Rev. Melanie Miller

December 16, 2001

First Congregational Church

Chappaqua, New York

Isaiah 35:1-10, Matthew 11:2-11

This morning’s scripture lessons contain some of my favorite sacred prose. The words of hope from both the New and Old Testament lessons warm my heart. The blind receive their sight and the lame walk, lepers are cleansed and the deaf hear and the dead are raised up and poor have good news. What wonderful words. They warm my heart!

I need to hear these words this year, I need to hear these words this advent season, I need to hear these words this Christmas. You may know from the last time I preached that I’ve had a difficult time this fall. Processing the tragedy of September 11^{th is one of the most troubling things I’ve ever done. And so my advent, this year, is different from others. My advent this year, my waiting this year, is anxious and sleepless and lonely.}

And so I identify with John in today’s Gospel lesson. John who sits in prison waiting. Waiting with held breath for release, for freedom. Waiting with held breath for his death sentence. Waiting for one of these two, not knowing which it will be, waiting anxiously and sleeplessly and alone.

John, in this unique, and very uncomfortable space is able to ask the question that’s on everyone’s mind. “Alright, Jesus, are you he who is to come, or should we look for somebody else?” I love this question. It’s a surprising question for several reasons. First, John has seemed so sure all along that Jesus is the one. And now, there seems to be doubt. Second, it’s surprising because it’s so honest. It’s as if John has nothing to lose, nothing to fear anymore because the worst has happened. He says exactly what’s on his mind, “I need to know, are you the one or not?”

This advent I feel like I’m there with John, the worst has happened and I want everyone to be honest. I want everyone to say what’s really on their hearts and minds. I want everyone to speak the truth about their fears and their doubts. I want to have the courage to say, “What is going on here? Why are we still waiting for peace? Are you what we’re looking for, or should we keep looking? Where should we look for hope? Where should we look for redemption?

I am in prison with John this advent. I feel like I’m surrounded by hopelessness, violence, destruction and despair. I see images of war and chaos. I see loss and grief. I feel like I’m in prison with John.

My prison is the process of dealing with war and tragedy. Last time I preached I told you I was going to ground zero. I saw things there that were difficult to see. I saw things there made me say, along with John, “What is going on here? Why are we still waiting for peace? Are you what we’re looking for? Where should we look for hope? Where should we look for healing? Are you the one?

After that trip, I can’t stop thinking of those who never made it home that day that feels like a lifetime ago. When I returned home that day my heart was still at that place, that place that has become sacred space. Sacred because it’s now a burial ground. Sacred because God surely is in that place.

The group of clergy I traveled with met in front of City Hall on the corner of Broadway and Warren. We walked to the site, lead by a city hall escort. We walked past schools, businesses, shrines. At one of the shrines I saw a shoe. A shoe with flowers in it. Not a pair of shoes, just one; a tan, lace-up, oxford. I’ve been wondering since that day, where’s the man who wore that shoe? Is he alive or is he buried somewhere in the rubble we had yet to see? I’ve been wondering ever since, where did that shoe come from? Was it placed there by someone who loved the man and the foot that once walked in it? Was it found by a stranger and placed there in honor and sorrow for the person who once wore it? I will forever wonder about that shoe.

My own shoes carried me passed a family monument that had only recently been opened to the public. Along the sidewalk, against a fence was an endless wave of memories. Letters, some handwritten, some computer generated, were filled with words of love, expressions of feelings so intimate my heart broke as I read them. Pictures of people lost, people who walked out the door that morning that feels like a lifetime ago never to return. Stuffed animals and bouquets of flowers piled high, along with sorrow and wishes and regrets and memories.

Police officers opened gates and removed barricades for us, never uttering a word; silent, all of us, not knowing what to say. There was no sound. I know that cannot be true, because the things I saw would have generated noise. It’s more accurate to say I do not remember any sounds. The site seemed to swallow up the noise of the trucks, the hundreds of trucks, coming and going. Leaving filled with debris; metal grotesquely bent and twisted. Returning empty, having given up the burden they left with, returning for another. Those trucks must have made noise, but I don’t remember hearing it.

I saw a welder on top of what was left of building number five. The work she did must have made noise, but I don’t remember hearing it. I only remember thinking of my bother, also a welder. I only remember wondering how long that welder had worked without a break, wondering if her arms ached, if her skin was burned from the heat of the torch.

I don’t remember sound, but I remember words, words not spoken but written by family who had visited the site. Personal messages written on the large world map, with the names of all the countries that lost life in the tragedy. Personal messages written and carved in the wood of the platform on which we stood. Words of love and hate. Words of hope and wrath.

But those words were silent, written, not spoken. I, too, am left silent from this visit to Ground Zero. How can spoken words express what I’m now feeling? My heart breaks in sorrow for this world. A world where violence and hatred cause such destruction. I say along with John “What is going on here? Why are we still waiting for peace? Where should we look for hope? Where should we look for redemption? Are you the one, or should we keep looking for another?

And then I hear the answer to my question, the same answer that came to John. Go and tell what you hear. Go and tell what you see: The blind receive their sight and the lame walk, lepers are cleansed and the deaf hear and the dead are raised up and poor have good news. And I lift my eyes past ground zero, I lift my eyes past the destruction and I see more, more than just tragedy, more than just grief and sorrow. I see a people of God working and loving and giving more than they ever have before. I look and I see a beautiful new world where people, not famous, or rich, or glamorous, just everyday people risking their lives, risking their all to save other everyday people; strangers they have never met before. Strangers whose lives have value in the eyes of these heroes.

The answer to John’s question, the same answer to my question, fills my heart with hope for this world. “Go and tell what you hear. God and tell what you see.” I look and I see a world where love and compassion bring healing. I look and I see the transformation that God’s heart wishes for us. I look and I see transformation that will create a world where people, not famous, or rich, or glamorous, just everyday people risk all to save other everyday people; strangers they have never met before. I look and I see a world where those who mourn will be comforted. I look and I see a world where all of God’s children are valued and loved. I see a world where blind receive their sight and the lame walk. I look and I see a world where lepers are cleansed and the deaf hear. I see a world where the dead are raised up and poor have good news.

Go and tell what you see.