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Blessed Are Those Interrupted
"We were interrupted."
With those laconic words, Rowan Williams, now Archbishop of Canterbury, described his experience on September 11, 2001, in lower Manhattan. A distinguished group had gathered, just a couple of blocks from the World Trade Center, to record educational materials on Christian spirituality. "We were interrupted."
Those words may seem an amazing understatement, coming from someone who experienced the fumes, the dust, "the indescribable long roar of the second tower collapsing." Yet how important!
I read a headline in this morning's paper, "Twenty killed in Afghan suicide bombing." I mentally shrugged, and turned to the sports section. I was not interrupted.
Focus, discipline, dedication to a goal: these virtues are extolled by consultants on every talk show and guidebooks on every newsstand. Rightly so.
Yet the capacity for interruption is also a virtue to be cultivated. Whether it is the earthquake in Haiti, a friend calling for help, or the lonely neighbor who would never think of knocking on your door - each of these "interruptions" may be moments of holy opportunity.
The heart of Christian compassion may lie in our willingness to be interrupted, to be jolted from our complacency by the needs of those around us. After all, the parable of the Good Samaritan is the story of a business traveler who allowed his journey to be interrupted by the needs of another, while two religious leaders shrugged and went on their way. They were not interrupted.
Blessed are those who allow themselves to be interrupted.
-- Bill
Source: Rowan Williams, Writing in the Dust: After September 11, Eerdmans, 2002. |
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Letter to Christina
January 13, 2010
Dear Christina,
I woke up this morning as usual, eagerly welcoming the day, in awe of the resplendent sunrise, and joining in the redbird's chirping song. The refrain from one of Bill's sunrise poems reverberated in my ear's memory. "Do it again. Do it again" the poem sang to the sunrise.
Oh, but if only you could open your stinging eyes, caked with blood and concrete dust, to look at the sunrise and say "Do it again." The news rends my heart the more and more I hear of how you face disaster: montainsides of communities collapsed, flattened homes, tragedy unspeakable. They say on TV that this earthquake will not destroy the island of Haiti and that you will cope, you will recover, and you will rebuild just as you have from previous disasters.
But this one is different. This one has changed me. This one has changed how I look at the sunrise, now that I know that you barely see the sky through the lingering cloud of dust. How can you ever silence the memory of the indescribable long roar of the collapsing earth and structures, burying your beautiful babies in the rubble!
I want to say, "I can't even imagine..." but that only excuses me from taking on your pain. My soul sings a silent song. Please tell the the words, how you feel, so that we may share the rhythm of moans and mutterings.
Although you and I have never met, I hear your story told and retold on TV and I feel like you are my sister. I share your pain. I will never forget you. You have changed the way I look at the sunrise. Rumi wrote that love is "To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving." I love you and bless your winged heart.
~~Jan |
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