Diary of George McDonald

Salvation Army at the World Trade Center disaster

18 September 2001

On Sunday evening I flew to Hartford from Atlanta (plane was 2 hours late) and met Gail at 1am. After a few hours sleep we drove into Suffern, NH, the training headquarters for the Salvation Army. At 11 that morning they had a service for about 200 officers and cadets who are involved in one way or another in the NYC disaster.

The Army is the only group that introduces you as a couple. It’s never “we’re glad to have Gordon MacDonald with us this morning…and Gordon is pastor, etc.” They always say, “We’re glad to have Gordon and Gail MacDonald with us; they are pastors of…” The Army, from the very beginning, has respected the notion of women in ministry and leadership and the genius of couples working together as teams on a partnership basis.

So, literally within minutes, I decided that this was not a moment for me to preach but that Gail should join me in dialoguing the talk on Elijah in the wilderness that I’d prepared. I whispered to her that I would “preach” the sermon to her and she should respond with ideas, her own insights and any questions. The result was a talk that was twice what I could have done alone. She was just terrific. And to think that this was a woman who, twenty-five years ago, would have been terrified of getting up to do a spontaneous talk.

We started by reminding people of the familiar instruction given by flight attendants: “if you have a child with you, put your airbag on first and then do what has to be done to the child.” That seemed a useful way to remind these dear folks of the importance of tending after the soul and the body as they help others.

After the meeting, we drove with Capt Mark Tillsley and Col Daimon Raider (brother to the General of the Army) into NYC. Our first view of Manhattan came as we passed over the George Washington Bridge. The WTC was missing. And for those of us who pride ourselves in being fulltime or part time New Yorkers and who know what it’s like to get up each morning and look to see if the Towers are visible or in the clouds, it is the first of many shocks.

We drove down the West Side Highway which is like a war logistics zone. They have done a remarkable job of organizing it already: lanes for certain kinds of trucks and lanes for supplies, etc. People line the highway wherever they are allowed with signs of encouragement and cheers and bottles of water and food for anyone involved with the effort at the WTC. We passed through checkpoint after checkpoint with our special credentials. The Salvation Army’s insignia is pure gold.

We parked our car at Chambers and Broadway and walked into the WTC area, visited a few of the SA canteens and then, suddenly, we came around a corner and there was Ground Zero, as they are calling it. You are standing at the edge of an area that is, at the very least, six square blocks in size, and “nothing remains….” (to quote Shelly’s poem) “and the lone and level sands stretch far away.” In this case, it is rubble, just twisted rubble. 110 floors of two buildings have imploded and their entire volume of rubble is less than two stories high. It is like a gigantic European plaza with open sky. But each building surrounding the plaza is lifeless, every window (and often the façade) gone.

Then you notice the workmen—several thousand of them—mostly cops, firemen: like ants crawling over the rubble, bucket brigades with a hundred or more men and women in line. When I asked why such a primitive form of rubbish removal, I was told that it was only way to get at bodies.

We joined a small team of SA people at a forward-line canteen. We were just feet away from the entrance to the crater where men poured in and out. At first I was mesmerized by the unbroken line of men (and a few women) going into the crater: like soldiers headed to the front in a war. Each was carrying some kind of tool: a shovel, a pickax, electronic equipment. But the line just kept going.

And another line, just as fascinating, but far more disturbing. Men coming out: exhausted, filthy, hardly able to walk.

It took me about 15 minutes for Gail and me to figure out that –as good as the SA is—there was not a whole lot of leadership. Every person was doing the next thing. For Gail, the next thing was to organize supplies because they were in disarray. So for the next many hours, every time I saw her, she was either bringing order to the food and medical and work supplies. I decided my places was with the workmen.

So I simply stepped out as the lines moved passed and started saying, “You look like a man who needs something to drink.” Virtually every man I encountered stopped and took what I offered. I would engage them in conversation: “how long have you been in the hole?” “What’s your job?” “Where’s your family?” “What station (fire or police) are you with?” “Do you have buddies in the pile? (Meaning: did you lose someone?).”

Virtually every man had someone in the pile. Almost all of them had lost more than one person they knew well. Many had lost relatives (these two services are full of related people). Almost no one refused my offer to talk. They would spill their guts. I talked with men who’d just uncovered body parts. You could smell death in their clothes.

Often I would say, “I’m a guy who likes to pray for his friends. Would you mind a prayer?” No one ever refused. Most of them reached out and grabbed my hand, or, if I would put my hands on their shoulders, would come instinctively closer.

My prayer: “God, I thank you for my new friend. Please keep him brave, strong, safe, and true. And help him to remember that this city dearly loves him today.”

We did that for almost 12 hours…until near midnight. As the sun had fallen (thank you, Lord, for ideal weather), the halogen lights had been turned on, and the whole sight became as artificial day. All the ruins took on an eerie appearance, ghostlike. And still, late into the evenings, the lines of men came and went. Men from hundreds of miles away…Florida, Kentucky, Michigan.

As the hours of the evening began, word came that the men on the bucket brigades were becoming increasingly hot and thirsty. So a couple of us decided to start taking bottles of water into the site itself. We filled large buckets with small plastic bottles of water and started into the crater—two buckets each. Soon I found myself right up on the piles of rubble along side of the men, the sniffer dogs. All around were cranes and heavy equipment, huge trucks. The smell was not as oppressive as I’d been warned, but it was there. Some of the men at the very top of the piles could not be reached. So I lobbed bottles—like throwing passes at a football game, I thought—up the piles. It became for some of the men almost like a game for a moment of distraction. And for a couple of hours I was back and forth, into the site and back, carrying refreshment, touching men and praying for them. I wondered if it was not unlike a chaplain’s experience in battle as he/she goes from soldier to soldier reminding them God is there.

And more than once I asked myself –as everyone asks—is God here? And I decided that He is closer to this place than any other place I’ve ever visited. The strange irony is that, amidst this absolute catastrophe of unspeakable proportions, there is a beauty in the way human beings are acting that defines the imagination. Everyone—underscore, everyone—is everyone else’s brother or sister. There are no strangers among the thousands at the work site. Everyone talks; everyone cooperates; everyone does the next thing that has to be done. No job is too small, to humble, or, on the other hand, too large.

I talked with men who’d gotten out of bed, fresh from hernia operations. Men who’d gone without more than an hour of sleep for days. Men who’d lost brothers, intimate friends. And no one was complaining.

Even the religious community had a strange convergence. I struck up a talking friendship a Franciscan friar in his brown habit. A great guy. We kept encouraging one another. At one point, he told me, “I’ve got to get out of here and get a cigarette.” I almost suggested I go along with him (smile). A scientoligist worked along side of us; she was running on pure adrenaline. A Roman Catholic archbishop came past our site and stopped and, thinking that I was a SA officer, thanked me warmly for what the Salvation Army was doing. There was great graciousness in his encouragement. I didn’t bother to tell him I was not an officer of the SA. It seemed of little significance at the moment. There are no doctrinal or organizational differences here: that’s trivia in this moment. Only people who care and want to support one another.

Tears ran freely, affection was exchanged openly, exhaustion was defied. We all stopped caring about outselves. The words “it’s not about me” were never more true.

One cop stopped to talk with me. He and his partner had just uncovered a car with occupants who’d been parked outside a building when the first tower fell. There they were, he said, but not they were dead. And he started to cry. A team of men came out of the building door where we were located, and I asked them where they’d come from. “We’re looking for the black boxes,” they said. “Can you hear them pinging?” I asked. “Yeah, they’re right around here.” And I realized that we were probably just a few yards away from where those four black boxes (two to a plane) are lying in the rubble with their valuable information about what happened in the last minutes.

This was merely a sample of conversations I had almost unendlingly for the entire time I was there.

Inadvertently, my faith tradition taught me as a child that there is little of good to celebrate in humanity. Nothing could be further from the truth at the WTC at this hour. There is a magnificence to the human spirit that tells you that deep down we have this fingerprint of God’s presence, and it comes out in hours like this. As Solzinyzen (however your spell his name) one wrote, “bless you prison…” so one is caused to say to the disaster, “bless you, if you bring out something that a lot of us feel has been largely lost in our day…”

No church service; no church sanctuary; no religiously inspiring service has spoken so deeply into my soul and witnessed to the presence of God as those hours last night at the crash site.

In all my years of Christian ministry, I never felt more alive than I felt last night. The only other time I can remember a similar feeling was the week that Gail & I worked on a Habitat for Humanity project in Hungary. As much as I love preaching the Bible and all the other things that I have been privileged to do over the years, being on that street, giving cold water to workmen, praying and weeping with them, listening to their stories was the closest I have ever felt to God. Even though it sounds melo-dramatic, I kept finding myself saying, “this is the place where Jesus most wants to be.”

Finally at 11pm last night, a relief team of SA workers came to take over.

Gail & I got to bed at 1.15am and we are up and will be headed back into the city in another hour. I know the feeling is emotional, but I can’t wait to get back there. It’s where we belong. There is no place in the world I’d rather be right now than with those men who are doing their work so heroically.

19 September 2001

When we got to Ground Zero yesterday, we found that our site had been moved about 100 feet back from the entrance to Ground Zero which was probably best because there was a little more “tranquility” there. The day before we’d been right in the mouth of things, and it was pretty chaotic.

Gail & I immediately set about trying to bring some order. And others joined us, sweeping up dust and trash, getting our supplies (food, working supplies, medicines, etc) into some reasonable order.

Fred Smith sent me a internet piece which helped to explain something I’d been seeing but didn’t quite understand. The piece talked about “Gorilla Volunteers,” a whole stream of people who have found ways to slip under the radar of the checkpoints and who are adept at scrounging supplies of every kind, stuff that even the Red Cross and the Salvation Army doesn’t even know how to keep in stock. We are working, for example, with a couple of people from the Scientology group who are amazing in their ability to use the informal systems to keep us supplied with ice, endless cases of bottled water, tarps, etc. At first I was very leery of them because they were quite difference (in appearance and demeanor), but as time has gone by, I’ve realized (stupid me!) that we’re all trying to do the same thing and the more we support and draw from one another, the more there will be at least some relief from this awesome situation. So the “Gorillas” are a very real part of the scene down there, and you learn quickly to work with them.

One of the characteristics (and they tell me this is true of warfare) is the vast amount of waiting that the firefighters and cops have to do. Now there are groups from all over the nation, and many have driven all day and night to get here. I talked to one Chicago contingent who’d driven the distance (I’m not sure I believe this) in 11 ½ hours. “We got stopped in Indiana,” one of them said, “going 108 mph.” The state policeman who stopped them simply said, “we know what you’re trying to do; keep it at 90.” And then they escorted them across the state into Ohio.

But they get positioned near Ground Zero and then have to wait, sometimes for hours, to get their chance at the rubble.

On the rubble there are bucket brigades—hundreds upon hundreds of men—working in two lines passing five gallon buckets. Every once in a while the call goes out to retreat because there is worry of a building collapse or a cave-in in the rubble. The heavy equipment is brought in and then the brigades go back to their work.

We are headed toward a serious moment in the process. When the leaders decide that this really no longer a recovery operation, then they will want to move in humongous heavy equipment and “sweep away the trash.” The cops and the firefighters will likely go ballistic because, as one said to me, “we just want to find a badge or a body part that will permit us to go to a family and give them a sense of closure.” A general clean-up would deny them this most precious tradition.

As I randomly think through the past day, I keep thinking of the men and women I’ve met—hundreds of them. Again, there are no strangers on the site. Everyone immediately talks to each other as if they’ve known one another all their lives. No one complains (except about the waiting); everyone is thankful. Over and over again, hard-boiled police say to me, “You guys are tremendous; we don’t know what we’d do without you.” And I keep saying back, “And you are dearly loved by this city.”

Across the street from where we do our work is a devastated building. It’s windows are covered by the chalky dust. I noticed some writing on one of the second floor windows, the letters in the reverse form you see when you hold writing up to a mirror. I stopped for a moment to decipher the writing: “Help find my family.” Then followed the names and birthdays of three people.”

The Salvation Army people amaze me with their resilience. When we were brought into the situation room at Territorial Headquarters yesterday morning before going to Ground Zero, the officers all stopped their work and, one by one, introduced themselves and shook our hands. Their leading office said, “The two of you need to know that we’ve read all your books, and you’ve marked our lives. We’re so touched that you’re here with us.” Humbling! We are peons in this process yet they are thanking us. No group has ever made us feel so wanted.

Discipline plays off in this world. There is no time for people to bicker about who is in charge; no time to complain or criticize. The Army’s command structure is best in these moments. Things get done, even if it is not always the most efficient way. And there is a place for creativity, as we found, with the Gorillas.

As Gail & I once found it when we were living in NYC, the African American folks are clearly more adaptable in this situation. Almost everyone of them –men and women, both—are acquainted with faith. They know the language. And they are most responsive when you offer your spiritual encouragement and prayer. When there is no time or opportunity for outright prayer, I ask (Gail taught me this), “Are you feeling our prayers today?”

My Franciscan friend stops by regularly to talk. I saw something of the rationale for habits (monk’s clothing) when, while we were talking, two police women came up and addressed him directly, “Father, will you bless us; we have to go in there.” They ignored me because I was in civilian clothing (nothing to identify but a SA hardhat). He gave them the sign of the cross and said something, and they went off.

I asked him what he’d said, and he responded, “I sign them with the cross and say, ‘May the blessing of God Almighty rest and abide upon you and may this sign of the cross be your peace and safety. In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.” And then he added with a chuckle, “The important thing is the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit; the rest is all Hollywood.” I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but it seemed significant to him. I liked him. And again and again, we’d cross paths and say words of encouragement. He was clearly burdened with his pastoral tasks, very much alone (while we are on a team). His brown habit was filthy was dust. And often he would say to me, “I’ve got to sit down and have a cigarette.”

I learned to copy his ways. And often, when there was little time with workmen, I would simply say, “May I give you a blessing?” And I repeated his words with the sign of the cross. It’s a good thing. Why did we give that pastoral piece up to the Catholics and decide it was foolish? In times like this the visible sign of the cross is very important to exhausted men and women who are scared, horrified and in shock.

At six last night a team of volunteers from Michigan arrived at our site. One of them was a letter carrier. He was clearly a fanatical organizer. Within an hour these 2-3 men had totally reorganized out station, cleaned it up immaculately, proposed a new way of distributing our materials. Drinks first, then food, then supplies, then medicines. They asked my opinion, and I said, “sounds like great retailing genius to me.” So it got done. And we were all delighted with ourselves.

More and more men are asking for asprin, Ben-Gay, the things that are demanded as the stress rises. One man had a constant migraine for 5 days. I prayed for his healing while his buddies stood round & watched. About a 100 yards behind us are several dozen chiropractors giving adjustments on makeshift platforums.

At one point I was over at a firemens supply station looking for some equipment and noticed a pair of brand new, size 11 boots. Since I’m always fascinated by things like that, I picked them up and admired them. 30 minutes later, back at our station, I was approached by a policeman with a sniffer-dog. He was in serious pain. “These boots are killing my feet; I’m full of blisters, and I can’t stop. Any idea where I could find some new boots?”

“What size to you wear?” I asked. “Size 11,” he said.

“I’m about to make you a happy man,” I said. “Sit here.”

I went back to the fire supply station, found the boots, made sure no one was looking, and headed back with my ‘find.” We are all “thieves” in this new situation.

He tried them on, and they fit like a glove. You would have thought I’d have given him a million dollars.

If I could write all day—and I obviously can’t--, I think I could tell several dozen more stories like that.

Our special companion (I think the Army assigned him to us) is Lt. Colonel Damon Ryder. He is brother to the former General of the Army, Paul Ryder. There were four Ryder brothers, all of whom are top officers in the SA. One is a doctor, another is a general, another is a theologian, and another is a missionary to Zambia. What fun we’ve had talking with Damon about his family and the way God uses Godly mothers and fathers to raise such an extraordinary cadre of brothers.

Finally at midnight last night a new team arrived at the station. The first large team we’ve seen. They were fresh & ready to go. We gladly handed over the operation to them. I can’t describe how much I’ve loved being with these people under these circumstances. These days will always remain in my memories as I’ve seen simply, ordinary people living the lives of saints. No one will ever have to convince me that human beings never look better than when they are serving with or without words.

20 September 2001

On our way into the “pit” (the media calls it Ground Zero, but it’s become the “pit” to the folks who are there), we stopped at the Salvation Army Divisional Headquarters on 14^th Street. Up on the 9^th floor there is a conference room and about a dozen men and women, officers in the Army, sit with computers and cell phones making decisions as to where to deploy the “assets” (the people & material) of the Army. There are about a dozen sites in motion that include counseling teams and food services. Outside on the street there is a massive unloading project going on as trucks pull put to disgorge every imaginable item that businesses, organizations and private individuals can give. The flow of material is mind-boggling.

We found a stack of boxes of a marvelous booklet that the American Bible Society has produced in just the past days. Its cover shows a photo of 3 fire fighters in the pit. They have given a number of Scriptures and prayers that are pertinent to life at the pit for the police, firefighters and other personnel. We couldn’t give them away fast enough later in the day.

I don’t want to forget the box Gail and I found at the pit. It was from a group of mothers and children 3000 miles from here. On the top of the box they had taped a letter with large letters: “To the people working in New York at the Trade Center. Please receive these cookies with our love and prayers. Making them for you was the only thing we could think to do to let you know that we are praying for you.”

Some how the personal dimension of that one box of cookies captured our emotions for a moment and we wondered about this unnamed group of mothers & children who’d spent a morning creating this act of love for people who would never be able to thank them.

Colonel Damon Ryder, our partner, is more and more a delight to us each day. When we get into the car to drive into the city, he grips the steering wheel and begins to mutter a prayer under his breath. “The Lord is our refuge and strength…help us, dear God, keep us, strengthen us….make us a blessing…..oh, God help those men and women.” And as we drive, I’ll hear him from time to time just slip into an utterance of prayer. He really does walk in and out of God’s presence. And there is nothing put on about it. He has given his entire life to the Army, lost his wife 9 years ago and mourns her passing greatly. He has been in Zambia since 1959 and plans to return –even though retired—there in January “as soon as my replacement over there has got his feet on the ground and feels confident that he’s in full charge.” He is really indefatigable. I am 62 and have the strength to pull these 10-12 hour days, but I watch him closely to see if he’s keeping up. And he is! He has a cheering, prayerful word for everyone. Old William and Catherine Booth would have been proud of Damon; he’s vintage Army. I love the toughness of his Christianity.

Everyone had their credentials changed today so that there could be tighter control on who gets into the site. A small nuisance, but necessary I suppose. Additionally, the Army gave us red jackets with the Salvation Army insignia and large letters, “Chaplain.” Gail looks great in her hard hat, her respirator, and her red chaplain’s jacket. I’ve watched many times as she talks with exhausted men. They tower over her, but listen to her intently as she encourages them or makes suggestions as to how they can nurse their blistered feet or treat a headache. I can tell that many of the men long to talk to a woman and get the encouragement and care that comes from a mother’s perspective.

One young police officer approached Gail and began to tell her that he had worked in the Trade Towers for some time and that it would have been easy for him to have been there at the time of the disaster. She asked him if he’s pondered the notion that God may have spared his life for a reason. He clearly understood that. He went on to tell her that life as a policeman was terribly discouraging (become coming into the site yesterday, he dealt with four gang murders in another part of the city). She asked him what he really wanted to do. “Become a teacher,” was his answer. She encouraged him to think about the possibility that this was a “call.” Some of his buddies came to get him because it was time to go into the pit. He asked them for a few minutes and turned back to Gail and asked her for her name. He wanted to came back and talk some more. She prayed for him and sent him off.

Many men are coming to us with blistered hands and terribly sore feet. The only thing that seems to take the smells of the pit off the hands of workers is alcohol, and Gail and the other SA workers spent a lot of time washing hands with alcohol and then rubbing in hand creme. Eyes are terribly bloodshot and and sore from impurities in the air. So they wash out eyes. As Gail said, “I’m learning how to do a lot of new things.”

Father Matthew—my Franciscan Friend—stops by our site often now. Late in the day we met inside the pit just feet away from the bucket brigades. He looked absolutely spent, and I realized that the unmarried clergy of the Catholic tradition don’t have the companionship that I have with Gail. I said to him, “Father, you looked drained. You’re praying for everyone. Who’s praying for you?” He looked at me as if the question had never been asked before. I saw tears. So I said, “How about one of the blessings you’ve been giving to everyone else?” He nodded, and I gave it to him. He’s been giving the last rites to body parts.

I spent a large part of my day in the pit with buckets of water. There is a well-coordinated effort now going on. The men move in, clear out the manageable debris. Then suddenly the shout goes up for a dog to sniff out a body. The dog comes in with little sock-like pads on his/her feet to protect them, jumps around and finally locates what everyone smelled. Men go to their knees and gently uncover the final debris and remove what only faintly appears to be a body or, morelikely, a part. It is put in a body bag and evacuated to the morgue which is near by.

A group of dead were found yesterday huddled together. They had died holding hands. When I heard about this, I thought about the tough, even abrasive, individual New Yorker that so many people hear about. These folks died as “friends.”

Our scientology friends are really quite remarkable. Very different; but undeniably remarkable. They are three or four determined women who have mastered the system of procurement. As one of them said to me, “I have the phone number of the mayor, the FEMA people, the fire chief, and a zillion others.” They beg, cajole, threatened…but I don’t think they have failed yet to get what they want. I saw one of them talking to the owner of a ship which is docked a block away and made into an R&R place. She was talking him out of more gator-ade.

As I talk to and pray for firefighters, it suddenly occurs to me that I have not touched a man whose shoulders aren’t enormous. They are, for the most part, tough men. But they have deep hearts. One firefighter said to me, “My sister is a real Christian. And she’s been on my back because I’ve backslidden. This thing has really wakened me up. I’ve got to stop the backsliding.”

So I suggested we could put a stop to the backsliding right then and there. He thought that was a great idea so I prayed, “Help my friend, John, to cut out the backsliding. Give him a new heart; help him to make you proud.” He wept and was so grateful. And headed for the pit.

Several fire chaplains have stopped by to talk. We almost all share common friends in the Christian movement, and after we’ve played the game of “do you know who?”, we talk about what they’re experiencing. Most of them are there night & day with their men doing what needs to be done. They’re tough guys with little patience for small things. They’re down to basics: life, death, fatigue, emotional breakdown. Good men! John White is the President of Fire Fighters International, and he’s there with his California fire squad. He and two or three others sat with me for a few minutes, and I was able to lift them to God and pray strength and vitality into them. What impressed me about John was his remarkable energy and his desire to pump hope into men.

It’s going to rain today so we asked headquarters for tents, and in a few hours we had four huge nylon tents. So at 10pm last night we were erecting tents, and they’re perfect for our needs at the aid station.

After one trip into the pit, I asked Gail if she’d like to go in with me. I really wanted her to go even though it’s a bit dangers because I knew that I could never describe this inferno to anyone. And I wanted someone to share it with me. She didn’t hesitate to say yes. So I filled my buckets with water and another bucket with chips and junk food so that it wouldn’t be too heavy for her. And we went past the final check point into the pit. We roamed around the bucket brigades for about a half hour. In the middle—between the two fallen trade towers—is the “once” Marriot Hotel…flattened. On either side the towers hardly two stories of rubble high. One engineer told me that they have mostly fallen into the space of eight basement levels. As Gail & I walked about the pit, we stopped and talked about all the things God has allowed us to experience over these years of ministry. We’ve been to most parts of the world and seen things that few have ever seen. We’ve been with interesting people. And God has given us chances to do ministry in unusual situations. But we both agreed that this tops them all. This has to be –ministry-wise—the peak of all our life experiences.

We’re concerned for a few of our fellowworkers. One or two men are showing signs of emotional fatigue. They are Viet Nam vets and the sights and smells are awfully reminiscent of the battle field. So we watch them carefully and pray that their minds will be exorcised of bad things. We are very mindful of the growing threat of disease. No one knows what germs are now in the air, how bad the air might be for our lungs. The smell of death has really settled in now, and we occasionally get terrible waves of it. But somehow, even though we are cautious, we care less for our own safety and more for bringing Jesus’ love to these wonderful men and women.

Gail & I talked about the phrase in II Corinthians, “we are aroma of life & death.” Now we know what the aroma of death smells like. That passage will no longer be an abstract thought.

Late in the evening I sat down (for the first time, I think) with 2 police officers. One a man, the other a woman. “What’s your world like?” I asked. Both bit their lips and looked at each other. “It’s more than we ever thought we’d face.” And then, “but you know what keeps us going? It’s how thankful everybody is. People keep thanking us, cheering us on. Everyone asks, ‘need a drink?’ And everyone does exactly what we ask them do to.” They seemed amazed by this.

At midnight Colonel Ryder and Gail and I headed up the West Side drive to the car. It’s almost a mile walk. As we walked a police van full of police stopped and offered us a ride. “Do you need a ride?” the driver asked. I responded, “You’ve got to be angels from heaven.” Which startled the driver for a second. So we piled in: we three with about 10 policemen in an 8 passenger van. Some how it seemed appropriate to ask if there was any chance we’d get stopped by the cops for having too many people in a vehicle. We were all punchy enough that even that quip seemed funnier than normal.

As we drove up the West Side drive there were people on almost every corner holding up “Thank you signs.” I know I’ve mentioned this before, but it still grabs me. Why are New Yorkers out on the streets at midnight doing nothing but waving signs that say thank you? Why are they almost shoving bottles of water into your face and cheering for you? Is it their only way to be involved?

Today we get to have a few hours free, and then, tonight, we head back in at 9pm to spend the night at the pit. The night team has had it, and we volunteered to take their place.

My favorite Matthew Arnold line keeps rolling over in my mind: “If in the paths of this world / stones may have wounded thy feet / toil and dejection have tried thy spirit / of that we saw nothing / to us thou wast cheerful, helpful, and firm.” I’m praying for that quality of spirit today.

21 September 2001

Yesterday we volunteered to relieve a “graveyard shift” team at the Trade Center. That meant that Gail & I and Col. Damon Rader drove into the city while President Bush was giving his speech to Congress. We all agreed that the President lived up to the demands of the moment and stirred us all with his call to arms. It is remarkable to hear the various leaders of the two parties coming together and pledging their support for the Administration’s plans.

We arrived at our familiar position just off one of the entrances to the pit at about 10.30pm and told the afternoon/evening team that we’d take it from there.

Things are clearly changing at the WTC. There is a growing resignation to the fact that there will be no more survivors. Many of the firefighters and police are finally getting a day’s rest. Those from others parts of the country are beginning to head back home. Many of them simply dump the tools and materials they’ve been using at the first convenient place. There are shovels, respirators, gloves and boots, etc, all over the place. We are forever stacking these things at the rubbish point so that the sanitation people can truck them out. All of it is considered contaminated.

Gail and two women, Sharon and Sarah (from Michigan) set about reorganizing the station. Before we came in she went out and bought all sorts of things we knew would be in short supply. I carried them in my knapsack: matches for the smokers, socks for the footsore; balm for cracked lips. And lots, lots more. Damon and I had a lot of cleanup work to do: discarded bottles, boxes, and half-eaten foods.

After about an hour I broke away and went right into the pit to see what progress has been made. The heavy equipment has replaced most of the bucket brigades. There are several cranes at work one of which has to be 35-40 stories tall. They have done a great job of clearing the main roads around and through the rubble. The Mayor says that full clearance will take six months.

I had a good conversation with a firefighter who was leading a team in the pit. He said that there were several fires still burning in the basements of the towers, and every time they get a “breath” of air, they flare back into flame. It creates a very dangerous situation for those men who go in to the little passages ways in the rubble seeking bodies. Still they go. We said a prayer together for their safety.

Back at the station one of my first conversations was with Paul, a member of the US Delta Force who is there at the WTC looking things over. He will be shipping out in 48 hours to an unknown destination somewhere in this world. He has an 18 month old daughter, and his wife is expecting twins. “How long will your tour be?” I asked. His answer: “It’s an operation with indeterminate length. I’ll be back when the operation is over.” Which could mean years or the moment when he is wounded or dies. He made this sense of finality very clear. We talked for some time about what this means, and I finally asked him what this meant to him spiritually. His answer caused me to believe that he’d appreciate a blessing. And so I laid hands on him and prayed. We both said goodbye with tears.

Later in the night I wandered over to the first-line medical tent which is staffed by military personnel who are schooled in handling battlefield casualties. The head of the team, a physician, and I got into an interesting conversation. He was scared for the men in the pit, he said, because he knew what was coming “downstream.” He predicted an unusual spike in the suicide rate and a serious outbreak of manic depression. “These firefighters in New York are more tightly bound to one another than any place in the country. Almost every one of them has had his life saved by someone else in his company. They average about 20 fire responses per shift. It creates an incredible bond. Many of the men will be unable to live with these losses at the WTC. It’s going to take an unspeakable toll on them.”

I think I can already see the evidence of what he is saying. The number of men coming in with headaches is increasing. The despair is very clear in their eyes. We see more and more of them walking slowly out of the pit and finding places to sit alone where they simply stare out in space. Men ask for cigarettes and often admit that they don’t ordinarily smoke. But they want to smoke now simply to keep their nerves under control. Strangely enough, we have cigarettes on our supply tables, but they are all brands which none of us have ever heard of. The well-known brands (Marlboro, for example) are simply not around…any place. But these weird brands (Niagara—the men joke & call it Viagra—and Baileys) are in abundance. So when guys ask for cigarettes, I tell them what we don’t have and then point to these and say, “they’re designed to help you quit smoking.” It’s good for a very small laugh.

One firefighter talked with me during the night, and when I asked him if he had buddies in the rubble, he said, “Yeah, fourteen of them.” He said that they’d all been in the midst of a shift change when the first plane hit, and everyone grabbed a coat and started down the block toward the WTC. They never looked back as they charged into one of the buildings. And, of course, the entire company was virtually wiped out when the building fell in.

His vivid and emotional description reminded me of a time in my childhood when there was a missionary fervor not unlike that of the fireman. We used to tell of the captain of a sea-rescue team who told his men, “we’re called to go out into the storm; no one ever said we were called to come back.” And missionaries, following this kind of conviction, went out to other parts of the world—as the men went into the building.

Another man, Sam, who wanted to talk was actually older than me (perhaps the first man I’ve talked to who wasn’t younger). He came by for some water and ended up talking. “What are you doing in there?” I asked. “I’m a climber,” he said. What he meant is that he specializes in crawling into small spaces deep in the rubble to see what he can find. It occurred to me that he had about as much courage as any man I’ve met all week. “I came all the way from Florida and represent the senior citizens.” Laughter. I prayed for him: that God would continually bring him up out of the pit, as the Psalmist had once said. In this case the prayer was literal. “Thanks, father,” he said as he left. He’s not the only one to call me “Father” this week. It’s a nice term, I think, when it’s used to acknowledge that someone is a source of spiritual support and direction. I like using it myself when I see Father Matthew, my Franciscan monk-friend.

One of our teammates for the night shift is Sarah who is on a church staff in Michigan. She organized 47 people from her church, convinced a bus company to donate a bus for a week, and brought them all to NYC with the hope that they could find a way to serve Jesus in the disaster. They have been unloading material at the Salvation Army HQ for the past week. She was thrilled to get into the crash site and work at our station. She is a tremendous leader. We have seen some powerful followers of the Lord like Sarah. This mess brings the best out in them.

The gorilla volunteers are still doing their thing, although I think they’re getting shoved out bit by bit by the enforcement people. The young women in this group very obviously and shamelessly flirt and charm the policemen and get access to various places where they can serve coffee or procure needed materials. They’re very shrewd as they attach themselves to recognized organizations simply by doing favors and hanging around. During the night Damon’s hardhat was suddenly missing. He has a Christian cross on its peak and the word “Chaplain.” I knew immediately that someone had taken it in order to gain access to secure areas. A few minutes later I saw a young women down the street carrying it under her arm. I ran after her and said, “Can I ask you what you’re doing with the hardhat?” She was shook that I’d confronted her and gave a very lame response and handed it back. It taught us all that we have to carefully guard our credentials and all clothing that identifies us as authorized people at the site.

Church of Scientology people are very visible in this wild scene. All young. The men seem to carrying material from one place to another. The women are all seen engaging men in personal conversation. Occasionally you see them exchanging what appear to be phone numbers. One woman was arranging a full day’s entertainment for a firefighting crew from out of town when they stood down. I have seen no evidence of Evangelical organizations on our side of the disaster area. But maybe they’re over on the other side, and I’ve not heard about it.

The “independents” as some call the “gorillas’ are fascinating. Most of them have been in the disaster area for 7 days non-stop. If they have to grab some sleep, they simply find a corner and curl up. They are bold and demanding. They argue that we all have to work together for the common good of the people at the disaster site. And then when they have your confidence, they try to move in and become a part of the team and gain credibility. And as soon as that has happen, you find some of them pursuing their own kind of agenda.

But Larry is another kind of guy. He is from the mid-west. He joined us the other night and stayed just long enough to get credentialed. Then we went into the pit with buckets of drinks. The minute he saw the brigades, he dropped his drinks and headed to join the men. The last I saw of him, he was deep in the rubble pile passing buckets with the rest of the firefighters. Of course, once you’re in there, no one challenges your presence. He was the first of a number of men I saw whose only agenda was to get to the site and work.

Someone ought to do a sociological (or psychological) study on the gorillas. They were clearly most resourceful in the first, chaotic days. Their connections and their ability to move instantly to meet needs was impressive. But the minute things started coming into order (as they have in the past 2-3 days) the gorillas lost a lot of their relevance. The might and the experience of groups like the Red Cross and the Salvation Army began to show.

The Red Cross is far more savvy and aggressive, it seems to me, about publicity. Is it my imagination, or do they seem to find cleaver ways to position trucks and clothing with their insignia behind any celebrity or politician who is in search of a photo-op? The Salvation Army, on the other hand, (perhaps I’m prejudiced) seems to care little about these things. They just keep on doing the next best thing.

To be sure, there is overlap and a bit of slowness in these big organizations like the Red Cross and the Army. But once they get moving, they are well-equipped to do the job. There is a huge 16 wheeler Salvation Army truck, for example, from So Florida. When it arrived and set up, a team of Salvationists went right to work serving meals and offering all kinds of service. It is a marvelous vehicle.

The business organizations that came into the disaster are beginning to disappear. McDonalds provided untold numbers of free hamburger meals the first few days. They’re gone now. Uncle Ben’s Rice is doing a great job a block down from us, but they left last night.

A cruise ship at the edge of the River continues (24 hours a day) to provide incredible meals for everyone….free. Generosity & support is unlimited on that boat. In the middle of the night Gail & I went down to the boat to get some coffee (we’re not allowed by the board of health to serve coffee….go figure!). As we stood around watching exhausted men & women eating, talking, some even dozing, I thought of this boat as a picture of the church that I think Jesus came to create. A place of rest, of feeding, of quiet talk and reflection. Not one more place where everyone has to be pushed to do things. But a place where people are bound up, encouraged, fed and sent back out to do the work they’re called to do.

I sat at one table and ate with a group of emergency rescue workers. One was from Baltimore, another from Cincinnati, a third from Missouri. There we also some police men and women. We were all telling stories, asking questions, looking for snippets of good news that would cheer us up. I felt an unusual fellowship with those men and women in the 15 minutes we had together. And when I got up, one of them said, “Thanks for eating with us, Chaplain.” (I wear a red SA jacket that says ‘Chaplain’ on it). “We’re sure grateful you guys are here. You make it bearable.” I knew he wasn’t talking about me. He was talking about the SA and the Red Cross and the other service agencies in general who linger just outside the pit to sustain them. And that, it seems to me, is what a pastor is suppose to be. Someone who makes life bearable and who spurs others on to life and good works in the name of Jesus. So why are we always pushed to run programs (smile)? And why is it that we spend most of our time meeting with people on religious property? We belong out where people are going in and out of the pit, talking the language of the pit, praying prayers that are relevant to the pit. We think they need to hear us preach; but in reality they need to hear us pray a lot more.

Henri Nouwen’s prayer “that I may embrace littleness, hiddenness, and powerlessness,” is very real to me here. I have been praying that this would be my contentment for the past two years. Here next to the pit you have to be willing to become little, hidden, and powerless to get your work done. So God seems to be responding to my prayer. I’ve noticed that some clergy are straining to be high profiled. The other night we listened to one noted TV evangelist boast about the fact that he’d been invited to the National Cathedral for the memorial service. I think he might have been more useful somewhere around the edge of the pit myself. And how do I discipline my feelings about those preachers who identify this tragedy with gays, lesbians and the ACLU? Sometimes we seem a movement abundant in words and sparse in deeds. Good old St. Francis; how does that poem go? “St Francis came to preach / with tender care / he led a lost child home / he freed a trapped bird / he fed a hungry man / although he said not a word / his sermon on love / we shall ne’re forget.”

God, spare our faith-community from the mouths of men with an angry, graceless agenda.

There are stories of bad things here. Two truck drivers, it is said, were arrested trying to sell their loads to junk dealers. It is important that every piece be taken to Statan Island where it is studied for any evidence. There’s also a bit of looting, but the military’s presence is now curtailing that.

But there is an abundance of good stories. Really good stories. There is a man at our corner whose job it is to record the trucks as they leave the pit with their load of rubble. He is from Jamaica, and he has one of the most radiant smiles I’ve ever seen. He brings a kind of spiritual sunshine to the entire intersection. I watch him with his red, white, and blue hardhat talking to each truck driver as they wait their turn to go in and get a load. He brightens men up. In the midst of all those smells, the dust, the clashing sounds, he brings a civilizing influence to the moment.

Occasionally I go out to where he stands and bring him some water. At other times he comes over and chats with us. We always laugh when we engage. I said to him last night, “You’re a follower of the Lord, aren’t you.” He gave me an enthusiastic ‘yes.’ “Jesus is with me all the time,” he commented. When I offered to pray for him, he nodded vigorously. So I prayed: “Lord, you’ve given my friend a beautiful face and the gift of cheer. Keep him safe among those trucks. And make every person he deals with feel the love of Christ through him even if they don’t know His name.” Somehow this guy represents to me the quintessential picture of the ideal follower of Christ: out in the middle of the chaos, doing his job, pressing a bit of joy into a wild situation.

All night long the workers stream by, most often in groups of 2-3. They stop to see what we can offer that will help. Gail and the other women have arranged the various salves and ointments that will treat blisters (every man has them). They have crème for hands, eye wash for bloodshot eyes (Gail has become an expert, I think, in treating the eyes of men who cannot use their own hands for fear of infecting their eyes), antiseptic for scratches. We have fresh gloves, knee pads, clean tee shirts, and antacid for upset stomachs. Interestingly enough, the thing we cannot get but need as much as anything is shoe inserts. The rubble is often hot, and the feet of the workers become very painful. We just feel terrible when we have to tell men that there are no inserts anywhere.

When workers approach our station, one of the things I like to say is, “We can give you something to drink, something to eat, something to wear, and we can also give you a blessing if you want.” Most men and women look at me and say that a blessing would be real nice.

I find myself thinking about Browning’s words today: “In every man’s career are certain points / whereon he dares not to be indifferent / The world detects him clearly, if he dare, / as baffled at the game, and losing life.”

22 September 2001

Today, Saturday, we went to Ground Zero for our last time. When we said goodbye to the Salvation Army offices who came on for the nighttime shift I had a feeling of great regret. While I will not miss the smell, the dust in the air, and the constant state of frenzy, I will miss the edginess of this week’s experience. I have felt Jesus’ presence in an unusual way each day.

I’ve asked myself time and again, what is it that has drawn me here and has made me feel so alive?

Possible answers: Everyone (well, almost everyone) is absolutely real and there is not a hint of superficiality. There is virtually no small talk. Men and women both are on site because they are dedicated: to save lives, if possible, or recover bodies, if not. Beyond that to reclaim the WTC from the horror the terrorists created. They are committed to wiping away every sign of a defeat in this place. And we are there to serve them in any way we can.

“There is a tremendous satisfaction in losing yourself in something that is more important than you are,” Kingman Brewster once said. And that has been my feeling throughout this week. Gail & I are into something that is bigger than we are, over our heads. We are caught up in it, swept away by the enormity of it all. And we are enthralled to be in it up to our ears. The practicality of it all: binding wounds, encouraging despairing spirits, praying for people who need to be reminded that God is near.

There is no task too great or too small to undertake. People will gladly put their bodies –if not their lives—at risk if it means getting something done that counts. They will work any amount of hours and pay any kind of price. After all these years of swimming in words about dedication and commitment, I have seen what it looks like in a multitude of ways this week. The human spirit at its best has been in full view this week, and I will miss being absent from it.

Each evening as we return to this suburban community where we sleep I feel a change in the air. Here people are going about their business in the same old way. There is irritability, the old me-first attitude in traffic, the rather shallow “have-a-nice-day’s” in conversation. But go back to the WTC pit, and there is a human authenticity that is remarkable….like nothing I’ve ever experienced. How can I go back to the old way after this?

Today there is a clear change in things at Ground Zero. As I expected, the heavy equipment has moved in, and they have made tremendous progress in getting at the rubble. Still, one of the foremen in the pit told me when I was down in the work area that they have only removed about 3% of the stuff. They’ve got six months of work ahead of them just to get it all cleared out. But the initial work has been done and done very well. The genius of the people planning and coordinating this effort is astounding. They have brought order out of total chaos in a matter of ten days. Someone wrote to me this week and reflected on the irony that this tragedy began with the acts of people who care nothing about human life and is ending with people who will scratch with their fingernails if it means retrieving one more body part. I am thankful to be part of a people who care so strongly about the dignity of human beings…even in death.

We have the same challenge of creating order at our Salvation Army station. When we got there today, Gail found all the medical supplies in disarray. Some of the folks on the other shifts are simply not given to arranging things (putting them in their proper place or sorting them out when they are delivered). We have scores and scores of medical and medicinal products: everything from toothbrushes and solutions for contacts to aspirin, pepto-bismal, and ointments for blisters.

On every shift Gail takes it upon herself to sort and stash everything in its proper lace. Her philosophy, she keeps telling me, is that we have to create places of order in the center of our worlds—a return to Eden, she calls it—so that our attitudes and demeanor will be orderly. I am so impressed. Every time I bring someone to her who has a headache, a blister, chapped lips, or aching muscles, she knows exactly what to recommend and where to find it. I see her “anointing” eyes with salve or saline solution, rubbing hands with crème, and putting band aids on cuts and scrapes. And when appropriate, she prays. Some of the men call her ‘sweetie,” or ‘sweetheart’ or ‘darlin’ (the Texans do this).

One of the things we’re seeing more and more now is the appearance of apartment dwellers who have lived in this area and are now just getting to return to their apartments to remove some personal effects. When I see them coming out of the apartment building next to our station, I know they’re in shock so I try to talk to them for a few moments.

An Asian couple came along and stopped to look at the wreckage. I approached and said, “How long have you lived here?” Nine years was their answer. “Were you here when the planes hit?” No, they’d been at work. Their 3 year old daughter was in the care of a nanny. For several hours after the implosion of the WTC they had no idea where the nanny and the daughter might be. They assumed they were dead. Only later in the day did they find that they’d been evacuated by ferry to New Jersey.

Another couple came up the street and suddenly stopped. They were seeing the WTC wreckage for the first time. The man was at least 6’6”. He stared for a few minutes and then began to cry. As I watched him, I thought that this was the kind of man who looked as if he’d never cried in his life. But the sheer horror of this view broke him. His petite wife seem to sag into his arms, and they wept together. When we talked later, he said, “we’ve been looking at these buildings for 18 years. See those buildings (he pointed to a couple of skyscrapers a few blocks away)? You’re not supposed to see them.” And then he said it again, “You’re just not supposed to see them.” But the fact was that we could see them….because the WTC no longer blocked the view.

Another man just behind them chimed into the conversation. “All of us down in this area,” he said, “navigate by the trade towers. Everything is located in relationship to them. So we’re simply disoriented.” It’s a great sermon illustration, I suppose. Life and its direction has been defined in part by the trade towers. And now that fixed point is gone (although the Mayor swears it will come back), people must find a new ‘fixed point.’ I guess the significance of trusting Jesus is that one has a navigational point for reality that is indestructible. You can’t take Jesus out with an airplane full of fuel.

An elite firefighter rescue crew gathered at our station to pick out some fresh socks and batteries for their headlamps. They wore the kind of uniforms that made you realize that they were very special people. All kinds of equipment dangled from their belts. I engaged them with a comment I’ve used quite frequently: “Gentlemen, we’ve got everything here from drinks to tee shirts to eyewash to prayers…and not necessarily in that order.” “God, could we use some prayer,” one of them said. Others nodded.

We talked for a while, and I made a comment about whether or not anyone was still alive in the rubble. The leader of the team said, “We believe that we’ve got buddies in there who are alive. They’re in there somewhere, and they’re waiting for us.” He was emphatic about this. I gave them a blessing and added the comment: “…and Lord, if there are indeed guys waiting for these men give them hope.”

It wasn’t long after I’d been with that team that I walked about a block away from our station to another entrance point to the pit. On the way I saw a cocktail lounge, its windows broken so that you could see inside. There was the bar, and behind it, all the liquor bottles and the drinking glasses as they’d been lined up the day of the explosion. Tables and chairs were all overturned, and thick dust and pulverized concrete covered every surface.

I thought about all the “good times” that had been celebrated in this place of conviviality. And now it was like a ghost town. On the mirror above the bar someone had written the name and number of his fire brigade and then added the words, “others run out; we run in!”

One of the best books I’ve read this year was Stark’s “The Rise of Christianity” in which he suggests that Christianity grew in the first 3 centuries because Christians did exactly what those words said. When the pagan ran to the hills when plague, earthquakes and fire broke out in the cities, the Christians stayed and ministered to the sick and dying. No wonder the Christian message was so powerful. It was represented by people who ran in while others were running out.

The dust on the windows up and down the block has made it possible for people to leave all kinds of graffiti and messages. On some windows are Bible verses; on some are messages written from one rescue worker to another. Many windows hold the names of some fire or police group that was here from some place in the country. Often there are simply renditions of the cross.

A New York police-woman, Regina, came to the station seeking some hand lotion. After Gail had helped her wash her hands, she rubbed lotion into them. It reminded me of the woman who cleaned Jesus’ feet with her tears and perfume. While this was happening I asked Regina how she was doing. Her face lit up and she said she was just fine.

I said, “Now, come on, what makes it possible for your to be so fine?” She said, “This,” and with that she opened up her police jacket and showed me a Sony CD walkman harnessed to her side. Then she opened up the lid because she wanted me to see the name of the CD. It was full of Christian praise choruses. Then she lifted the flap on a large pocket in her pants and pulled out a small Zondervan Bible. “Can’t miss being anything but fine when I have those two things,” she said quite confidently. Somehow this struck me as wonderfully funny: this cheerful policewoman with a big pistol strapped to her side, a walkman full of praise choruses strapped to the other side, and a Bible in her pants pocket, the one where police ordinarily carry their wallet for giving out tickets.

“So you’re a sister,” I said. She came back: “Yep…and proud of it.”

Once again it occurred to me for maybe the umpteenth time. There is no gender, no race, no age barriers here at the WTC. We are all one—pressed together in the mystery of this terrible moment. In the midst of it, we followers of Christ find each other easily and we talk freely about who we are and how thankful we are to have grounding in our faith and hope. Gail had ministered tenderly to her hands; I had engaged her heart, and we’d found a sister in the Lord. And the three of us were now friends—good friends—in a matter of minutes. Why isn’t it this way all the time?

I keep remembering Annie Dillard’s words: “It is madness to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet hats to church. We should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to the pew. For the sleeping God may awake some day and take offenses, or the waking God may draw us out to where we can never return.” Can Gail and I ever return to the way things were in the past? I think not. We are marked for life by this experience.

A lot of men are dying for a smoke—as they say it in New York. The waiting—the workers do a lot of waiting—drives them nuts. And there is no place for them to buy cigarettes or buy anything else for that matter. They are totally dependent upon the Red Cross or the Salvation Army or the so-called independents who try to predict their needs and produce it. But for some reason that mystifies me, cigarettes are no where to be found. The Salvation Army has an admirable policy of abstinence –no surprise—so the formal channel of supply is not going to produce cigarettes or alcohol at all. (Sometimes when men express a longing for a beer, I say, “Hey, the Army doesn’t do beer! We’re into gator-ade.”)

Anyway, I decided to do something about the many men who are really showing the signs of their addiction to smoking. I called a couple of business men I know in Charlotte on my cell phone and asked them if they could find a way to approach Philip Morris or Brown & Williamson and get some free cigarettes up here to the WTC. They immediately leaped on my request and promised me that they would turn heaven and earth over this weekend to get cigarettes on their way. After I hung up I began to imagine what the Salvation Army brass is going to do when a truck pulls up and the driver starts unloading boxes of Marlboros or whatever. Hopefully, they’ll have a sense of humor. Good thing I’m going to be gone on Monday.

Across the street from us some government agency has set up a washing station. As workers leave the site, they go through this process of hand washing and boot scrubbing. There is concern that people carry as little dust away from the site as possible. As I watched the process, I had this poetic vision of the church as a place where, when people enter, they get decontaminated from the weariness and the drudge of this world. I thought of my friend Bill Godsoe, the newspaper reporter, saying to me one day, “When I come to church on Sunday, I’m looking for a spiritual bath. I’ve got all this ‘dirt’ on me; it needs to be scrubbed off.”

One of the finest Salvation Army officers I’ve met this week is Molly Shotsberger. She’s in charge of the counseling over at the morgue. She first got her experience in this “business” when she was thrust in the TWA 800 plane crash. She’s an expert in crisis counseling. Molly is both tough & tender.

She described to me what life is like at the morgue as they bring in body parts. Each time they ascertain that they have evidence that they’re handling a police person or a fire fighter, everyone in the morgue stops what they are doing. The body bag is wrapped in a flag while everyone stands at attention and salutes. The respect shown for these brave people who died charging into those buildings to rescue people is amazing.

There are, of course, wonderful moments of laughter. A young policeman came to our medical table and told us he was in pain. We tried to ascertain what kind of pain he was feeling, and he kept trying to find creative ways to tell us what he was experiencing. Finally, I figured it out, and I turned to Gail and said, “the man has gas.” “Yeah, that’s it,” he said, thankful that I’d gotten to the point he was embarrassed to make. I said, “with the smells that are coming out of the pit, you may be grateful for some of your own.” We had a great laugh.

Before we left to go into the city this morning Gail reminded me of these words from Ps 46 as Eugene Peterson translated them: “God is our mighty fortress, always ready to help in times of trouble. And so, we won’t be afraid. Let the earth tremble and the mountains tumble into the deepest sea. Let the ocean roar and foam, and its raging waves shake the mountains…The Lord All-powerful is with us. The God of Jacob is our fortress…Our God says, ‘Calm down, and learn that I am God.’” All day long I have kept coming back to those last words: “Calm down, and learn that I am God.”

For the first time today I began to see a flow of clergy into the area. Police and fire chaplains all over the place. The familiar reverse collar of RC priests and protestant ministers are suddenly ubiquitous. Where have they been all week? I guess these men are here to pray and talk to workmen. One man approached one of our SA officers today and said, “Is there a priest anywhere around?” The officer said, “not that I know of, but I’m a protestant minister, can I help you?” “No,” he responded. “I really need a professional.”

“Well, I guess you could call me a professional,” the officer came back. And then the man said, “I really need a priest to do confession.”

The officer and I talked about that exchange a while later and agreed that we’ve missed a dimension of ministry when we cannot offer some way to help a man clear his soul of things that weigh on his conscience.

I have learned so much from the marvelous dedication of the Salvation Army officers. I don’t want to lionize them, but the fact is that they have a simple and powerful understanding of service. More than any group I have ever known, they seem to understand the real bandwidth of Christian love: that it starts with self-less service and goes on to a proclamation of the gospel. They are less preachers and more doers. Yes, they have their internal politics and, yes, sometimes their military command structures seems a tad cumbersome. But they have a fire in them that causes them to become willing to do anything for Christ’s cause.

Up at what the Army calls Site One is a feeding station that can turn out 1000 hot meals per hour. Over at the morgue they are counseling distressed people who have to work with the gruesome results of dead. At canteens and stations like ours, they are pouring coffee, getting out messages of assurance to the loved ones of workers, and finding cots for the exhausted. And always, whenever appropriate, they profide a word of hope and a prayer for strength. Occasionally, they lead a person to Jesus Christ. Again and again I have met men and women this week whose lives were turned around from alcoholism and self-destruction and who are aglow with a love for Jesus today. And the Army was the principle tool in God’s hands. I really admire these people.

Tonight was the first time we didn’t have to walk a long way out of the disaster area to our car. An ATV came by delivering ice, and the driver volunteered to drive us out. As we sat on the tail gate of the ATV and left the floodlit scene of the rubble, we both agreed that we were more than glad to have been here. “We’ve lived 12 straight days in abnormality,” I said to Gail. “What’s it going to be like to get back home where things are so quiet?” Clearly the answer is that we’re going to be glad to get back home. But we’re going to miss the camaraderie, the adventure, the feeling that we’ve given a large part of ourselves to others. We’ve been in a war zone, and there is no more exhilarating place to be.

We could not have done this on our own. We’ve had the prayers of our friends, the team-relationships of the Army, and the clear power of God’s Spirit. Over and over again I’ve thought of T.S. Eliot’s marvelous words: “Who is the third who walks always beside you? / When I count, there are only you and I together, / But when I look ahead up the white road / There is always another one walking beside you.” We know who that “one” is.

Tomorrow we both speak to the Salvation Army officers in a worship service. I will read to them Isaiah 6, “In the year King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord high and lifted up…” Uzziah, a mighty king, was to the people of his time what the Trade Center has been to America’s economic strength. Suddenly, much to Isaiah’s shock, he was dead. In the same way our financial capitol, the trade towers, is destroyed. Our impregnable Pentagon has been attacked. But, and I shall remind the officers of this, this moment makes it possible for us to get a refreshed vision of the God who is high and lifted up. It is time that we get our minds of the security of a rising economy and a topflight military and time to raise them to a higher place where the Living God reigns in strength and wisdom.

Isaiah six leads us to a new experience of humbling, even as the prophet was humbled. In his moments of insight, he did not use his time to focus on the enemy or blame others in his society. Rather, he looked carefully at himself and said, “I’m the one who is lost..” I hope our preachers and writers and media personalities will not waste their time pointing the accusing finger at others who are not like us. I hope, rather, that they will remind us that this is a time for quiet and pointed reflection about ourselves and our need to repent of relative faithlessness. That’s what Isaiah did anyway.

Tomorrow I’ll remind the officer that it was because of his repentance that Isaiah was spiritually cleansed and enabled to hear the call of God. What an amazing ministry he had. I hope that for all of us in the coming days.

(To all those who have read these daily entries from the diary portion of my journal. Thanks for your prayers, your kind emails which assured Gail and me of your prayers and your love. Reading what you wrote each morning before we went into the city meant more to us than you could ever imagine. Your words were as important to our hearts as food was to our bodies. You can breathe a sigh of relief: this is my last piece.)

24 September 2001

It is exactly 227 miles (as the crow flies) from Peace Ledge, our home in New Hampshire, to Ground Zero. I know, because, last night when we got home, I checked the distance on my GPS gadget. But it might as well be a distance of several light years from here to there. The contrast between the two places is striking.

Twenty-five years ago we named our home Peace Ledge because it sits in the woods, up on a hill, and smacks of tranquility—a place where God is very present to us. How many times we have come back to this place in fatigue, in gratitude, even in personal defeat and found restoration here.

Peace Ledge is a dark place at night if the moon isn’t shining. Only if the breeze is right can you can pick up the slight noise of a truck going through its gears on Rt 106 five miles away. Occasionally, I can catch the noises of an animal off in the forest. But that’s about all for sound. Once in the house our great room with all of its books makes it hard not to plop down and do some reflective reading.

Not so 227 miles away. There the brilliant halogen lights shine all night long and light up the smoke still percolating up from fires deep in the rubble (someone told me the temperature in the hot spots remains at 1700 degrees). The noise in the pit is constant and sometimes painful to the ears. And the constant ant-like, rushing motion in the pit by hundreds of men and women leaves one in almost a manic state of mind. Here at Peace Ledge there is something akin to an oasis; there I can think of no better description than the impression I have always had of Dante’s Inferno.

Yesterday we left New York and drove Interstate 95 and 93 north to our home and begun to unload the car. If it were not for the smells that linger on our clothes, our boots, and my knapsack with which I carried special materials that Gail had purchased each day, it would be virtually impossible to believe that we have spent a week at the lip of the pit and worked with the people of the Salvation Army we’ve become privileged to know.

Before we left Gail & I both spoke in a worship service at the Salvation Army Training Center. When I began my talk I held up my Salvation Army cap that says “Disaster Services,” and I told the officers and cadets that of all the hats and caps and helmets I’d worn during my life, this one brought me the most pleasure. I would keep it, I said, for the rest of my life as a symbol of an extraordinary experience where I felt I saw the Spirit of Jesus at work like never before.

On our last day at the pit, Gail and Col Rader had walked into the disaster area ahead of me. After finding a place to leave our car, I followed. Having the required credentials I decided to walk through the pit (sort of a shortcut) from one entrance point to another where our station was located. On the way, I stopped frequently to talk to men and women and prayed for a few who seemed particularly open to speaking to a “chaplain.”

Suddenly a foreman approached me and said rather brusquely, “Put your hard hat on! This is a hard hat area!” I realized that I was wearing my cap and not the hard hat which still dangled from the back of my knapsack. I thanked him for the reminder and made the switch immediately. He was right, of course. There is still the danger of pieces of glass or stone façade falling from buildings that ring the WTC disaster.

This morning I started my talk to the SA officers and cadets with a description of that encounter. And I suggested that ministry is or ought to be a “hardhat” job. We can’t afford to let ourselves get sucked into the minutia of organizational life when a larger world beckons with all of its yearnings to hear a word of love and hope. But if one goes out “there”, he/she better wear a hard hat of a kind because it’s a lot more dangerous than life in religious territory. On the other hand, some may debate that.

In the worship service I went on to preach from Isaiah 6 and I likened the death (in disgrace) of the great king Uzziah to the WTC and Pentagon attack. In both cases, symbols of great strength fell. It was in the wake of that experience where all human power failed that Isaiah saw the Lord in all of his majesty and holiness, that he saw himself as a man in need of total repentance, that he saw the Heavenly altar from which renewing grace flows, and that he heard the voice of God in all of its clarity. I reminded the people that this prophet went on from this vision to lay the tracks for the preaching of the great personalities of the New Testament: John the Baptizer, Jesus, and Paul.

After I finished, our now-dear friend, Col Rader offered up one of the most powerful intercessory prayers I’ve ever heard. His prayer reflected my sermon outline, and he called upon the God of Isaiah with a passion seldom heard. When he expressed sorrow for our sinfulness, my heart was greatly touched. And when he acknowledged that we were hearing God’s “sending” voice, we all knew we had to be ready. Col Rader understands the power and efficacy of public prayer. It’s missing in most churches today. At the end of his prayer we all sang an old Salvationist song, the kind that speaks of blood and fire, and said good-bye.

I have always known that I preferred life “out there” than inside the religious world. Perhaps that’s why, as Gail & I drove north, I felt a strong sense of melancholy coming over me. It is probably a kind of psychic and emotional withdrawal. After all, we have spent a week unlike any other week in our lives. Every moment was fraught with an intensity of experience that one can hardly describe to anyone who hasn’t been there. At the site no one seemed a stranger. But now, away from the site, all the old feelings and experiences of incivility begin to creep back.

Drivers on the Interstate are posturing for position at the tollbooths; at the gas station the attendant doesn’t even look at you when you try to engage him; and at the rest stop along the way, a young man lounges outside his car with his radio speakers turned up so loud that you can hear and feel his music pound on you fifty yards away. He doesn’t care who is affected by his insensitivity.

Not so at the pit. There everyone seems to connect. Tell the policeman who stands nearby that you need some ice, and fifteen minutes will not pass before a van drives up and a half dozen burly officers begin loading you up with more ice than you can use. And then, when you say “thank you,” they say, “No, thank you for what you’re doing.” Ask one of the “gorilla volunteers” if she’s seen any Dr. Scholl’s foot pads, and a case of them shows up rather mysteriously an hour later. From where? Ask any person who passes by how they’re doing, and they’ll talk to you as if you were life-long friends.

I think life at this pit carries some hints of what combat veterans talk about when they reminisce, if you can get them to do it, about life under battle conditions. Stephen Ambrose was right: in such circumstances, we become a band of brothers (and sisters).

As we drive further north into New England, we can see the first hints of Fall coming on. There is relative cleanliness on the roads; there is greater order to the affairs of people; there is even the expectation of a hot bath when we arrive at home.

But somehow I prefer life at the pit. The pit is—if I dare to compare—a more real and more desirable place. It smells badly and its tumult pounds at you. But there is something awfully stimulating to the senses and to the soul at that place of human tragedy. And a part of me would rather be there wearing my hard hat and my Salvation Army chaplain jacket then be here.

I am reminded that missionaries often return home from “hot spots” in this world where they have seen death, poverty, disease and great spiritual lostness and they often appear to be in shock and overly-critical of the way they see Americans (American Christians) living. You can sense that they would like to say to many of us, “get a life!” when they hear us talk about problems and needs which are really kind of petty when put in contrast to what they’ve seen. I suspect that Gail & I will struggle with that same kind of withdrawal for a while. Now I appreciate why many missionaries come to regard some third-world site as their real “home.” There is a quality of life out there on that edge that tugs at our souls and calls from us a better quality of person. We find that the gospel works better there, if you please; that it is designed to fit best in the suffering situation and is powerfully transforming. And if I may say it this way, when we go to such places and give away everything we have we like ourselves better.

Life at the pit this past week renewed my sense of genuine manhood. I was pleased to feel bonded to real men and women who were bringing out the best in each other. I loved being in touch with their intensity, their sorrow, their determination to be faithful to their lost comrades. We were all swept up in a cause much bigger than us.

On the next to the last day we were in the pit, I was walking (I forget to where) in the street where there is a spaghetti-like maze of fire-hoses and utility lines. People were rushing back and forth all over the place. Suddenly a firefighter called out my name, “Hey, Gordon,” he yelled. Since my name is written in bold letters on the peak of my hard hat, I’m not difficult to spot. He came over to where I was and said, “Remember me? I’m Ken. You prayed for me the other day. I wanted you to know the prayer has been working. I’m OK!” As we embraced in that special manly way, my cheek brushed his, and I could feel the sweat and the grittiness of the dust and dirt on his skin. Perhaps at another time I might have recoiled from this. But not in this hour. I felt proud to share his smudges. I whispered a blessing into his ear as we stood there in the middle of the street, and then we parted.

Life at the pit enhanced the richness of my marriage. Gail & I loved being together. Never was there a cross word between us. We supported each other, prayed for each other, shared stories with each other. Every once in a while we’d retreat to a dark corner, and embrace and kiss and talk about how fortunate we were to be here. And when we crawled into bed at 1 or 2 am each morning, we would hold one another close and pray, thanking God for the richness of the experience and asking that he would uphold those still working at the pit in the dead of night. I was so proud of her.

Life at the pit boosted (as if it needed boosting) my reverence for the Salvation Army. No group that I know of has worked harder to balance the two calls of the gospel: the salvation of the soul and the salvation of society. The proclamation of the Saving Christ and the cup of cold water. These people with their kettles, their blue uniforms, their bands, and their canteens have a lot to teach the rest of us who talk about loving the world but often do not know how to show it—except, perhaps, in the giving of money. Their ranks are marked with people with PhD’s, people who possess incredible professionalism, and people who have an intuitive understanding of how the Christian intersects with the systems and structures of society.

Finally, life at the pit this past week fine-tuned my personal faith and my call. Each time I handed someone a plastic bottle of Poland Spring water, each time I laid my hands on a man who had come straight from extricating body parts from the rubble, and each time I joined my SA teammates in sweeping up the rapidly accumulating trash, I was reminded that—first and foremost—ours’ is a call to servanthood in the name of Jesus.

I grew up in a faith tradition that seemed to take the dimmest and the most pessimistic view of humanity. I still hear those kind of voices in some parts of our Christian movement. They are often heard condemning, accusing, and mocking those whose positions and perspectives diverge from ours. Frankly, they embarrass me. I wish they would stand down and become quiet before the Lord. We do not need their constant carping at society. They have misunderstood the genius of bridge-building, of quietly serving and loving as the primary way of gaining access to another person’s heart and mind. Every one of us should take a required course on the life and ministry of St. Francis, a servant to servants. Perhaps we would understand how the world might be awakened in this 21^st century to the Kingly reign of Jesus Christ….not by our judgment but by our Christly affection.

In recent months I have often read to pastors the words of a great eastern European rabbi, the Vilna Gaeon, of the 18th century, who was accosted by a brilliant young theologian with this question. “Rabbi, am I the holiest of all men?” At first the Vilna Gaeon resisted answering, but seeing that the theologian was not about to let him off the hook, he finally responded. “You are the most pious man of our age. You study night and day, retired from the world, surrounded by the rows of your books, the Holy Ark, the faces of devout scholars. You have reached high holiness. How have you reached it? Go down to the market place with the rest of the Jews. Endure their work, their strains, their distractions. Mingle in the world, hear the skepticism and irreligion they hear, take the blows they take. Submit to the ordinary trials of the ordinary Jew. Let us see then if you remain the holiest of all men.”

The pit has been my most unforgettable “market-place.” There, away from the religious programs to which I’ve grown accustomed, I saw so many good things about authentic men and women. Their love and loyalty for one another. Their ability to work countless hours without any expectation of pay. Their humor under fire as well as their tears….their many tears. And I saw their spiritual hunger….what a person looks like in the context of terrible grief and horror. I am grateful to say—so very, very grateful—that I also sensed the powerful presence of Jesus there. And that will mark me until the end of my life.

“I waited patiently for the Lord; he turned to me and hear my cry. He lifted me out of the slimy PIT, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand. He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see and fear and put their trust in the Lord.”

I love these lines. They are my hope.

If you had died in the attack of September 11, where would you have gone?

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