PRESIDENT'S MESSAGE

This sermon was delivered by Dr. James Kenneth Echols on September 13, 2001

We know well the weeping, our weeping, that is taking place in our country these days. The beauty of a brilliant Tuesday morning in New York is scarred by two planes that plow into two towers. Then a third plane hits the Pentagon in Washington, while a fourth plane hits the ground in Pennsylvania. Lives end abruptly and our weeping begins. One spouse weeps as she tells the story of her husband calling from a plane, telling her that his plane has been highjacked and that he loves her.

Another spouse weeps because she has not heard from her husband, fearing that he is dying alone in the rubble of a collapsed tower, distressed that she cannot hold him as he dies. And police officers and firefighters, family and friends, co-workers and fellow citizens all weep in the wake of such violence and destruction. We know well the weeping, our weeping, that is taking place in our country these days.

We know less well, if at all, the weeping of those who committed this terror. Why would they do such an awful thing? Does killing have any more dignity if it is done for a purpose, no matter how heinous, rather than just for the hell of it? And so, even as we weep for those Americans who died in fear as well as for we Americans who must now live in fear, I wonder whether this act of terror was committed by those whose hatred and revenge was intended to give voice to their weeping, weeping over the plight of their people. Does it make it right if they were? By no means! Do ends justify any means? By no means! And yet, we know less well, if at all, the weeping of those who committed this terror.

"Weeping may endure for the night," writes the Psalmist.

When I think about this tragedy and the night, I think about the darkness of what has been called "man’s inhumanity to man." An adult goes to break up a fight between two children and discovers each one claiming that the other struck the first blow. But how did the fight begin in the first place? What were the issues? Can either child claim absolute innocence?

The tragic reality of our world is that nations and groups don’t agree on what is fair and just: reparations, a homeland. Justice for one nation or group is injustice for another nation or group. Then might is used to pursue a given version of right, and then all hell breaks loose–war, ethnic cleansing, acts of terror. And it is night, it is dark, and there is weeping, weeping in Ruwanda and in Rummalah, weeping in New York and in northern Ireland, weeping in Jerusalem and in Washington. Weeping over tragedies like the one two days ago is a manifestation of our broken human community.

But, writes the Psalmist, "joy comes in the morning."

In the midst of this incomprehensible and indescribable tragedy, how precious is this promise of God lifted up by this servant of God. "Weeping may endure for the night, but joy comes with the morning." We’re in the midst of night right now, searching for survivors and recovering the dead, seeking out the responsible and planning our response, weeping as we go. And perhaps this must be in a world whose human community is broken.

But morning connotes light. I think about the light of God’s love, a love that can lead us and guide us. A love that can help us see all of God’s people who are weeping. A love that can empower us to be agents of reconciliation in a divided and violent world. A love that can commit us to find ways to avoid acts of terror. With God, all things are possible, which means living in hope that joy can come and will come with the morning.

When President Bush was running for office, he said that in the midst of crises he would ask "What would Jesus do?" This is an appropriate question for us to ask as we struggle to make sense out of what has happened. I believe Jesus would pray for God’s morning to come and would work to end the world’s weeping.

"Weeping may endure for the night, but joy comes with the morning." The Psalmist wrote these words in light of personal illness and healing. Today, we cling to these divine words of promise.