(concluded)
By Rolf J. Poehler
(January 4, 2002)
The time has arrived. After a meticulous thirty-minute luggage and body check (we are reminded of our experiences on the former German-German border!) we are finally jetting through the air toward the east coast. But in Cincinnati, Ohio, a bitter disappointment awaits us. At the airport we are informed that all flights to New York are cancelled due to today’s visit from President George W. Bush. Should we spend the night here and commence our journey tomorrow, or choose another destination and try to get into the city from there? Because we still hope to be in New York on Saturday, we decide for the second option: Hartford, Connecticut, about three hours drive from our final destination. But as yet, everything is literally still up in the air. We are only on the waiting list and must remain in suspense up to the last minute, not knowing if we will even get seats. Besides, the flight is delayed considerably because there are no stewardesses available. As we finally approach Hartford toward evening, our prospects have shrunk, but our doubts have grown. Have we made the right choice? Was it good to take such a risk?
Moved by these questions, I study maps of the city and its subway system, as my otherwise silent neighbor asks about our destination. It turns out that he’s also headed for New York, specifically Queens, where he lives. Queens? That’s exactly where we will be staying! We ask about the best way to get there, and hear the unexpected response: "I can take you with me in my car." Thirty minutes later, we’re sitting in a comfortable rental car that takes us directly to the door of our hostess, and we aren’t even allowed to pay a cent for the favor. Instead, we have met a generous Indian family, with hospitality of the kind we will often encounter in this city. Thankful and happy, we fall asleep. If God has brought us thus far, then he will also work out the rest of our stay. The fact that our luggage got hung up somewhere along the way doesn’t concern us so much any more. Most importantly, we’re here.
As we enter the Adventist Church in Jackson Heights (Queens) on Saturday morning, we see a deeply moved young woman relating her experiences from last Tuesday. As an employee in tower two of the World Trade Center, she hurried down the stairs after the crash in tower one, and then heard over the loudspeaker that the building was safe and that everyone should return to their workplace. "I was about to enter the elevator," she tells us with tears in her eyes, "to ride back up with everyone else, but something inside me held me back." Shortly after, the second terror attack occurred. While fleeing out of the building, she was injured, but she was able to save her life. (She almost became the tenth Adventist victim of the attacks.) Through her gripping testimony we can imagine a part of the indescribable and tragic happenings that took place on the south side of Manhattan.
We spend the afternoon in Central Park, a four-kilometer-long green stripe in the heart of Manhattan. In some corners, it’s so still you can hardly believe you’re in one of the world’s biggest cities. In other areas, we find thousands of people enjoying the sunlight. They are on bicycles or roller skates, in horse carriages, boats, or on foot, to explore the park or spend the "Shabbat" with fellow Jewish believers. It’s an intact world that we experience here, where people of all races, religions, and cultures appear to get along together. There could hardly be a larger variety, the figures more diverse and colorful. When everyone is so conspicuous, nobody sticks out anymore. Here is no hint of religiously clothed hate toward unbelievers, no hint of the terror that struck just minutes from here, no hint of the desperate search for survivors. Only the flags reveal that, despite the apparent normality, these people are aware how special this moment is. In the evening we are witness to one of the many memorial and prayer services that take place all over the country and, indeed, the world.
This morning our path leads us to the Brooklyn Tabernacle, a predominantly African-American church led by the white pastor and well-known author Jim Cymbala. Each Sunday, there are four services here, each attended by up to 2,000 worshippers. From the singing and praying here we can imagine why the walls of Jericho came a’ tumblin’ down. Everyone prays at the same time, and loud—especially the prayer leader with the microphone. Today two sermons are held: a prophetic call to repentance with a penetrating altar call, and a call to outreach and witness to others that the end of time is near. In closing, we sing the Reformation’s hymn of defiance: "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God." It is this certainty that those here are seeking and that will help them cope with the terrible events of the past days. The auditorium is overflowing. As we make our way to the exit, the next worshipers are already pushing their way in.
Not as crowded, but even more impressive, is the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, which we have reached soon after the service. From here, we have a matchless view over Manhattan and the Brooklyn Bridge, one of the most important surface traffic arteries leading to the island. The scene of the wounded city, with dense clouds of smoke still rising out of the rubble, the sight of those who mourn for relatives or friends lost over there, the countless candles, flowers, and letters brought here by the citizens of the city, moves us profoundly as well. Nobody here is ashamed of his or her tears. I’m especially struck by the account related by a woman who witnessed the attacks live from this vantage point, and had seen the countless leaves of paper that flew out of the imploding towers as they fluttered down under the huge cloud of dust and ashes to land softly in the East River. The contrast could hardly be greater. Peace amidst terror, calm amidst the storm. An object lesson for our times?
In the afternoon, we finally venture into the vicinity of the appalling attack. The only subway station in service in downtown Manhattan brings us within about a kilometer of "ground zero," where exhausted helpers have been laboring without ceasing for days, searching for survivors, but without success. Through almost deserted streets, cleared of rubble only with much effort, then past hundreds of fire fighters, police officers, army soldiers, national guardsmen, and rescue helpers, and accompanied by the wailing of police and rescue sirens, we make our way, block by block, nearer to the place where a troubling sight of a gaping abyss, the gates of hell, opens up to our view. The air is filled with a fine dust, and an ashy gray cloud rises from between neighboring skyscrapers, mercifully veiling much of the frightful scene from our sight. On a vacant lot (that such a thing even exists here!) is still to be seen what came raining down out of the heavens just days before. They are still lying here—the leaves of paper that came flying out of the crumbling buildings. Carefully, we lift one up from the ground. It comes out of a three-ring binder of an insurance company and bears a handwritten note. From which floor did it come? To whom did it belong? Questions that remain unanswered—like so many others in these days. In thoughtful silence, we leave this uninviting and unforgettable place. Tears wash the dust out of our eyes.
Step by step, the city returns to normal—if that’s even possible. Today, the ferry from Manhattan to Staten Island started running again, and in this way we are able to distance ourselves physically, but at the same time, are somehow magically pulled back. The New York Stock Exchange has also opened again today. The collective eyes of the economic world are fixed on Wall Street. After black Tuesday, will there now also come a black Monday? Eager reporters interview anxious stockbrokers, hastily erected loudspeakers play stirring marches, growing throngs of tourists seek to catch a glimpse of "ground zero" and to capture the scene with cameras. Back to everyday business? But today is no longer yesterday. What we have seen has changed us, and changed everything. New questions have been raised, the way things have been is called into question. What must we expect in the future? What can we hope for? Who will give us security? Somehow, the two hymns to which we added our voices in defiant confession these last few days ring again and again through our heads.
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