Together and apart, we Christians from all denominations have been gathering at that gaping hole, Ground Zero, reflecting the hole in the heart of each of us, in our cities, states, nation and the world. Nor are we alone. Our Christ is there, the Crucified Christ. Not merely the Christ of our first Bible, nor first catechism, but the Christ of now, the Christ of our individual journeys, who has accompanied us in light and shadows to this hour, up close and personal, as personal as the sorrow in our hearts these days, and uncertain tomorrows.

Mary, the Mother of Sorrows, is not far from the Son. In joy and in sorrow, they stand together, stand with us. Could there be any heart like hers to share in both the suffering of the Son, and us, for whom he died? Ground Zero is her Calvary this day, His calvary, as well. And ours.

Some have said, “Too long has this gaping hole been left to stain the landscape, as a constant reminder of the infamous acts that took place here.”

For my part, I do not want to see monuments covering the hole until our hearts and nation have begun to heal, as we come together to build something solid that no terrorists can destroy -- a new nation, with restored character, dedicated to adhering to the principles that once made us great and can do so again. The countless heroes of 9/11 point the way...

If you haven’t had the opportunity to read the September 11th issue of the Jesuit magazine, America, beg, borrow or steal one (we’re kidding about the stealing part), do yourself a favor and spend some time with the superb articles, filled with compassion and hope.

Many have been familiar with the articles of the assistant editor, Father James Martin, when he was still preparing for the priesthood. They’ve only gotten better, as with this month’s Where Have We Been?

Here, we find Martin’s returning to Ground Zero, standing and wondering what had happened to those people whom he had met there five years ago – the ironworker, who, at the end of a day’s work of cutting apart steel beams, would return to his family at night, barely able to see his wife and child, for they reminded him of the people he had pulled out of “the pile.”

Then, there was Joe Lauria, a 15-year veteran of the New York City Fire Department, whose company arrived at the site as people were jumping from the towers. He said, “They were like mannequins falling through the air. We said prayers that they would face as little suffering as possible.”

Martin writes that Joe spent the entire day and the following weeks working at the site, almost around the clock, and described his experience as “horrific.”

Today, Joe, a Catholic, is not angry with God. His faith has not been shaken, “More because it was a man-made event, as opposed to Hurricane Katrina or the tsunami.”

It seems to me Joe will eventually need to expand his horizon and include even natural disasters within his ability to hang on to his faith. What does he say about future Hurricane Katrinas? Erupting volcanoes? Tornadoes that leave towns with flattened homes and helpless people?

To stand before either man-made or natural disasters, and see the human toll they cause, may shake our faith to its foundations, but with prayer comes the grace to go forward, strengthened to walk with God, to do whatever we can to help those in need, though our steps be halting and our vision blurred.

Yesterday, on some religious TV program, a priest told the story of having officiated at a Good Friday’s adoration of the Cross. In the line, was an elderly man, and before he kissed the crucifix, with tears streaming down his face, he exclaimed, “Isn’t it wonderful, Father, isn’t it wonderful?”

Wonderful that Christ would enter into our suffering by going ahead of us into the pain of loneliness, fear, humiliating treatment, weariness, and death. The elderly pilgrim needed few words to express his astonishment over the Tremendous Lover on Calvary’s hill.

In the same issue, Margaret Silf, from Straffordshire, England, wrote a reflection piece, titled “Touching the Tears: Streams of grace still flow for us out of the hardest rock.”

On that catastrophic September 11th, a young nurse ascended the subway just in time to see the impact of the second plane on the World Trade Center. She realized she would be needed to care for the injured and dying. As a neurological specialist, it would be her task to assess whether a casualty had suffered head trauma or was “only” in shock.

A young black patient lay before her, in his early 20's, who made no response to her questions. She caught the faintest glimpse of response in his eyes, but he was lost in his own world of terror. As she gazed at him, she saw a tear rise in each of his eyes and slowly roll down his cheeks, “making two shining black rivers through the layer of ash that covered his skin.”

Now, the nurse, too, was mute, and could do nothing more than to reach out and gently, reverently touch the tears. Silf describes what happened next.

It was a moment out of time–a moment that only God could have given. . Something was released inside the heart of the broken man. He began to speak.

He told his story, of how he had been in his office, and had taken shelter under his desk, while his colleague hadn’t been able to do so. He had watched him die.

Silf continues:

When the world appears to be collapsing around you, and the landscape of your life is covered with ash, staying with the helplessness is really the only option. But staying with our own helplessness is the hardest thing! We take in the messages of our culture along with our mother’s milk– or rather, we are taken in by them. Messages that tell us life has to work, and if it doesn’t we have to fix it. Perfection is the goal. Anything less is failure...

And then the moment comes when there is nothing to be done. When screams subside and there is nothing except the silence of shock; then we finally come face to face with our helplessness. As once Moses obeyed God’s command to strike a hard rock face in the desert, and a stream of living water burst forth (Ex 17), so the streams of grace flow for us today out of the hardest rock that we can imagine.

My prayer for all of us this day is that in our helplessness, as Margaret Silf suggests, we will find “the streams of grace” flowing from the hardest rock of our lives, as we kneel in private deserts with Mary and Jesus at our sides. And that from such graces, may we find the strength and compassion to wipe away the tears from the faces of our wounded brothers and sisters, whatever their suffering, as did that valiant nurse on September 11th, five years ago.

Amen.

Margaret Self’s latest books are Companions of Christ: Ignatian Spirituality for Everyday Living and the Catholic Press Association award-winning The Gift of Prayer.

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