Our lectionary, the readings assigned for each Sunday are on a three year cycle. What this means is that there’s no way the Lectionary designers chose today’s readings specifically for the 10th anniversary of 9/11. However, they are perfect for today, instructing us in the ways of tolerance, forgiveness, compassion and mercy---attributes which were and are easily lost when struck to the core as we were on Sept 11, 2001. So, instead of a sermon this morning, I give you those words from Scripture and the words of San Diego psychotherapist A. B. Curtiss, who’s poem The Little Chapel That Stood pays homage to the Episcopal Chapel of St. Paul’s which stood in the shadow of the Twin Towers, and unscathed thanks to the towering branches of a Sycamore Tree, offered the rescue workers solace and hope during those heartbreaking days. And, hope is just what faith—be it Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu etc. promises. Thanks be to God.
The Little Chapel that Stood, by A. B. Curtiss
Around the Chapel of Old St. Paul
Blow the dancing leaves of the coming Fall.
In the morning breeze they leap and fly
Beneath the towers that scrape the sky.
George Washington’s family worshiped here;
Alexander Hamilton’s grave lies near.
Since Seventeen Hundred and Sixty Six
Has stood this house of God and bricks.
Solid and steadfast as time whirled around it,
Unchanged since horse and carriage found it.
A solace to presidents help to the poor. No one was ever turned from its door.
An immigrant’s refuge, a sojourner’s peace
Where hope is born and sorrows cease.
As the centuries passed, and the city grew dense, Its buildings grew higher and wider, immense.
And tallest and grandest, the city’s great pride. The New York Twin Towers rose up by its side.
The stress of power, the rush of people
Found comfort and rest beneath its steeple.
But doom, doom was coming all the time;
Doom, doom to a city fair and fine;
Doom doom was in the planes that climbed;
Doom doom, and then the sirens whined.
Two planes hi-jacked by a terrorist crew
Struck the twin towers: no warning no clue!
Who thought it could happen, or knew what to do?
Firemen came and New York’s Men in Blue.
Through the flying glass and smoke and din,
Thousands rushed out, as these brave men rushed in!
On the stairwell to safety there was no stranger. Each helped the other flee from the danger.
And some who climbed down remember, clear-cut, the faces of firemen climbing up!
And then, oh unthinkable thought!
They fell.
One tower, the other, they fell, fell, fell.
They fell with a rush and they fell with a roar.
The sky was blank where they’d been before.
And more was lost than who can say;
It was our hearts came down that day.
Through the clouds of black no one could see
How far [had] spread this calamity? The giants around it had come to a fall, but not the Chapel of Old St. Paul.
It was something of wonder, a symbol of grace, the steeple still there, not a brick out of place.
Some say [that] giant sycamore tree[’s] wood had saved the Little Chapel that Stood.
The old chandeliers that they’d packed away, through two world wars, they did not sway.
Then the crystals reflected a busy scene when the doors opened up to the [rescuing teams]
There were firemen’s shoes on the old iron fence, where they’d earlier hung them in haste, quick and tense
As they pulled on their boots and raced to the Towers,
Climbing melting steel [in]to flaming showers.
Oh what gallant men did we lose
Who never came back to get their shoes.
Ground Zero smoldered, dark and grim. Our hearts stood still, then we pitched in.
Helpers brought shovels, and pails and pans.
If they had nothing else they dug with their hands
To clear the mountain of crumpled steel
From a nightmare that was all too real…
Rescuers worked through the night and the day.
In the chapel they’d pause, then go on their way.
A hot cup of coffee, something to eat
Here the firemen, welders, policemen would meet.
All would come to rest from their labor
Volunteer, doctor, brother, neighbor.
We raised up the flag from the dust and the pain.
Freedom that’s lost must be won once again.
Each one of us is a link in that chain, to do something grand, or do something plain.
First we take heart, then we take aim, our littlest good deed is never in vain.
Working together is how we got through it.
Little by little we learned how to do it.
It’s nice to be big and its nice to be tall.
But sometimes being little doesn’t mean being small.
Just like the Chapel of Old St. Paul.
Hear the bells of freedom and what they say. Terror may come but it will not stay.
It will shake our world but we will not sway.
It will block the path but we’ll find our way…
Amen.
The Little Chapel That Stood, A.B. Curtiss, Old Castle Publishing, Escondido, CA, 2003.
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