It's been five years since hijackers flew two planes into the World Trade Center. Five years since a plane was flown into the Pentagon and another crashed in Pennsylvania. Five years since we saw the falling of the towers, the death of so many people, the dust and the ash. Many people still live with a sense of fear, sadness or depression they date to September 11th, especially if they were near the towers or lost friends or family.
Much has happened in those five years. The suffering remains ever present for some New Yorkers. This week we've read about the illness, pain and early death that await many who carried away the bodies and the wreckage. Our government is different. We now have the Department of Homeland Security and wire tapping, Guantanamo Bay and extraordinary rendition. We invaded Afghanistan and Iraq, with many thousands dead and more dying every day. There's been more violence in Israel and Palestine, the bombing of Lebanon and now talk of war with Iran. The terror of 9/11 was not necessarily the cause, or the only cause, for the violence that's followed, but often it's been the pretext. One can always start telling history at any point, but in one version those in the planes and the towers were the first to die.
How did we get from there to here? It can be hard to remember the intensity of those first days and all that followed. There was good as well as bad—many people stretched out their hands in solidarity and kindness. There was the flood of letters and money and offers to help from around the world. There was the heroism of those who did the grueling and heartbreaking work of cleaning up of the site. There were people of all faiths who tried to understand and reached out to talk—and there was the graciousness of Muslims and Islamic Studies professors accustomed to being ignored and suddenly in so much demand. But mostly there was fear: do you remember Anthrax? The subway scares, the many colored alerts. The harassment of Muslims and Sikhs people mistook for Muslims. The rounding up and imprisonment of hundreds of men in the Brooklyn Detention Center, with hardly a peep from most New Yorkers. It was not long before we invaded Afghanistan, and we now know that within days of 9/11 plans were afoot for war with Iraq with all the bloodshed that has followed. Our fear made us vulnerable to the incessant propoganda that tied Saddam with Al Queda and claimed that Iraq had weapons of mass destruction. Many protested the war before it began but were confused about what to do once it started. Others felt the wars were just, if only to overthrow Saddam Hussein or the Taliban; some went to heal or help. But to war we went, and, opponents or supporters, we can all recognize the wrong within those wars. The torture at Abu Graib, the massacre at . There's no question that turning those planes into weapons on September 11 was a wicked act, but in response we have done wrong, even the righteous among us.
The psalmist, thousands of years before 9/11, knows how this works. So he or she makes a complaint to God, or perhaps it's a statement of trust: surely the scepter of wickedness shall not rest on the righteous, he says, so that the righteous might not stretch out their hands to do wrong. The psalmist knows that wickedness breeds wickedness. That wrong inflicted tempts even the righteous to go astray, and the psalmist wants this temptation be taken away. We don't what scepter of wickedness she had in mind; we don't know when or where the poem was written. Perhaps Israel was suffering under the Babylonian or Persian armies, tempted to violent resistance or to the worship of other Gods. Perhaps the scepter of wickedness has nothing to do with other nations, but is the oppression of the poor by the rich, a favorite theme of the Old Testament. Perhaps the oppressed stretched out their hands to steal or commit some other transgression for survival. Whatever that wickedness is, the psalmist knows that suffering under it corrupts even the good and the righteous. Surely, she pleads, such wickedness will not rest on Israel. God protects God's people.
The psalmist could have left it at that. A plea that God take away the evil resting over Israel so they do no evil themselves—for if the people are at the mercy of the wicked, who can blame them for what they might do? But the psalmist does not let the people off so easily. The very next lines are a prayer for God to reward good and punish evil—to do good to those who are good and to lead away with evildoers those who turn to crooked ways.
This is a surprising turn. As the psalmist has just said, wrongdoing has its reasons. Those of us who are religious liberals tend to be uncomfortable with this kind of prayer. It's not so easy to tell the wicked from the righteous, what is right from what is wrong. We know that a lot of harm has been done when human beings try to separate the sheep from the goats and that prayers like this encourage such distinctions, even when God is the judge. Our temptation is to avoid judgments and too many arguments, to agree to disagree, to accept that harm is often done with the best of intentions. We're quick to recognize that things may not be as simple as they seem. That even if Iraq didn't have weapons of mass destruction or anything to do with 9/11, Saddam Hussein was a cruel tyrant and war comes with collateral damage. That even though our leaders said nothing truthful in making the case for war, it doesn't mean they were actually lying. We say we want peace, but we hesitate to take to the streets or sign petitions because we'd be proclaiming right from wrong. We'd be judging. And who are we to judge, especially if people dear to us are on the other side? Who are we to judge, especially since the righteous also do wrong? So we retreat—to the business of earning a living, of helping our family and close neighbors.
But the psalmist has more courage. He knows that even the righteous can do wrong, but still pleads for judgment. He pleads for judgment, trusting ultimately in God's mercy and protection. For as the mountains surround Jerusalem, says the psalmist, so God surrounds God's people, from this time on and forevermore. That those who trust in the Lord are like Mount Zion, which cannot be moved but abides forever.
Praying a psalm like this is one of the hardest things for us to do. It's hard for us to trust in both God's judgment and God's protection, or mercy. It's hard because it's so hard for us to balance our judgment with compassion, with humility and mercy. It's hard for us to confront the wrong in people close to us, in our leadership, or in ourselves. We don't want to name the wrong we have done, or that has been done in our name, since the tragedy of 9/11. It's also hard to recognize that evildoers may have stretched out their hands to do wrong because of wickedness that has rested on them. That the awful crime on that day may have arisen, at least in part, from evil that came before. So we're silent when we should speak out. We sway with majority opinion when we should be steadfast.
This psalm, like any prayer or statement of faith, is more hope than description of empirically observed reality. If we but trusted in the Lord, we would be like Mount Zion, which cannot be moved. If we but trusted in the Lord, and in the love with which we are surrounded, we could trust in God's judgment. We would not be afraid to name wrong. We would not be afraid to stretch out our hands to do good, even across oceans.
And then, perhaps peace would be upon Israel. Peace would be upon Israel, and Iraq and the United States and all places where the scepter of wickedness rests. Peace be upon us and all God's children.