Each year on September 11, I listen to the voices of friends, family, and strangers rehearse their memories of the day we were attacked. The sudden news pouring through television, texts, radio stations, and phones calls, seemed unreal. The skies became silent. Our never-ending movement ended. For a season, we all lived in slow motion. As our nation mourned, the world mourned with us.

The true horror of the event began unfolding. People felt shock, fear, grief, mourning, loss, anger, and confusion. Every time I read people’s stories and listen to tributes or memorials, I am struck by the sense of shattering: a picture of the world crashing down into uncountable pieces like the shards of the twin towers. As we watched and continue to remember the horror of a world crumbling into dust, we see a glimpse of the utter brokenness of humanity.

This event, this memory is yet another echo, another reverberation, another tremor of sin that stretches across the history of the world. The utter sinfulness of sin is the undoing of all things: all joy, all love, all beauty, all peace. In every age, in every culture, in every moment, and in every person, this tremor ripples through all existence. Some people have been so aware of this darkness, this brokenness, they could not bear to leave their rooms. Or simply, they could not bare it, so they didn’t.

The tremors of this brokenness also shook many people in the 14th and 15th centuries, and they began to worship death. We can still find tapestries memorializing the danse macabre (dance of death) as groups paraded across as living skeletons, awaiting their coming repose. The horrors of plague, famine, war, and torture, brutalized much of Europe in ways that seemed random and meaningless. Faith grew cold. Hearts grew weak.

We experience of glimmer of this pain on September 11. When I reflect on that day, I remember sitting in a coffee shop with a group of ministers who were actually having a prayer meeting. Suddenly our phones lit up with non stop texts, and our prayers shifted to lamentations and cries for mercy. Two weeks later I was scheduled to do a retreat on holy fools with my close friends and academic advisors Michael and Darlene. We chose not to cancel but to remember the strange stories of fools from across the ages even as we grappled with our own grief and fear. Russia in particular has celebrated the role of these wandering fools for God whose lives seem out of sync with the rough and tumble life of the world.

When I think of September 11, I also think of the 14th century and other eras in human history when the world seemed to come to an end amidst of the terrors of the day. I also think of the horrors some people face every day of existence.

I think of Ivan Karamazov and his cynicism due partly to the evil that drowns our world each day. Sometimes it feels as though Ivan gains more followers with each passing year and each passing evil. But then I also think of Alexei Karamazov, Ivan’s brother. HIs simple faith and simple response to the world seems naive. He comes to us as a holy fool not quite fitting in the monastery and not quite fitting in the world of men.

In a world where evil seems to abound on the right and the left, we might look for a few more holy fools. Those who’ve abandoned dignity and glory and justification and have discovered the mystery of God’s love that reverberates even more strongly than the rising darkness. This love does not look or operate like evil. It comes across and gentle and weak and on the verge of failure. And yet, it glistens with the light of Christ Himself. His weak and failing love seeps beneath our sorrows, our weaknesses, our failures, and even the tremors of evil shaking the world.

Walking in His love feels a bit like falling. He unsteadies our confidences. He reorients our ears and eyes, so that finally we begin to look and act in ways that seem foolhardy. Like Alexei, we see His light and love where others see only hate and darkness. By his grace, we learn to move in this light of love even when it means failure and possibly even death. Like little children, we continue to walk in this love step by step. Slowly learning to trust. For this love can never, will never be extinguished. It is a love that walks through death and will continue pouring out life into the heart of the world until evil is no more.

Image by Stacy (used by permission via Creative Commons).

This morning I woke up early and decided to start preparing a salad for a family gathering at lunch today. As I sliced the cucumber, a mild aroma refreshed the room like a cool breeze. This simple act reminded me that I am alive and grateful. As I write these words, I am aware of the humor in pausing while cutting a cucumber and lifting up hands in thanks. Simple thanks seems a bit odd in a world of cool cynicism. The overwhelming abundance of our age can blind us to the giftedness of each moment.

I learn and relearn the art of simple thanks from people who have known lack and from times when I suffered loss. Earlier in my life, I had the privilege to serve in a mixed race Pentecostal church among many people who lived at the very edge of survival. I have never been around such joyous, raucous worship. Their joy carried me through a battle of dark depression that threatened to smother me. When I stepped into the services, I felt their delight overwhelm me, and I was jumping and spinning and dancing. I say dancing but I mean tottering. My height and size made me look more like a big drunk bear stumbling around and always on the verge of tipping over.

When I sit with those who have known great suffering, I have been surprised by the simple joy and thanksgiving. Almost twenty years ago, an older man walked into my life as he was entering the twilight of his life. He had lived a hermit life for many years, escaping the pain of his losses from earlier in life. He came to a retreat I hosted on Holy Play and was so excited when we did a finger-painting exercise. At 68 years old, he had never finger-painted. In the years ahead, he entered a second childhood and immersed himself in coloring, music, friendships, and laughter in a way that brought joy to me and all those around us.

I also think of those who have known deep, unshakable suffering like Richard Wurmbrand and Rabia Al Basri. Imprisoned and tortured for his faith under Romanian Communism, Wurmbrand discovered the grace of God at the place where he was weakest and failing. He tells the story of a torturer who started singing. Though in pain, he gave thanks for he had not heard music in years. His descent into the forsaken depths of a dark prison became an entrance into the halls of worship. In the despair of pain and loss, he found the joy of the Lord and love for those who hated him.

Like Wurmbrand, Rabia also knew great pain at the human hands. After her father’s death, she fell into the hands of robbers and was sold as a slave. Years of hardship and suffering gave way to a love for God. This Persian poet and mystic spent her life of suffering and eventual freedom in prayer and thanksgiving. Everywhere she turned, she found the love of God.

Finally, I think of Jane Kenyon. A poet who suffered from depression all her life, Kenyon also gave words to the absolute wonder of being alive. In the darkness of her own pains, she still discovered grace. On this day of giving thanks, may her words inspire afresh that every moment, every breath is gift.

Otherwise

By Jane Kenyon

I got out of bed

on two strong legs.

It might have been

otherwise. I ate

cereal, sweet

milk, ripe, flawless

peach. It might

have been otherwise.

I took the dog uphill

to the birch wood.

All morning I did

the work I love.

At noon I lay down

with my mate. It might

have been otherwise.

We ate dinner together

at a table with silver

candlesticks. It might

have been otherwise.

I slept in a bed

in a room with paintings

on the walls, and

planned another day

just like this day.

But one day, I know,

it will be otherwise.

– Jane Kenyon
from Otherwise: New and Selected Poems (Graywolf Press, 1996)