May 8, 2011 | 8:00 a.m.

Encounters of the Risen Christ

Matthew J. Helms
Pastoral Resident, Fourth Presbyterian Church

Psalm 116:12–19
Luke 24:13–35

The majority of our readers asked the same question: “How can you see Christ in people?” And we only say: It is an act of faith, constantly repeated. It is an act of love, resulting from an act of faith. It is an act of hope that we can awaken those same acts in their hearts too, with the help of God.

Dorothy Day

Those who saw him hushed. It was a silence that heard itself, awful and beautiful. Some thought at first that it must have been a trick of the light, something to do with the weather, an accident of shadow fall. But the longer they watched, the surer they were. Up there, at the height of a hundred and ten stories, utterly still, a dark spot against the cloudy sky.

These words begin Colum McCann’s novel Let the Great World Spin, the 2009 winner of the National Book Award and what many critics proclaimed as the first great 9/11 novel. Set in August of 1974, the story opens from the perspective of a New York City crowd looking up at the twin towers of the World Trade Center as a man begins to walk between them on a tightrope. No one on the streets below is aware of what this stunt means, but they gaze upwards with a fierce intensity at this shadowy figure above them. In this prologue, Colum McCann perfectly captures the anonymity of the modern city—people crowding the streets, all observing a similar event but not speaking to one another. Instead, the crowd observing this shadowy figure high up between the World Trade Center towers shouts up to him rather than talking to their neighbors.

It is McCann who takes the responsibility to walk us through the lives of these people who each are intersecting with one another in this moment. Although the prologue opens with this shouting crowd, the rest of the book is an examination of the individual stories that this crowd consists of. There is a man struggling to make sense of the complex relationship between religion and his life amongst the poor. There is a mother mourning the loss of her child in the Vietnam War. There are drug addicts struggling with the fragility of life. There are an incredibly varied number of stories and backgrounds that blend together on the city streets on that day in August of 1974, but they all gather on these streets to witness the confusing and jarring event taking place above them.

Just over twenty-seven years later, another confusing, jarring, and horrifying event occurred when two planes crashed into the towers of the World Trade Center. Like the people gathered in the streets in McCann’s novel, we were each glued to our televisions trying to make sense of this senseless act. One of my vivid memories from 9/11 was crowding into a tiny classroom with about a hundred of my fellow students around a small TV that got cable. The news showed images of the towers on fire and the evacuation, while anchors reported that this was an attack on the United States by an unknown group. I remember asking my high school history teacher what this meant, naïve enough to think she had an answer for me. And I remember her opening her mouth and not being able to get any words out. There was about five seconds of silence before she shook her head and said, “I don’t know.”

We have been living in that unknown ever since. It was later discovered that the attacks were connected to al Qaeda and Osama bin Laden. Described quite accurately as the symbol of global terrorism, bin Laden was also the symbol of an unknown future here in the United States. Somehow defying detection for almost ten years after the events of September 11, the United States’ inability to find Osama bin Laden became symbolic of the frustrations we experienced in Iraq and Afghanistan, as well as our fear as terrorists changed the way we approached air travel, mailing, and public transit. In many ways, bin Laden wanted the world as we knew it to become an unknown—and in some ways, he succeeded. A recent Pew Research poll has shown that my generation, those thirty and younger, is the generation which is least trustful of others since they began tracking such opinions five generations ago. Our national confidence has been shaken as we continue to find ourselves in wars that have continued far longer than any of our initial predictions. Fears over terrorism have sparked waves of Islamophobia and even fears that our own president may secretly be a Muslim, no matter how much evidence is provided to the contrary.

McCann’s prologue in Let the Great World Spin had become representative of our society: rather than connecting with the people and stories around us, many had been looking at that shadowy figure connected to the World Trade Center. One man had become the focal point of our collective attention rather than those around us dealing with hurt and loss. In McCann’s novel, the crowd became divided as to what this man means and what they should do—a reminder of the bitter partisan politics that we have lived through in these last ten years. It is obviously reductionist to think that our political divisions were the result of this one moment, but 9/11 has had as much to do with shaping public policy as any event in my lifetime.

Then, as you all know, Osama bin Laden was found and killed by United States Special Forces last Sunday evening. This surprisingly swift event—a nighttime raid that was executed bravely and flawlessly—is still being processed by our country. For many, it was a cathartic conclusion to the events of 9/11—a catharsis that expressed itself in a variety of ways; just as the grief of 9/11 manifested itself in silence, anger, and profound sadness. Those of you witnessing the TV coverage or seeing the reaction of family and friends on Facebook and Twitter probably saw everything from sighs of relief to jubilant celebrations in New York City. For others, it was a difficult mix of emotions—on the one hand, glad that a brutal terrorist could no longer plot death and destruction in this world; on the other hand, upset that the death of another human being, no matter how awful they were, would be celebrated in the streets.

It is a difficult thing trying to understand a paradigm-shifting event, both in the event itself and the subsequent responses to that event. The symbol of our unknown future—one man who had repeatedly attacked and denounced our country—was shown to be just a man, as mortal as any of us. Democrats and Republicans briefly showed solidarity after Osama bin Laden’s death; for the first time in a long time, our country had prevailed doing something that we had jointly set out to do. Small wonder that the streets were filled with people chanting “USA! USA!” on Sunday night. It was as though the anti-American rhetoric of Osama bin Laden and al Qaeda had been repudiated. But in my mind, and the minds of many other church leaders I have spoken to, this night needs to represent more to us than mere nationalism. In fact, aggressive nationalism and divisiveness and a culture of “us vs. them” is the worldview of Osama bin Laden, al Qaeda, and terrorist groups around the world. We as a nation need to be better than that, and we can be better than that. Rather than playing into the hands of someone who was trying to make the world into a chaotic unknown, we need to help build a world of stability and understanding. We need to follow the example of Jesus in our passage today and make ourselves known in the breaking of bread with one another.

· · ·

After the appearance of the two men in dazzling clothes to the women at the tomb and the amazement of Peter at the empty tomb, two of Jesus’ disciples were walking on the road to Emmaus when a stranger approached them and asked what they were talking about. Explaining to the stranger about Jesus of Nazareth, the disciples suddenly found the tables reversed and they themselves were being taught by this stranger about the Messiah’s need to suffer death and be raised. Interestingly enough, this exchange of words is not enough for the disciples to recognize Jesus. Instead, it is when the disciples and Jesus are sitting around a common table and Jesus takes bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to them—that is when they recognize him. It is a remarkable witness to Jesus’ ministry that he is recognized by his disciples through his actions of sharing love rather than in his great words and authoritative teaching. Indeed, Jesus’ breaking of the bread recalls a ministry that brought him to a table with outcasts, lepers, and tax collectors—the unknowns of society. Jesus refused to make people into the category of “other,” instead telling a story in which a Samaritan was the hero rather than a villain. Jesus told stories in which tax collectors and poor widows, rather than Pharisees and scribes, did right before God. For all of the incredible teaching and interpretation of scripture that Jesus did in his ministry, it wasn’t until he broke bread—he physically shared with them—that they recognized him.

It is a lesson for all of us. We as a nation have talked about our way of life with other countries around the world: the importance of democracy against being ruled by autocrats, the importance of capitalism against other economic structures—but how have we broken bread with these countries?

We as a church have taught classes to help us learn more about problems facing our world, and we have heard wonderful sermons preached from the pulpit—but how have we broken bread with those in our city?

We as individuals have tried to learn as much as we can about others and, we consider ourselves to be open, caring people—but how have we broken bread with the strangers in our midst?

Who we are is ultimately recognized in how we break bread with one another—that is where our identity lies. In the words of a common truism, actions speak louder than words. We remember that Jesus frequently spoke the words “do not be afraid” to his disciples, but now Jesus meant it as he entered Jerusalem preparing to be taken to the cross. The words “do not be afraid” appear frequently in the Gospels, but it was in the passionate witness of the early church in the face of persecution that helped the church to grow. We have spent the last ten years afraid of Osama bin Laden and terrorism, allowing our actions and responses to grow out of our fear. As a country, we have refrained from breaking bread with strangers and have instead treated them with suspicion. What would it mean for us to live without fear—to not fall into the trap of a man who represented fear and the unknown—and to instead break bread with those whom we do not know? What would it mean for us to see Christ in our neighbor and to make that known through our actions? Rather than the strangers fixated on a shadowy figure far away like the characters in Colum McCann’s prologue, what if these strangers had broken bread together and shared and supported one another through their losses and hurts?

Earlier I shared my first vivid memory of 9/11—watching with my classmates the World Trade Center burning and my teacher being unable to speak. But I have one more vivid memory from that day: that night all of the churches in my area, including those from other faiths, held a candlelight vigil in remembrance of those who had lost their lives, and we lifted up prayers for peace. But it wasn’t the words I remember. It was after the service, when everyone stayed to hug and hold one another as tears streamed down faces. Presbyterians hugging Catholics, Christians hugging Muslims—past histories were put aside and, in that moment, we were each made known to one another.

This is the post-Osama bin Laden world that I believe in. I believe we will repudiate bin Laden’s worldview of hate, of “us vs. them,” of not knowing one another, and we will instead practice what Jesus taught us: to make ourselves known to one another in the breaking of bread. Thomas Friedman, in a revised edition of his book The World Is Flat, put it this way: “We must learn to be a people of 11/9 [the day when the Berlin Wall was torn down] rather than a people of 9/11.” “We must learn to be people of 11/9 rather than 9/11”: to me this is a succinct way of expressing that we need to be people who tear down the walls of division rather than building them up out of fear. And those walls are torn down as we get to know better the people we label as “the other.”

This spring has been dubbed as the Arab Spring by many news pundits, and the contrast between the events of the Middle East with the worldview espoused by bin Laden are refreshing. Rather than through acts of terrorism and evil, thousands of young Muslims staged peaceful protests in Tunisia, Egypt, and other countries across the Middle East. It would be inaccurate to depict these protests as completely nonviolent, and certainly the resulting violence in Syria and Libya is a humanitarian crisis. But one can’t help but reflect on how different these uprisings felt than the ideological warfare of Osama bin Laden. These are people who want the things we all want: safety, jobs, food for our families. They are real people who are not so different from us. Rather than reflecting stereotypes some folks in our nation have created about all Muslims being terrorists, these protesters show us that the “us vs. them” worldview just isn’t true. We will never agree on everything, but we can each recognize one another’s humanity. We can follow the example of Jesus Christ, who did not make categories of “other” but instead sat at table with all of those whom his world had marginalized. We have hope—a hope that we can be a people of 11/9 tearing down walls rather than a people of 9/11 building them up out of fear. We have hope in a world that learns to recognize one another through breaking bread—through actions of caring, hospitality, and sharing, through encounters with the risen Christ. Bin Laden’s hope of keeping people fractured by having them look up towards a shadowy figure rather than around at their brothers and sisters gathered around them—that hope of fracture will fail. Instead, we look to Jesus who makes himself known in the breaking of bread with others—and we go and do likewise. Amen.