Ten years ago, I woke up to the sound of NPR and urgent reporting about airplanes, New York City. In my morning haze, I struggled to make sense of the noise. I got out of bed, and my brother, already in the kitchen, said, “Oh god, you have to see this.” The images of that day, the towers collapsing, the people waving cloth from whatever windows they could lean out out of, men and women jumping into the hands of God. I struggled to get ready for work that morning.
On the car ride over, I was riveted to the news again. In traffic, I saw other drivers staring forward, not that much singing or chatting away as in other mornings. I arrived at the Learning Center and promptly turned on the television. We left the television on all day, and there didn’t seem like much work was going to get done that day – we gathered in the conference room and others came to join us as they came for appointments. We watched quietly, in disbelief.
What has struck me about that day was not the doubt, the fear, the sheer terror of facing an unknown threat was the beauty of community. Yes, those things linger in my mind when I hear 9/11, but there is something more for me. By chance that day in 2001 was the Mass of the Holy Spirit, a liturgical ceremony that is held at every Jesuit school. As a community we gathered in the Church and we gathered together in numbers I have not seen since – St. Ignatius was full. It would have been something to sit in front of the television for the remainder of the day and stay in that small conference room huddled together. I’m sure many people did that in other offices around the city, but we were called to attend Mass and what struck me is that what we have together is hope. We have each other.
Father Privett got up to deliver the homily that day, and I can clearly recall sitting in that beautiful building, holding my breath, looking for something to help me get through this time. I wanted something I could take back to the classroom, to my meetings with students, to my interactions with the world at large. He said:
So what do we do now? We do what members of the human family everywhere do in difficult times. We come together to pray, to sing songs, to share bread and wine and to comfort one another however we can. We keep the deceased and the injured in our hearts, and we are of life a little more careful than we have ever been.
As a university community, we renew our commitment and strengthen our resolve to USF’s Jesuit educational mission. Can anyone today argue that we do not need persons who will fashion a more just and humane world? Does anyone not see the world’s need for men and women who live their lives for others and not simply for themselves? Is it even possible to talk of faith in God that does do justice in this world? Can any of us question the necessity of promoting a common good that transcends the interests of particular groups or individuals? Is there any doubt that reasoned discourse and persuasion, not coercion and violence, are the only tools with which to make a better world?
We leave here today knowing that we all members of one human family and that guided by God’s Spirit, we can care for one another and we can work together to make this world the place that God would have it be, and by so doing, we will find our way home.
I had to teach later class that day, and I stood in front of the students about to start my lecture and said to them, you know, you guys, this isn’t important. Let’s just talk right now, about what’s going on with us. I had a student from Connecticut, and she looked at me with desperation in her eyes, “Why did this happen? What is going on?” As an instructor, how could I answer this? I suppose I could have provided some background and some insight but I had little to go on. All I could do was respond, “I honestly don’t know.” I was being truthful – and I think the most important thing I could have done at that time was be honest and be human. We talked about being afraid, about being unsure. And after much conversation and connection, and permission to do so, we moved on.
Charlene