The church was full on September 16, 2001. When the bell rang, everyone stood. There was no talking, whispering, or rustling of bulletins. The quiet weighed like a lead apron on the congregation. The crucifer was flanked by two torchbearers, who were followed by someone carrying the American flag, which was followed by the clergy. The flag stopped at the steps to the chancel, and the flag bearer turned around, faced the congregation, and paused. Someone in the front pew stepped into the aisle, put his hand over his heart, and began to sing the Star-Spangled Banner.
He did it unaccompanied—unbidden by the priest but moved by the Spirit. It wasn’t in the bulletin, and it hadn’t been planned. Before he reached “By the dawn’s early light,” the whole church had joined him. Our voices were strong but not strident. We sang as a congregation; as citizens of the United States; as children of God.
For five days we’d been bombarded by images of the planes flying into the twin towers of the World Trade Center; the smoking hole in the Pentagon, and the burning wreckage in a Pennsylvania field. We needed relief, reassurance, and to know that we were loved.
I don’t remember the sermon from that day. I remember Bob Litchenwalter—Coach to nearly everyone he knew–standing up and beginning the National Anthem. Coach was a retired teacher, loving husband, father, and grandfather. He coached baseball, football, and soccer. He was a veteran of the Korean War, a Shriner, Church Youth leader, acolyte, chalice bearer, and crucifer (before his knee went out). He was a leader and instinctively knew what to do that Sunday. I still count it as one of the holiest moments in my church life.
It is a tragedy that it takes a tragedy to bring out the best in us. That Sunday morning at St. Anne’s Episcopal Church in Warsaw, Indiana, we were at our best. We weren’t young or old, male or female, Democrat or Republican. We were all of us in that moment Americans, and in our vulnerability, obedient children of God. We sang as one, mourned as one, and drew solace from God and each other as one. That morning in church served as a respite from all the noise in the world, a chance to catch our breath, and be with God and each other.
O God, you made us in your own image and redeemed us through Jesus your Son: Look with compassion on the whole human family; take away the arrogance and hatred which infect our hearts; break down the walls that separate us; unite us in bonds of love; and work through our struggle and confusion to accomplish your purposes on earth; that, in your good time, all nations and races may serve you in harmony around your heavenly throne; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
—Book of Common Prayer, 1979: page 815
The Rev. Jason Shelby
Rector