By John Crotty
“I can hear you. The rest of the world can hear you. And the people who knocked these buildings down will hear from all of us soon” – George W. Bush.
The Course’s central message of advanced forgiveness became my tool, my hacksaw against the chains of bitterness that can too easily hold me captive. Increasingly, I used it to break free from one link after another. But one chain for me resisted all attempts – the memory of 9-11. I had worked for many years in Tower 2 of the World Trade Center, on the 102nd floor.
I was close to one friend, in particular, Bob Miller. He was brilliant, soft-spoken, and gentle. By the morning of September 12, he had been listed among the missing. I drove to his house and parked nearby, along his suburban tree-lined street. I knew his bus route, focused my side mirror on his stop, and waited. I would hold my breath at the sound of each approaching bus and focus on my mirror anxiously. He never got off.
Soon, a procession of friends and relatives bearing cakes passed my car and knocked on his door, where his family waited. For the longest time, I refused to join them and waited for more buses. Eventually, I walked across the street to his door. Bob’s wife answered as his young daughter looked over her shoulder toward me, hoping for news. Their eyes searched mine, for some hint, some word on Bob. There was little I could offer, other than to call other colleagues, in hope of news. I returned home, at least having a purpose, and manned the phone.
I made a list of the missing from the 102nd floor, constantly updating, crossing out and inserting names. The updates soon slowed, and before long Bob and 11 other friends and colleagues were confirmed dead. Memorial services followed. With each service, my anger and hatred toward the terrorists ratcheted up, tightening the shackle, leaving me seething.
A few years passed, and my boiling anger had slowly cooled to a simmer. I decided to visit Ground Zero and, like a good Course student, consider forgiveness. My first stop was Trinity Church, just a block south of the Towers. Before September 11, I would sit in Trinity during my lunch breaks, and be mesmerized by the bright stained-glass windows, and watching the sunlight refract into dusty rays on the pews.
Unlike the crystal blue skies of 9/11, the day of my visit was blustery, with dark clouds rolling to the northeast. They cast large moving shadows across the stained glass. Was this how it looked that morning? Did the ash clouds eventually block out the light, until the altar went black?
An organist played a processional hymn, and I sat through mass, watching the shadows cast against the colored glass. Darkness followed light, and back again. Walking out to Broadway, I buttoned up against the wind, and headed north, to another lunchtime sanctuary, St. Peter’s Church. The remnant of a 20-foot cross beam from Tower 1 has been erected on the Church’s south facade. It was found by rescue workers in the rubble and became a powerful symbol of renewal, hope, and perhaps for some, forgiveness.
I continued north, along the route so many survivors struggled along, trying to find their way home that morning. Standing still on a corner, commuters brushed me by, and I imagined them as ash-coated survivors moving steadily on. In this dream state, I joined with some of them and headed over to the construction site, where workers were busy erecting “Freedom Tower.” President Bush had spoken here in 2001, bullhorn in hand:
“I can hear you. The rest of the world can hear you. And the people who knocked these buildings down will hear from all of us soon.”
I’d loved that speech. It was as if that magic bullhorn converted all my fear and projected it out as hatred onto the killers. Just remembering it was enough to let me retreat to the vengeful side of my mind.
As I looked across the site toward the south, a familiar building caught my eye. The Bankers Trust Building was draped in black and faced the Tower’s footprints like a widow in silent mourning. It was slated for demolition, as it was damaged beyond repair.
My dreamy imaginings then turned toward a fantasy of revenge: Khalid Shaikh Mohammed and Osama Bin Laden have been brought to New York City for trial, where they are found guilty by twelve area jurors. I am chosen to be their executioner and decide to use the Bankers Trust building as their execution chamber. Thirty thousand tons of jet fuel have been stored in the lobby and wired with explosive charges.
At the appointed hour, crowds gather below as my prisoners, and I land on the roof by helicopter. Wearing a black hood, I read the writ of execution to them under a cloudless blue sky. Their eyes fill with horror as they are given the same choices my friends faced: death by crushing, burning, or jumping.
My helicopter departs the roof and circles in the air for a while as they scamper to the nearest roof exits, in search of the stairwells. At 9:03 am, the time of the attack on Tower 2, I detonate the charge. The crowds cheered as the building implodes and smoke billows once again through the canyons of downtown New York.
The celebrating crowds below are dancing in the street and waving up to me. The rotors of our helicopter clear much of the smoke and suddenly, in the ruins another cross of steel beams reveals itself, identical to the one at St. Peter’s.
Like a party-crasher, the Cross had interrupted my fantasy. I shook my head and smiled sheepishly at my wild imagination, ashamed of my failure to forgive. The grey survivors became commuters again, and I joined with them on the way home.
On the bus, I knew we would pass Bob’s stop and street. I closed my eyes, and imagined Bob in the seat ahead, reaching up and signaling the driver for his stop, at long last. I pressed my face against the window, my breath clouding it, as we passed his street. No one got off.
Fighting back tears, I wondered what Bob would have thought of my forgiveness attempt. The perpetrators have never repented and forgiving them seems disloyal. Would he approve? Would he feel betrayed?
I arrived home and collapsed into bed, dispirited. Above my head on a bookshelf was a worn copy of the Course. I reluctantly reached for it and opened to the first page, searching for some answer. It came with the very first sentence: “There is no order of difficulty in miracles.” A voice in my mind whispered: “Nor is there an order of difficulty in forgiveness.”
Oddly, my sense of frustration grew. I closed the book, and replied, in my mind, “Maybe not for you but for me, down here in this earth realm, it’s tough.”
I wanted to give up and was ready to throw away the hacksaw. Letting out a deep sigh, I closed my eyes and started to drift off, hoping to awake to a brighter day
Twenty years have passed since my forgiveness attempt at ground zero. I had picked up the Course a few years before and had been taken by the concept of ‘advanced’ forgiveness offered by Jesus.
In these interim years I have been successful in forgiving others’ mundane transgressions.
The more enormous transgressions, such as 9-11, or more recently, the results of the last election, still feel out of my reach.
This prompted a powerful turn back toward the Course, and this time, with undivided attention. This is not a time for dabbling.
I feel like Jesus would tell me … ‘there is no order of difficulties with forgiveness’. And he would smile at me.
And I would scowl back and say, “Well, maybe not for you, but for me, down here in the trenches, it is damn difficult.”
He would forgive my scowl, and patiently wait for my tantrum to end. And I will begin again. And again.
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Forgiveness is acquired. It is not inherent in a mind which cannot sin. As sin was an idea you taught yourself, forgiveness must be learned by you as well, but from a Teacher other than yourself Who represents the other Self in you. [CE W-121.6:1-3]
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