I live five hours from Manhattan, New York, if Connecticut traffic cooperates, so I find myself in the city from time to time. Many times, I arrange schedules to meet someone who has not been to Manhattan before. Witnessing the wide-eyed amazement from a New York first-timer never gets old, but seeing the same basic tourist places can get redundant for a repeat visitor like myself.
One common tourist destination is among the most somber grounds in America—the former plot of land where the World Trade Center stood. This is one place I never get tired of visiting. No matter how many times one stares into the pools erected in place of the buildings’ former foundations, it is hard to remove emotion. This is a place where hell came to earth.
Yet, while reflecting on the horrors of war and terrorism, there is a small beacon of hope in the basic footprint of the former Twin Towers. Just to the east of the World Trade Center is a small church called St. Paul’s. History indicates that a sycamore tree on the church’s lawn shielded the building from falling debris the day its neighbor was attacked in 2001. Therefore, it became an important place in the days that followed: It became a triage unit for bodies pulled from the rubble, a place for firefighters and police officers to catch naps during long shifts, and a place where mourners could pray and grieve.
This church is the oldest public building still in continuous use in Manhattan as well as the city’s lone remaining Colonial church. Its long history—which includes George Washington worshiping there on his first day as president—prepared it for this day. Because a church that gathers to worship, to anticipate the kingdom of God and seek to participate in it, knows how to practice the reality of heaven in the midst of hell.
The book of Isaiah ends in the last ten or so chapters with a call to the post-exilic Israelites to repent and change their ways. This invocation is especially seen by the prophet as a call to communal justice. Israel cannot properly be the people of God if they are not cultivating justice in their communities for the poor, oppressed, and victimized.
After making this point, the language of the text shifts to a vision of the new Zion and an invitation to be saved into the new heaven and new earth. We are given vivid pictures of the possibilities of the realities of God’s final redemption and salvation. Some of the language sounds like this:
We, the worshiping people of God, know that peace is coming. We know that God yearns to comfort us. We know that our hearts will rejoice and our foes will be dealt with. But when hell appears on earth, not everyone can see this, let alone understand or trust it.
For this is what the Lord says: “I will extend peace to her like a river, and the wealth of nations like a flooding stream; you will nurse and be carried on her arm and dandled on her knees. As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you; and you will be comforted over Jerusalem.” When you see this, your heart will rejoice and you will flourish like grass; the hand of the Lord will be made known to his servants, but his fury will be shown to his foes (Isaiah 66:12–14).
We, the worshiping people of God, know that peace is coming. We know that God yearns to comfort us. We know that our hearts will rejoice and our foes will be dealt with. But when hell appears on earth, not everyone can see this, let alone understand or trust it. As such, in the worst of times—in the very face of hell—we must testify with our communal life that we are a people practicing justice out of our worship pointing to the coming kingdom of God.
I pray that violence never comes to your city in such a brutal manner. But hell shows its perceived power on this earth from time to time in the form of violence, death, fear, anxiety, abuse, loss, upheaval, poverty, hunger, and on and on. May our gathering in worship so shape us that we taste the glory of God’s heaven. And may that taste spur us toward justice and healing in the face of hell’s worst schemes.
The story of the St. Paul’s church doesn’t surprise me. It does not surprise me that a people who gather to worship on a regular basis were prepared to give away their space, resources, and energy to a grieving people. We may never have a September 11 in our neighborhood, but there will be trauma in people’s lives. Our communal worship should drive us in a way to go and share our foretaste of heaven as an antidote to their present, living hell.
1 Comments
Nancy Harris
My husband and I had just arrived in the Czech Republic, where we were visiting our daughter and her family, when we received the horrific news that the twin towers in Manhattan had been attacked by foreign terrorists who also hit the pentagon. It was a surreal experience to be in a different country watching the twin towers collapse on CNN TV; watching the security of our country be compromised, and listening to the reports of the number of people who had been killed or injured. It was devastating news, and my husband and I wondered when we would be able to embark on our return flight home, as all flights to the US had been cancelled. Many people in Krumlov, a medieval town in the Czech Republic, where my daughter lives, expressed their condolences and my daughter was able to translate. One young man stopped me on the street and began speaking. He placed his hand on my shoulder and told me that terrorism was not just a problem for the US, but it was a huge problem for the entire world. Many prayers were said for the US and its for those who were grieving the loss of loved ones. At that time, many people in all countries came to church as a community to show support and to overcome their fears of “what next.”