Twenty years ago, two airplanes slammed into the World Trade Centers (WTC) in New York City. The footage is seared into my memory. It was so unbelievable, that it seemed that they had to show it over and over. As a result, I felt as though I was being overdosed with feelings of grief and horror.
A question that arose in my mind often during that time was, “What kind of creature are we, that members of our own species would do this to each other?” How is it that we, human beings, who are capable of thinking so deeply, of creating great art, building great cities and showing such tenderness, are yet capable of deeds of such immense cruelty? Can we not see the simple fact that every human being has the same basic needs for shelter, food, meaningful work and trusting relationships? Can we not see that God has provided enough for everyone to live abundantly, as long as we manage these gifts in ways that are consistent with that love God shares with us?
Part of what gives these memories so much staying power is in the way the WTC makes such a compelling metaphor. Those buildings represented for us the apex of our civilization. They were an astounding technological achievement, a nerve center in the vast network of global finance and communications. They were also an expression of pride. And in that sense, they were the closest thing we had to a “Tower of Babel.”
And so, part of what was so shocking about seeing the buildings fall, was how vulnerable it made us feel. Those buildings, standing as seemingly permanent symbols of our power, literally disappeared in a matter of seconds. And just as frighteningly, the event exposed a deep hatred and resentment, coming at us from people who saw themselves as victims and adversaries of that power. It was shocking to see that the culture we viewed as a benevolent export could generate such a violent negative reaction.
I think that the way the aircrafts crashed into the buildings, and the ordeal that followed, also provided us with a powerful visual metaphor for the unease we felt about where our civilization as a whole might be headed. It had a movie-like quality to it, like watching the “Titanic” (1997) or “The Towering Inferno” (1974). Both movies had as their settings a form of spectacular technological achievement. In “Titanic,” it was the biggest ship ever built and in “The Towering Inferno,” it was the tallest building in the world. Both settings represented a kind of “housing” designed to protect the occupants and to serve their interests and desires. And in both cases, a catastrophic event turned these settings into a death trap for the protagonists.
I think the symbolism around 9/11 is even more poignant today, because the global system which the WTC towers represented feels even more precarious now and the irrational violence of that day still looms so threateningly over us today. The effects of global warming pummel our infrastructure and ecosystems with storms of increased severity, the pandemic is pounding our health care system and economy, and the radicalization of politics — to the point where people would literally rather die than make compromises with the other party — all of these are like the slow-motion footage of a giant aircraft hitting the side of our civilization and shaking it to its foundations. And we are like the people caught on the highest floors, desperate for an escape route that will restore our lives to normalcy.
There is a documentary that explores the events of that day from the perspective of religion. It is an episode of Frontline called “Faith and Doubt at Ground Zero.” It is the best documentary on religion that I have ever seen. If your heart can take it, watch the whole thing. Otherwise, catch the last five minutes. This film reflects on 9/11 in a way that exposes us to that which is most horrifying and most beautiful in our human experience and in our relationship with God.
One of the most agonizing, yet beautiful moments in the film comes near the end, when two people, with no place to go and with the building under them burning, hold hands and jump off the top of the building together.
In some ways this event becomes the final focus of the film, as if to suggest to us that the entire purpose and meaning of religion, the deepest impulse and meaning of our lives, is expressed in the fact that those who jumped chose joining hands as their final act: The meaning of life revealed in one sacramental moment.
The reality of what confronted them was dramatic beyond anything we can imagine and we can be grateful for being spared such an experience. And yet, in some ways we do share the same life and fate, do we not? The saving power for us is the same. It is the deep impulse within us to reach out to each other, to comfort and care for each other. And as with them, this impulse has the power to define us even in the face of unfathomable blindness, cruelty and certain death.
The urgency of the moment is also the same for us, although less pressing. Unlike them, most of us have days, months, perhaps years to give final meaning to our lives. Our civilization is badly shaken and burning, and the time is now to lean as fully as possible into that same love that was represented when two (strangers? friends?) joined hands atop the WTC. That love that joins us together in mutual support is the answer to all that goes wrong in this world. It seems to me that trusting in it is the only way to live, and the only way to meet death without dying. There is no ugliness or brutality in the world that can wipe out the beauty of a life that puts its faith in love.