It’s hard to know what to say at a time like this.  I do feel a need, though, to share with you some of my thoughts and feelings at this difficult moment. I’ve experienced a wide range of emotions this week.  I was fortunate enough to spend the first couple of hours, as the chilling story began to unfold on Tuesday morning, with twenty-five of my Unitarian Universalist ministerial colleagues from the northern half of the Joseph Priestley District.  Praying together and wondering together about what was happening was helpful, even as our coming together here is helpful.

     And yet, over the next few days, my reactions were all over the place. I was shocked and stunned at the magnitude of destruction and suffering.  I was anxious and afraid about where the next attack might strike.  I was deeply sad and sorrowful thinking about the many, many families torn apart, most of them suspended in the limbo of fear and uncertainty.  I was angry at the thought that anyone could even contemplate, much less implement, such horrific acts against their fellow human beings.  Perhaps more than anything, I felt frustrated and helpless at my inability to do anything about it.  And I must confess that there were moments when the idea of vengeance sounded attractive.

     Our national leaders have been talking about war; indeed the terrorist attacks on Tuesday are seen as the opening shots of that war.  Those leaders caution us that a war against terrorism will not be quick and neat.  It will be long and dirty.

     I agree that we are at war, and we must choose sides for a long and protracted struggle.  But the war I’m talking about is not the United States versus Osama bin Laden.  It’s not freedom and democracy versus fundamentalism and terrorism.  We are all part of a conflict between love, hope, and life on the one hand, and hatred, despair, and death on the other.

     It is not within our power as individual human beings to bring peace and justice to the world, to call to account those who have rained terror and chaos upon us.  And that is a source of profound frustration.
 What we can do as individuals and as communities is to take control of our own responses to the horror and tragedy.  To give those responses the shape of love and faith and hope.  In easier times we mouth those words and affirm the concepts.  Now we must put them into action.

     In the face of hatred, we can choose to love.  In the face of despair, we can choose to hope.  In the face of death, we can continue to say “yes” to life.  We can take the opportunity to tell our family and our friends what they mean to us.  We can hold our children close and make sure they know they are loved.  We can offer our support and comfort to those in shock and mourning.  We can speak out against mindless retaliation aimed at innocent members of suspect ethnic or national background.

     If, instead, our thoughts and actions turn toward vengeance and retaliation, especially indiscriminate retaliation, then we have already lost the war.

     Victor Frankl, well-known survivor of the Nazi Holocaust, observed that a person overcomes tragedy and suffering to the extent that meaning can be made from it.  So where is the meaning to be found or made in our current circumstances?  I reject the notion that this is all part of some Divine plan, or that God is punishing us for our sins.  I also reject the notion that this has been presented to us as a sort of “teachable moment.”  But even if there is no inherent meaning in this tragedy waiting for us to find it, meaning can yet be made.

     For me the greatest sources of meaning in all this are all those signs of hope and courage and compassion that have surfaced during the aftermath.  The outpouring of support for the rescue and relief efforts – the blood and money and muscle and sweat contributed by thousands.  The comfort brought to families of crash victims by the thought that their loved ones’ courage and heroism may have prevented even greater death and destruction.  The commitment to move ahead and rebuild, and go on with life.
 

 In the words of poet Adrienne Rich,

          My heart is moved by all I cannot save;
          So much has been destroyed.
          I have to cast my lot with those who, age after age,
          perversely, with no extraordinary power,
          reconstitute the world.

     One of the deepest convictions of my faith is that, for those who are hopeful, there will always be hope to find.  I will be interested in hearing from you a bit later about where you find hope.

     Right now, I would like to invite you into a time of silent prayer and meditation.  As we enter the silence, may we hold in our hearts all those most directly affected by this tragedy:  the dead and injured, their families, their friends, those displaced from home or workplace, those who face unjust retaliation, and also those in positions of leadership, who must seek the wisdom to shape the course of events into the future.