A SEPTEMBER 11th MESSAGE

James Ishmael Ford
11 September 2002

It is now one year from that dreadful day. And still the wounds are fresh. Still the hurt continues.
There will come a time when we need to reflect on deepest meaning, and what purpose we find within that. There will come a time when we need to judge and to act from that judgment, wherever, however it may lead. This will mean looking across the oceans. And this will mean reflecting on our own lives.

But not now.

Now we need to feel.

Now we need to let our hearts feel.

In my own experience of this terrible time, I find the words of scripture a comfort. Particularly I feel reverberating through my whole body the songs of David and particularly the 23rd Psalm. If you know the words in the King James version, perhaps you would like to join me in repeating them now.

The Lord is my shepherd;
I shall not want,
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures;
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul:
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness
For his name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the
Shadow of death,
I will fear no evil:
Thou art with me;
Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me
In the presence of mine enemies:
Thou anointest my head with oil;
My cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
And I will dwell in the house
Of the Lord forever.

Somewhere in my adolescence I put these words behind me. They seemed old and awkward and, really, meaningless. But I didn’t forget them, not entirely. As I grew older I returned every now and again, and reflected upon what they might mean. But there was too much I found unacceptable. The images of shepherds and sheep just didn’t work for me. And as I began to really understand the suffering of women in our culture, the relentless masculine by preference usage began to offend me. I felt it all belonged to a religion that was not mine and could not be. And so I began a journey that took me to other teachings, some genuinely sublime.

But on that day a year ago none of the fine and beautiful and I have no doubt true words I’d learned since my childhood came to me. Driving in the car listening to NPR reports, later here in this building, joined together with Fran and Anne and Wendy and Noreen, watching the second airplane crash and witnessing live the collapse of the buildings, only these words came to me.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

I suspect that some of our comfort simply comes from the cadences of childhood and associations like for me between these words and family and parental love. But there is something more, as well.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures;
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul:
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness

There is something more here. I suggest as we open our hearts, as we allow ourselves to feel fully, we may discover things about ourselves, and the possibilities of the world fully engaged.

Here we are, in a time of deep feeling, opening us, making us vulnerable. And here we are, gathered together with sadness and maybe rage and I know in my own heart confusion. Certainly the light of meaning is not clear. And maybe it will never be completely clear. But, at the same time, from somewhere in the ancient of ancients we are given words of comfort.

Yea, though I walk through the
Valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil.

There is something wonderful here. We do not even need to believe. Certainly at this moment we do not need to argue. Instead we only need to remember how we are not God. That is enough for the moment. We are precious and unique, but very much of the world that passes away.

At the same time there is something more, and we have some profound claim upon it, and it has some profound claim upon us. We live and breathe and have our being in this something larger than our million schemes and seemingly endless acts of grasping.

We need only feel what we feel. The miracle is that we only need to sit still, to feel and to notice. This act of vulnerability, of openness can be powerful, and mysterious.

It should be unsettling. As we open our hearts we can discover the mystery that inspired the poet. We may even find the same inspiration. And then perhaps we find the old and awkward words maybe do speak something deeper than the words themselves at first suggest.

Some ancient comfort edges into our hearts. Then, at that moment, how can we help but respond? Our voices then rise to God.

Thou preparest a table before me
In the presence of mine enemies:
thou anointest my head with oil.

This I believe. With our hearts wide open, to the hurt and the sorrow and that more, we can find a genuine comfort. Indeed, within this open heart, within this vulnerability, we can find the true turning, discovering who we are.

And at that moment how can we not see the abundance, the joy even in the midst of sorrow, we find the extravagance of love. Of course my cup runneth over.

So this is the good news. In this horrific time, if we are willing to simply open our hearts to this song, so old, so old, we can find something beautiful. The message this psalm contains is a note from the heart of the divine. We need only to open ourselves to it. And then when the time comes to judge and to act, as at some point we must; we will do so from righteousness, from love, from the deepest good of our lives, which is the deep dream of human possibility.

And as we do so surely goodness and mercy will follow us all the days of our lives. The possibilities of peace and joy and reconciliation are revealed. And from that experience we can find how we really can dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

May we all find this peace.

Amen.