate, odd self completely  captivated by the mystery of the grace and love of Christ.

That voice telling me I have to be amazing is lying. I know that. People don't need amazing; they need real.

The voice of truth invites me onto the couch in my blue jeans and blue striped shirt and tells me, "You are loved and and you are chosen... you will win some and lose some, you will hit some out of the park and you will strike out, but never be afraid to trust that no matter what you do you are loved and you are chosen... and you are not alone either. Go tell everyone that there is more room on the couch, because they are loved and chosen as well."

nine eleven

Like any other Tuesday, I was scared awake at 4:00am Central Time by the sound of my alarm clock--which I purchased precisely because it seemed to have been rigged somehow with a tractor-trailer's horn as the alarm. I began my usual routine, which admittedly was not my favorite nor the most conducive to my natural sleeping patterns. Nevertheless, my wife and I were still in school and needed the money that my early morning job provided. So, there I was shuffling out of the house at 4:40 in the morning and driving to open up the Maryland Farms YMCA located in a business park in beautiful and wealthy Brentwood, TN. Alongside our friendly maintenance man, Al--who basically kept the place running and was undoubtedly a morning person--I was the front desk staff-person who cheerfully greeted early-rising gym-rats who were there to burn some calories before their workdays started. Al had been there for an hour already when I showed up to turn the lobby lights on and unlock the front doors at 5:00am.

Outside the doors stood the over-achievers--those grossly over-motivated souls who pace and check their watches outside the gym before it opens. After checking them in, I busied myself with the normal stuff: brewing a fresh pot of coffee, folding the warm towels, getting the computers and printers warmed up and working properly, and making sure that all of the televisions that lined the walls in front of the treadmills were turned on. Each television was tuned to a different news network each displaying various scrolling strips of headlines and market results. The first few hours rolled by normally. There were the usual few complaints about the temperature of the pool, or the quality of the coffee, or a jammed locker.

At 7:00am I was joined up front by Mary Catherine who although still in high school had agreed to take an absence that day to cover a shift for her co-worker and aunt, Penny, who usually worked mornings with me. I'm not positive that was legal, but I was okay with it. I was tired of being alone, and Mary Catherine was always fun to work with--talkative, upbeat, and hard-working, but none of these traits annoyingly so. With a constant smile, Mary Catherine checked in new guests and held a conversation with me about her plans for that coming weekend.

The sound came first.

I'll never forget that sound--it was the sound of shock and fear. Even through the plate glass windows separating the welcome counter from the fitness floor, I heard a collective groaning. It was a noise so powerful that it stopped all conversation. I turned to see what was the cause and across every television screen was the same image... American Airlines Flight 11 had hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Smoke was pouring out of it like it had a volcano on it's side. Mary Catherine left me at the desk to go and listen to the television broadcasts.

I remember how odd it was in that precise moment and place. Behind me was a stunned crowd standing still in the middle of the gym--workout gear on and tennis shoes laced up, ready to go, sweat already falling, but no one moving at all. In front of me was a steady stream of people coming in the doors fresh from their cars--some laughing and cutting up, some singing, some smiling and greeting me jovially--all completely unaware of what was taking place. But before they even reached the counter, I watched the confusion and concern wash over them. Some wandered to the lockers trying to make sense of things but stay on schedule. Most simply stood dumbfounded watching a screen through the windows unable to even hear the broadcast.

The initial news reports coming from the scene were more panic than news. Mary Catherine returned with an update, but with details we later would learn were not accurate. Apparently, people on the news broadcasts had speculated (hoped?) that this was not a passenger plane--she reported to me that it was a cargo jet. I remember checking in a few guests whom I comforted with this misinformation.

As we spent a couple of minutes discussing how this sort of accident happens, we watched as United Airlines Flight 175 was flown into the South Tower.

This time, I went to listen. It was just moments later that the grim realization of what we were watching was becoming clear. These were not accidents. These were not cargo planes. These were commercial flights, and the planes had been hijacked. The targets were intentional. These were acts of terrorism.

It was 8:03am Central Time when the second tower was hit. The towers were collapsing and people were beginning to jump from the buildings. I watched it in real time. Many of those standing near me were already late for work, but could not pull themselves away from the television screens.

I went back to my post at the front desk, and I reported the awful truth to Mary Catherine who started crying. Most everyone either wept and grieved aloud or stood solemn and stunned. We were in slow motion.

And I don't know why, but I remember two young and attractive late-twenty-something men in grey suits walking past the desk on their way out to their jobs. I heard one of them say to the other, "Whoa! I just hope this doesn't affect the market too badly." The other nodded and with a brief laugh. The walked out the door and were gone.

I remember hating them.

I hated that their first thought was about money, not people. As I watched them through the doors, I hated their nice suits and fancy cars. I hated their nice hair-cuts. I hated their greed-soaked priorities. Truthfully and inexplicably, in that moment, my anger at these two was greater than my anger towards the terrorists who had hijacked the planes and flown them into the towers.

I look back now and sometimes surmise that although we were nothing alike in so many ways, in this one small but significant way there might not have been too much difference between me and the hijackers. I've never confessed that until now. Even now, I wonder if I should admit that.

One thing that the news got more right than they could know was this:  none of us was innocent anymore.

Every year this date reminds me that every human heart needs healed. Especially mine.