Category Archives: Uncategorized

Rain came to the Bay Area this weekend, and today it falls steadily straight down, pounding our parched earth and blown sideways by the wind, pulling branches and leaves with it. We are grateful for this downpour, in spite of expected flooding in the northern counties where fire has burned away nature’s protections against erosion. The rain patters and splatters, tapping the windows in a kind of dance, and I suppose I should retain some of the credit for its appearance, since we recently washed our windows. Today, they are getting rewashed by the heavens.

And so, this morning, we chose to join our chapel’s streaming Mass rather than attend in person in Berkeley. We did not want to dodge speeding, weaving drivers on the slick highway in this storm, for they know no shame or fear. So we settled in front of our little screen at home, hymnals open and ready.

It wasn’t the same as being there in person, of course. The organ sounded thin, the video was rough, the voice of our preacher not clear. But we sang and sang and made do. And now I appreciate all the more the gathering together in real space and time with my brothers and sisters in Christ, at St. Joseph’s Anglican Chapel. Still, the rain and the singing and the words of the Mass, so familiar to my ear, comforted me in these speeding and dangerous times.

It seems each week our country steps deeper into foreign and frightening territory, a place of coercion and violence. Now we have parents at school board meetings labeled domestic terrorists, of interest to the FBI. I wish I was surprised, but I’m not. Once heading into the dark, it becomes difficult to see the way, to see the road signs. Each step takes us further from truth, freedom, and America herself. Can we turn around? I’m not sure.

A former president, whom I supported and admired at one time, has recently compared the January 6 protest in Washington D.C. to Nine-Eleven. Shame on him! The demonstrators, while guilty of trespassing, continue to languish in jail without timely charges and due process, and the “murderous insurrection” has been found to be lacking guns, quite unlike the Floyd riots, looting, and burning that crippled cities, that went on for twenty weeks over the previous summer of 2020 with little accountability.

In the midst of all this, in the midst of the the waves of tyranny and lockdowns and mandates, I have been noodling my next novel, collecting stories and ideas and characters as though I were a bus meandering through town. The theme that rises to the surface of my distracted mind is silence. The silencing of speech. The silencing of thought. The silencing, at the end of the day, of music, of sound, of bells, church bells. There are few bells left in our area, few bells allowed to ring. The UC Berkeley campanile still chimes, however, a block from our chapel, and sometimes I pretend they are church bells. But they are not. They glorify the religion of academia, the religion of woke, the religion of silence. How ironic. There was a time once, not so long ago, when academia meant free speech and productive debate, diversity of thought as well as persons. Seems another era.

Communist countries to my thinking are gray countries. There is little color and lots of sameness. There is little music or poetry or art (which feeds on freedom) unless usurped by the state’s propaganda machine. But our Creator created light and within light, prisms of color, the rainbows of de-light that are given us when the sun shines through the rain, when we are reminded of God’s promise to Noah, and thus of God’s promise to us. Our Heavenly Father will not abandon us, if we do not abandon him. He will allow hard times to come, for we have made bad choices, embraced the dark when we should have looked to the light.

I was glad to offer with others this morning my prayer of repentance and glad to hear the happy words of God’s forgiveness in turn. We can change, we can re-turn, we can choose a new direction if we desire. America can too, with God’s direction, with his bright light shining on the path before us. But we must desire this. We must trust him.

The Epistle this morning was one of the most beautiful and heartening Scripture passages I know, found in St. Paul’s letter to the church at Ephesus (today Kusadasi, Turkey). He writes that we must take on the whole armor of God:

“For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that you may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand. Stand therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the breastplate of righteousness; and your feet shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace; above all, taking the shield of faith, wherewith you shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked. And take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit which is the word of God, praying always and with all supplication in the Spirit…”

Ephesians 6:10+, Book of Common Prayer, 1928, 219

And this is why we go to church. This is why we develop daily rules of prayer and Scripture (BCP has several). This is why: to withstand the times we are in, the times that are to come, the times on our doorstep. We need to be armed with Christ, fully armed with the sword of the Spirit.

Christians have become soft and lazy, luxuriating in America’s freedom, for she was founded upon religious liberty. Americans have become decadent, unthinking, and unappreciative. We are ripe for devouring (remember St. Paul’s roaring lion seeking to devour?). Will we turn, change, repent, in time? Will we teach one another how to love as God loves? Will we teach that we are all precious in his sight, all made in his sacred image? Will we honor him by keeping the Sabbath – Sunday – holy? Will we do our part?

I’m not sure. But I can only do my part as best I can. I do indeed desire to be protected by the entire armor of God – truth, righteousness, peace, faith, salvation, and God’s word, the sword of the Spirit.

And I desire it for my family, and all of you, dear readers – as the rain continues to fall, quenching the brown grass, as we await the sun and a rainbow, and one day again, the sound of church bells.

My bishop of blessed memory, the Most Reverend Robert Sherwood Morse, often said he was a person of Reality. He was interested in the truth and nothing but the truth. He was unafraid to embrace Reality and called on others to do the same. For only by being honest about the world around us, and the world within us, can we be sane. Other versions, versions made up or twisted at the command of feelings and personal desires – those unreal fantasies of the world and of our own souls – lead to insanity, the devil’s delusion, Lucifer’s triumph.

And so it is disturbing to see the lies promulgated by the mainstream media re the January 6 protest at the Capitol in Washington D.C.  They call the demonstration an insurrection, and yet the police allowed these protestors to come in, for they were peaceful demonstrators. The police opened the doors for them (is this why four Capitol Police have since committed suicide?). Even today, the vast majority of the demonstrators arrested have only been charged with misdemeanors, such as trespassing. The only person killed was one of the protestors (unarmed), shot by a policeman. The protestors had few weapons and fired none. This is what the film footage shows, at least what we have been allowed to see. Compare this “insurrection” to the summer riots of 2020 where many were killed, property was torched, and livelihoods destroyed. In Portland the riots continue today and other cities as well.

It is also disturbing that the fact that the “Russian collusion” narrative has been evidenced to be a hoax and is not reported by mainstream media. This was an undermining of an election by the Obama administration and later impeachment of sitting president by Democrat operatives, based on a hoax. Why has this been buried by the press?

I believe the answer, at least the kinder answer, to these troubling questions is that many Democrats and the Far Left pursue a utopian vision of society with transferred religious fanaticism. Many truly believe such a world is possible, and this belief allows them to use any means necessary, including lawbreaking, threats, extortion, lying, fraud, and even perjury, to achieve their utopia. The end justifies the means, they say, a dangerous road to take.

But utopian visions of mankind have no roots in Reality. They sound good, but fallen man is not capable of perfection without God, and then only in another life. Reality reveals humankind in a true light, with all the temptations to selfishness and power, all the warts and blemishes, all the fanatical desires to control others. As someone once said, it is what it is, we are what we are. This is the Reality of humankind. As I recall, once, long ago, a man and a woman in a garden ate of a forbidden fruit…

And so the Founders understood, being grounded in the Judeo-Christian tradition, that these human foibles were to be guarded against, and they instituted checks and balances upon all institutions of power.

I believe the Far Left, wannabe Socialists and Communists, those who wage war upon centrist Democrats and all Republicans, in this sense, mean well. They are true believers in their dream vision: Utopia is in their sights, they say, and happiness will blow over the land of the unfree once their control is established, for they see themselves as enlightened and the rest of us as deplorables, the unenlightened.

But history reveals again and again that such control leads to tyranny. Not one of the many utopian efforts in the past or the present have succeeded. On the contrary, being rooted in Unreality, an insane dream vision of mankind, these regimes have done incalculable harm, murdering over 100,000 in the twentieth century alone by means of Communist, Marxist, and Fascist purges. To achieve utopia, much like the iconoclasts of the Reformation, they are compelled to purify the populace, purge undesired ethnicities, the handicapped, the unborn, the elderly, the religious, the gender confused – any who hold divergent views, who stand in their way. Ironically, they are purging diversity itself. These purges continue today in China and Russia. We see the slaughter in Cuba and North Korea.

To see these regimes as utopian, the Left is wedded to Unreality. They must shackle the media and freedom itself. They must crucify religious allegiances. They must silence dissent. They must rewrite history to make the utopian means seem sane.

So here we are, caught in this web of lies, listening to the approach of a rumbling, tumbling, deeply troubling terror. This last week, the FBI branded mothers speaking out in school board meetings as domestic terrorists. Alas! Is this really happening?

And yet, my bishop of blessed memory also often said, all is Grace. I believe he meant that the action of God’s Grace upon each one of us, upon school boards, upon America, upon the world, has the power to change minds and hearts and even to heal the blind to see, to see Reality. And if not, if we as a people are indeed no longer opening our hearts and minds to the Grace of God, then so be it. Some of us shall continue to witness to the truth with our words and with our votes as best we can, knowing that Grace envelops us, leading us Heavenward. For in Heaven we will sing with the angels and the saints, the ultimate Reality.

This morning in our Berkeley chapel it occurred to me that this earthly world is a rehearsal for what is to come, for the faithful Christian. Worship prepares us for worship in Heaven, singing praises to God, as we are flooded with His glory. With each choice we make on Earth, we choose Heaven, or reject Heaven. With each crossroads we carry the cross of Our Lord a bit farther into the woods, a bit farther up the mountain, buoyed by the waters of baptism, along the rivers of righteousness, for His name’s sake.

And we fear no evil, for He is with us, even unto the ends of the Earth. We are graced with Reality. We know Him when we see Him, this morning in the Chapel, this afternoon in my heart. 

It is a curious thing, just as the world as we know it appears to be collapsing, just as the materialist-atheist worldview appears to have triumphed and the Judeo-Christian worldview appears to have vanished, just as objective truth has been banished by Oregon’s schools and math thrown out as racist, just as the wisdom of centuries is stamped down and trodden upon with some kind of diabolic glee – just as all these signs and many more point to Armageddon or the end of the world or simply a second civil war in the Dis-united States, Steven C. Meyer brings us another brilliant book to argue the opposite, reminding us that science points to an Intelligent Designer behind all creation.

And just as you, dear reader, thought the above sentence would never end, so we smile with renewed hope in the future of mankind. Good news, indeed!

Having finished off Ben Shapiro’s excellent The Authoritarian Moment (well worth the read with copious notetaking), I ordered Steven C. Meyer’s Return of the God Hypothesis. 

As I await delivery (old school print), I am returning to Sohrab Ahmari’s The Unbroken Thread: Discovering the Wisdom of Tradition in an Age of Chaos. His immigrant story sheds light on the disappointment many of today’s immigrants share when they see America as no longer celebrating tradition and freedom, no longer proud to be a beacon on a hill, but instead heading toward the tyranny these immigrants were escaping.

In my growing stack of “research for the next novel, immigration theme” I am also looking forward to Prey: Immigration, Islam, and the Erosion of Women’s Rights by Ayaan Hirsi Ali. She is a vital witness to the true effect of militant Islam in the world, the silencing of women, gays, Jews, Christians, and peaceful Muslims, in obedience to sharia law.

Returning to The Return of the God Hypothesis, Steven Meyer’s work at the Discovery Institute in Seattle was part of my research for my most recent novel, Angel Mountain (Wipf and Stock, 2020). He and others built upon the work of Phillip E. Johnson of UC Berkeley, considered the “Father of Intelligent Design.” They considered whether recent scientific discoveries in genetics and the universe might throw a new light on Darwin’s theory of evolution. I found this fascinating, that science was actually supporting the idea that faith might be on the right track after all. All those monks peering at the stars from their abbey domes were right or could have been. Who knew?

And so we have the idea of an Intelligent Designer as a possibility, and the hypothesis of the reality of God, for Darwin’s theory is not enough, given what science has learned in the last twenty years, particularly the intricacy of creation and the finetuning of our universe to a vastly improbable degree. Eric Metaxas, among others, provides a simple summary of these arguments in his book, Miracles.

In my novel, Angel Mountain, one of my characters is a geneticist who, when he speaks truth to power at UC Berkeley, is pushed into an early sabbatical by the woke powers that be. In this excerpt, Dr. Gregory Worthington, 37, our geneticist, walks a trail on Angel Mountain with Catherine Nelson, 33, a UC librarian, and explains a bit about what these discoveries entail:   

     “I believe Heaven is real,” Gregory said, feeling brave.

     Catherine eyed him seriously. “Why do you believe it?”

     She is direct, he thought. “It’s been a long journey.”

     “Tell me the short version,” she said.

     Were her eyes teasing or challenging or doubting? A little of all three, Gregory decided. “I’m a scientist. I saw faith as something out there for some people, but why bother? I was raised a Christian, but somehow I hadn’t met Christ along the way.” That was pretty honest, he thought. He even surprised himself. “As Abram said about his own conversion.”

     “Go on.” 

     “In my studies of the genome and genetics, and my Stanford residency, I began asking meaningful questions, and finally connecting the dots, as it were. The intricacy and creativity and brilliance of our physical world reflected an Intelligence, a designer, and one thing led to another.”

     “But doesn’t science explain our world? With evolution? We don’t need God anymore. We don’t need a religious explanation.”

     “That’s the amazing part. Over the last few years, science has been effectively presenting a case for the existence of God.”

     Catherine looked thoughtful. “I thought it was a matter of faith, of belief, rather than scientific observation, data, and conclusions.”

     “Things have changed. In 1966, around the time of the ‘God is Dead’ movement, the astronomer Carl Sagan claimed two conditions were needed to support life on a planet. Without these two requirements, life could not exist. The first requirement was the correct star and the second was the perfect distance from that star. Calculations showed, based on this hypothesis, there were over a septillion planets that could support life, planets that had the perfect star at the perfect distance.”

     “I’ve never heard this, but then I took a minimum of science, and no astronomy.”

     “Science has made many more discoveries since 1966. But the announcement was exciting in the sixties, and it gave rise to all the space travel movies. There was a natural curiosity about aliens and life on other planets.”

     Catherine grinned. “Star Wars, Star Trek, ET, that kind of thing.”

     “Exactly. But science made new discoveries that never really made their way into the popular imagination, and people got stuck in that mindset that there is life out there. In that sense, they haven’t kept up with science.”

     “What discoveries? Did they prove life couldn’t exist on other planets?”

     “Pretty much. Well-funded programs under the umbrella ‘Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence’—SETI—tried to identify life in the universe by tracking signals through radio telescopic networks. Nothing. Silence. Congress defunded the program in 1993 but private donors continued to search for life in the universe.”

     Catherine shook her head. “Let me guess. Nothing still?”

     “Right. As of 2014, nothing.” “What happened then?” “Sagan’s requirements for life multiplied over the intervening years, way beyond two, which made the results more logical. Fewer and fewer planets met the increasing number of requisites discovered by science.”

     “How many planets today can support life? What did they come up with?” “Actually, none.” “None except for Earth?” “No, including Earth.”

     Gregory watched Catherine’s face. She wasn’t laughing at him. She wasn’t rolling her eyes. She seemed genuinely interested in his statement that it was impossible for planet Earth to support life, at least according to the math probabilities and life’s necessary requirements.

     “But—” Catherine shook her head in disbelief, at a loss for words to express her doubt. But she still seemed to take him seriously. She hadn’t written him off completely. She was listening.

     “Here we are,” Gregory said. “We are life. Sitting under an oak on the side of Angel Mountain watching the incredible tule fog move through the valleys toward the coast. We are here—we are life—so how did this happen?”

     “Go on.” Did Catherine sound intrigued or sarcastic? He wasn’t sure if she believed him.

      “The latest data show that there are over two hundred requirements for a planet to support life. Each one must be met or else life cannot exist on planet Earth. For example, near to us, planet Jupiter has a gravity pull strong enough to divert asteroids away from Earth. It is clear—at least to this scientist—that the creation of life forms was not random but finely tuned. Extremely finely tuned.”

     “What about the creation of the universe? Wasn’t that a result of the Big Bang? An explosion? Not God at all.” She gestured to the broad landscape that reached to the horizon and the endless sky.

     “Fine-tuning again. The universe was fine-tuned immediately after the Big Bang, which also had to have a cause in itself, as Aquinas argued. Today, astrophysicists claim there were four forces that needed to be fine-tuned and need to be continuously fine-tuned. If they had not been finely tuned, for example, no stars would exist. The odds are gigantic against the universe forming accidentally from an explosion, any explosion. The odds are something like ten quintillion to one.”

     “That’s all encouraging, isn’t it? Seems like meaning and purpose are now scientifically proven.”

     “Certainly in terms of probabilities, statistics. Many atheist scientists—the honest ones—have admitted that some kind of Intelligence had to be behind the creation of the universe.”

     “It doesn’t seem to make the news.”

     “The general public is about twenty years behind. Also, belief in God isn’t popular, considered too constraining in terms of ethics and behavior. The natural conclusion—not a great leap—is to identify this intelligent Creator as the God of Jews, Christians, and Muslims. All three religions make clear moral demands on our lives. All three proclaim a law. All three predict a day of Judgment.”

     “So what you’re saying is that faith and science support one another.”

     Gregory nodded as they returned to the path. “They do. Absolutely.” He grew thoughtful. “You’re a better audience than my last one.”

Sunderland, Christine. Angel Mountain (pp. 181-184). Resource Publications, an Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers. Kindle Edition.

I’m looking forward to Steven Meyer’s book, which should find its way into some of the themes in my next novel, Return to Angel Mountain, working title. The subject is fascinating, particularly at this moment in history when chaos does indeed seem to be engulfing America. The Judeo-Christian belief in a loving God, now supported by science, is literally our saving grace, our path forward, our way to love as Christ loved and as we are taught (indeed, commanded) to love by this loving God.

I was glad this morning to see all well at our Berkeley Chapel. Our streaming online was set to start, and the hymns listed on the hymn board were some of my favorites. The organist was playing a piece that filled the space with joy as we awaited the dramatic procession in from outside. Five of the 14 Cal Rowing Crew who are residents on the property would be assisting our Dean of Seminary, Fr. Napier, and as all the pieces of the hour fell into place, I sighed my thanksgivings: thanksgivings for the place, the people, the freedom to worship in this holy chapel, unique and precious.

My week had begun with a fire alarm. It was a false alarm, but frightening and earsplitting just the same. It occurred in this Berkeley student residence on Sunday after Mass (last Sunday) as I was closing the office downstairs. Being that close to an alarm like that is something I will not easily forget. I can still hear it ringing in my ears.

It made me think about alarms, disaster alarms, that warn us of impending danger to body or soul, or both since it is difficult, in this world at least, to separate the two without serious harm. Pain is an alarm that something is wrong with our body or soul (physical pain or mental). Fever and swelling tell us that the body is reacting to an infection that could do further damage. Guilt and remorse tell us we have some confessing to do, some forgiving or being forgiven. Our conscience, formed from a young age, becomes our judge in these vital matters, so it is vital that our consciences are formed rightly, with a wholesome fear of God and a love of his law.

How we grow through life, from the womb to the tomb as they say, makes all the difference. Which path do we choose to take, and which laws do we ask God to write on our hearts? 

The false fire alarm, I learned today, was caused by spilled milk in a fridge that sat on the floor above the basement where a smoke detector was. Upon investigation (with most certainly a hefty fine) we learned that the milk had gone through the fridge base, through the flooring, and had pooled around the detector.

We have so many false alarms today that ring our world with noise and harangue. We are alarmed by so many fears, from pandemic to vaccines to masks to terrorism to World War III, and even alarmed by the climate when it changes. Some of these are false and some not. We must figure it out. We must seek out authorities we trust to separate truth from lies, to form our souls, to point the right way to take in the midst of the dark forest. (Hint: mainstream news is not a trustworthy authority.)

Elders must teach the young, embracing the role of mentor. The young must seek out elders, embracing the role of student.

I have found our clergy to be a mixed group like any group formed from fallen humans. But within that group I have found elders that could teach me as well as parish laity. Some, through time, merely set an example for me in the way they lived their lives. Some preached, and I could tell when it rang true and when it was rang false. I prayed and continue to pray for discernment, minute by minute, to use the count of my days as wisely as possible, with a mind to know the mind of Christ.

One of my favorite podcasts is Andrew Klavan on The Daily Wire. He mentioned this last week that the first Christians called themselves followers of the Way. For Christ called himself the Way, the Truth, and the Life. And so Christ is the way we must go, forgoing all others, listening to his words of love, life, and, yes, law. We do this in the Church, through many ways – music, poetry, prayer, the song and dance of the liturgy – ways that lead into Christ, and he into us. There is no other way to life eternal, no other way to joy eternal, no other way to love eternal.

Through Christ’s bride, the Church, we are mentored by a trusted authority. We learn who we are: past, present, and meant to be. We learn how to learn. We are clothed in the habit of habit, good habits, that texture our souls, weaving fine golden thread into our unique God-created character. We learn how to love, how to be struck by the glorious differences between each one of us, how to raise up each one of us in joy.

I read recently that Homer’s Odyssey had been cancelled for some woke reason as part of a high school curriculum. One of the striking images in this classical work is the image of Odysseus tied to the mast of a ship, his ears plugged, in an effort to not listen to the sirens calling him from a distant shore. As I recall (and it must have been over fifty years ago that I read it) they are tempting him away from is purpose, sailing true and straight for home. And so we have the siren songs of today – the many distractions, some serious, some silly, that call us away from using our time well, away from the way we should be going, sailing straight and true for heaven. They are false alarms in the truest sense.

But even so some some alarms are good for us, warning us. Many alarms are going off in our world today, and many should be heeded, even at this late hour in the fall of the republic of America. Many alarms are symptoms of a serious illness in our culture, a Narcissism (again a classical allusion) trapping our people in childhood. We become tribal and petty and barbarian. We no longer celebrate our diversity, but brand one another as the other, as the enemy. We no longer see creation as a reflection of the Creator, as a magnificent tapestry of love. We no longer see that we are all children of God, all children in the family of God.

I am glad that, for the most part, I am able to spot false alarms, hear the tinny sound of their sirens. I am glad I can find rest and refreshment in this holy chapel on a Sunday morning, that I can dance with the organ and sing with the angels, that I can fall on my knees in penitence and worship, that I can be fed by Christ himself, that I have such a lovely parish family I love, my brothers and sisters in Christ, my children and parents in Christ. I am glad that I can be re-formed, reborn in the image of God.

There is nothing better than that. Nothing truer. Nothing that will silence the sirens ringing in our ears. At least for a time, an hour a week, a block from UC Berkeley.

St. Joseph of Arimathea Collegiate Anglican Chapel offers Mass weekly at 11:30 on Sundays. All welcome.

I’ve been thinking how time layers us with its seconds, minutes, and hours. As we journey through this pilgrimage of time on earth we are layered with our choices, our loves, our sins, our virtues. Each one of us is unique and uniquely loved by God our creator. Each one of us is a fine painting, a charming concerto, a sculpture carved in the image of God. Each one of us is a one-of-a-kind work of art.

Much has been said about the nature of art, or even the art of nature. Many have opined on beauty and meaning and how truth is related or not, how we express through art our deepest longings and desires, or perhaps our angst and anger at our fallen world, our world falling about us, crashing to dust at our feet.

I finished watching the 9/11 series, 9/11: One Day in America. I saw footage I had not seen, in particular the fall of the third building, 7 World Trade Center. The clip showed it collapsing into rubble, “pancake” style, straight down, the huge billowing clouds of dust and debris swallowing the air and tunneling down the adjacent streets just as had happened with the North Tower and the South Tower. Fire had leveled the building to the ground.

Watching the mini-series and seeing the last building fall added a mournful layer to my life, to my own heart and soul. They are images I will not forget, nor should I, nor do I wish to. They are a layer of life, of reality, of truth.

And so I am a slightly different person each day, as another brushstroke has defined the texture of my canvas. I know more than I did, and this knowledge adds to my daily growth.

Other strokes refine and define the oil on my canvas, and so I choose to worship on Sunday with other Christians so that my painting is further perfected with the love of God.

In our Berkeley chapel I gazed at the carved crucifix above the altar, a humble corpus attached to a rugged wooden cross. It too has seen the layers of time since the thirteenth century, and it becomes one of the layers in this domed chancel, adding to the flaming candles, the white linen altar, the tented tabernacle lovingly prepared by our priest, reflecting the color of the Sunday and the Season. The tabernacle itself is a layer wrapped around the Host within, a womb holding life, holding the Real Presence of Christ. For us. For our own gazing and our own worship, our own feeding and sharing.

Layers. The layering of life. The many stories that make up each one of us, never to be told again, never to be lived again in exactly the same way. The Lord of Life living in the tabernacle reigns, raining his baptismal waters upon us like a fountain in the desert, washing us clean, saying, “Eat, drink, this is myself given to you.”

We confess our sins and are forgiven. They are removed from our canvas, no longer there, by a holy erasing. We repent, promising to try again to be good, to love one another, to layer upon one another the love of God, the love of creation.

We are reminded by St. Paul, in words that may be the most poetic in all of Holy Scripture, of the tender brush strokes upon our souls, forming the next layer of beauty in our temporal time:

“I bow my knees unto the Father… that he would grant you, according to the riches of his glory, to be strengthened with might by his Spirit in the inner man; that Christ may dwell in your hearts by faith; that ye, being rooted and grounded in love, may be able to comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth, and length, and depth, and height; and to know the love of Christ, which passeth knowledge, that ye might be filled with all the fulness of God.” (Ephesians 3.13+, BCP 212).

I want to be rooted and grounded in love. I want to comprehend the breadth, length, depth, height of the love of Christ, passing knowledge. I want to be filled with the fulness of God.

The Church opens a door to that journey of joy. It opens the door onto the porch outside, onto the sidewalk, saying, come and see, come and see… Come and be painted by the Master of Creation. The Church opens the door to the tabernacle, the Holy of Holies, saying, come and be fed by the Master of Life. With these layers, these brush strokes upon our souls, we open our hearts to one another. We join together, layered by Christ, brothers and sisters, the parish family.

For a time the horror of 9/11 is eclipsed by the joy of a Sunday morning. But we must see with wide open eyes the darkness of man, his temptation to destroy. We must be layered by true history, accepting the past in order to understand the present, to step into the future as children of God. We must never forget the holocausts of life, personal and cultural and worldwide, so that we may embrace the holiness of life, sharing it with one another, layer by layer, rooted and grounded in God’s love.

Anniversaries of past events serve our memory, for good or for ill. Some are recurring celebrations: birthdays, weddings, graduations. Some are firsts: first word, first tooth, first concert, first kiss, first…. And some are recurring memorials of past tragedies or sorrows: Pearl Harbor, terrorist attacks, Nine-Eleven. We remember these annual events so that we will not forget. 

The September 11, 2001 New York trade center bombings is a tragedy that we must not forget. We were attacked on our own soil by religious jihadists who believed that America was evil and desired our death.  Our response was to enter Afghanistan and control the terrorists that were given safe harbor. We did this for twenty years. We may have been nation building, as some have said but this was not the reason we were there. We were there to keep world peace.

The fact that we are no longer there means that world peace is once again threatened, that the jihadists have been given a green light to plan attacks all over the world, but particularly in the West and those nations who desire freedom.

And so I turned to an updated National Geographic series, 9/11: One Day in America. I wanted to remember. It was recommended by The Epoch Times, a news source I trust, and so I now recommend it. The hour by hour account includes the scenes we have seen over the years, but interwoven by phone messages and alerts, told by survivors. The interweave is brilliantly done, and one gets a sense of the day as it was. Also recommended are the interviews and videos recently done with Condoleezza Rice, the National Security Adviser to President George W. Bush at the time of the New York attacks, and later Secretary of State. Her analysis of today’s situation in light of her experience is most valuable and can be found at The Daily Wire and the Hoover Institution.

Where was I on Nine-Eleven when the first reports came through on the television? I was at home, and I saw the newscast as we made breakfast, for 8:45 a.m. in New York City is 5:45 a.m. in the San Francisco Bay Area. We were stunned, as was the nation, and then we feared we were now at war once again.

As a great-grandmother having lived seventy-four years on this good earth, I have experienced wartime. Vietnam was our war, the war that swallowed our young men, the war that maimed them and discouraged a generation. It was an unpopular war and riots encouraged draft dodgers and resisters. It was a time that eclipsed one’s own time, those college years that other generations seem to treasure. We lived in fear and confusion, as radicals marched and rock missals broke classroom windows and sit-ins disrupted college life. Before Vietnam was Korea and before that was World War Two. My father was in the World War and he too was affected deeply by what he encountered on his ship in the Pacific Theater. He survived the kamikazes and returned to marry my mother in Long Beach and to forget war and to have the family he so desired.

War puts things in perspective, just as death gives meaning to life. My bishop of blessed memory often said that a truly religious person has faced his own death. Accepting a limited span of life makes those hours, days, and years all the more precious and valuable. I suppose it is the old economic trope, that scarcity raises value.

In the second half of the twentieth century America grew complacent. There were many warnings, precursors, to Nine-Eleven that went unheeded. Military spending declined. National Intelligence floundered as well.

This seems to be happening all over again as we shamefully exit Afghanistan and defund not only our police but our military. We are ripe for another attack upon our soil. What will it take for us to truly wake up and not just be woke? Or, when will the woke awake? The pandemic has diverted our attention and nearly blinded us to reality. We live in a fallen world, and while many hold utopian visions of the goodness of all mankind, these visions are not rooted in reality. America alone offers freedom to the world. Other Western nations have become too weak to offer anything but dreams and platitudes. Soon America will be too weak as well. The Taliban et al do not desire to have a seat in the world order of united nations. This is not their goal. They want a world theocracy governed by Sharia law.

With the images of the planes hitting the towers, of the explosions and black smoke billowing into the crystal blue sky over Manhattan, of the people jumping to their deaths to avoid burning, of the collapse of the tower into a giant heap of ash and rubble that ate the air of Lower Manhattan, home of world trade and finance – with these horrific images running through my memory – I was glad to spend a few hours in our Berkeley chapel this morning. I was glad to sing and pray together with my brothers and sisters. I was glad to let the thundering organ notes pour over me, fortifying me. I was glad to hear the Gospel lesson about the lilies of the field that neither sow nor reap, and that our Heavenly Father cares for them. I was glad to be reminded not to worry too much about tomorrow. And of course Our Lord was not saying to sleep through the days but to be heartened, for in the end, all things will work to the glory of God. We still need to be perfect, still need to repent, and still need to learn better ways of loving one another. We still need to be faithful, watching and vigilant.

Memory teaches us what is good and what is evil. We learn hard lessons that we do not want to forget. I am glad I immersed myself in this twentieth anniversary of Nine-Eleven. I can see better, and because I can see, I can better choose the path that must be taken. As our nation must do as well. Wake up, America.

Chapter 17, Jessica, age 22, grad student, UC Berkeley, 2014:

On that same Thursday, about the time that Zachary Aguilar began his run and Anna Aguilar made tea, Jessica Thierry decided she would not return Zachary’s calls from Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. She wanted to concentrate on her thesis, and she set to work. She spread out her papers and photos on the counter. She turned on her laptop and checked the national news.

Immediately images of Nine-Eleven filled the screen: the smoke, the imploding towers, the screams. Jessica drew in her breath. She had forgotten the date. Today had been a normal day on campus. She had attended her seminar on research methods and visited the Berkeley Historical Society downtown, all the while haunted by every scruffy straggler, every sinister footstep, every stranger’s glance. The Fire Trail ordeal was recent, she told herself, and the horror would recede with time, but the police sketch that confronted her at the Post Office, the bank, the market, and the library kept the man alive in her thoughts. No wonder she had forgotten the date.

The headlines had been the usual ones; she did not recall a mention of Nine-Eleven in her local news report: Live Oak Park celebrates 100th birthday. State may fine UC Berkeley for violations related to custodian death. Police seek help in solving four-year-old Berkeley murder. Business burglarized on Shattuck Avenue. Fire Trail suspect still at large . . .

Jessica turned to her notes, trying to concentrate, but unable to focus on Berkeley history, as the New York attack flashed through her mind. Her own fears seemed silly. Where had she been on that terrible day? She was nine; Samantha and Ashley, eleven. September 2001 was before Facebook and sexting and selfies. It was before Ashley’s drugs got out of hand and before Samantha’s drowning. It was before she met Dr. Stein in family therapy and learned the two systems of growth, emotion and control, that so changed her. It was before she discovered that knowledge coupled with self-discipline was empowering.

Jessica recalled her mother had picked them up early from school and driven them silently home. Ashley and Samantha were giggling about a boy, and their mother shushed them angrily. And then, at home, the television on, her parents tense. Her father got off work early.

Jessica read through her notes. She opened a new Word document, and typed:

Thesis

The presence of religious institutions in the late nineteenth century were key to the development of the city of Berkeley, and thus give good reason for government support today. I shall argue this through examination of the work of the Presentation Sisters in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and its impact on the community of Berkeley. I shall consider the change in the community with the erosion of such religious institutions, changes seen in education, medical care, and public safety, areas of vital interest to city, state, and federal governments. 

Background

Originally settled by the Ohlone tribes, the area that is now Berkeley became home to the first Europeans in 1776 with the arrival of the De Anza Expedition, largely financed by the Catholic Church. This group established the Spanish Presidio of San Francisco, the military defense at the mouth of the Golden Gate. For his services, the soldier Luis Peralta was granted 44,000 acres of land on the coast opposite to San Francisco, contra costa, where he raised cattle. Rancho San Antonio was divided among Peralta’s four sons, and it was Vicente’s and Domingo’s parcels that eventually became the town of Berkeley. The brothers lost most of the land to Gold Rush squatters and died in poverty. Domingo lived from 1795 to 1865, and his house on Codornices Creek was the first non-Ohlone dwelling in Berkeley.

More settlers meant more children. In the early 1850s, Archbishop Joseph S. Alemany invited groups of women
religious to come to California from Europe, including the Daughters of Charity, the Dominican Sisters, Notre Dame de Namur, and the Sisters of Mercy. When the Sisters of the Presentation in Ireland were invited in 1854, they said yes. Five sisters arrived from convents in Midleton and Kilkenny; by the end of the first year three returned home due to illness. Their order was called the Sisters of the Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

She glanced at her own family photo. In the nineteenth century families considered children a precious gift since so many died in infancy. They had larger families, for they hadn’t learned how to avoid conception when inconvenient or undesired. She thought of her sisters’ abortions, of the nieces and nephews who hadn’t survived her sisters’ choices. If there was a Heaven, would she meet them there? Reading about the many children of early San Francisco and the nuns sailing from Ireland to teach them was comforting and enriching. In contrast, her own world seemed barren in its celebration of childlessness. 

The leaves rustled outside, and Jessica turned with renewed determination to her text. Who were these Presentation Sisters, after all?

The Foundress

Nano (Honora) Nagle (1718-1784) founded the Sisters of the Presentation. Cousin to the statesman Edmund Burke, she was born into a wealthy Norman-Irish family in County Cork, Ireland. When the young Nano visited the tenants on her family estate, she was troubled by their poverty and lack of education. She began a life of prayer and good works to help their children. She opened a school in 1754 in Cork City and six more schools over the next fifteen years. She cared for the poor and built homes for the elderly. She became known as the Lady of the Lantern, for she visited the sick, the elderly, the lonely, and the poor in the slums. She lived among them, spending her fortune on their education and care. In 1775 she founded a community of women religious, sisters who would continue her work. She died of tuberculosis in 1784. 

The Sisters of the Presentation have continued Nano Nagle’s work throughout the world in Ireland, England, the Americas, India, Pakistan, Australia, New Zealand, the Philippines, Papua, New Guinea, Eastern Europe, Africa, and Palestine.

Such goodness, Jessica thought. Did such goodness exist today? It appeared so, in spite of today’s creed of self. What was the source of their goodness? Jessica intuited the source was faith in God, as though God empowered them to be good. Is that what Father Nate meant by “cult creates culture”?

The University of California

In 1866 the private College of California in Oakland, led by Congregational minister Henry Durant, taught a classical core curriculum modeled on Yale and Harvard. The trustees decided on a new site alongside Strawberry Creek in the foothills of the Contra Costa Range.

It is said that, at Founders’ Rock, a group of College of California men watched two ships standing out to sea through the Golden Gate. One of them, Frederick Billings, thought of the lines of the Anglo-Irish Anglican Bishop George Berkeley, “westward the course of empire takes its way,” and suggested that the town and college site be named for the eighteenth-century Anglo-Irish philosopher.

Bishop Berkeley (1685-1753) had spent four years in New England and had written a poem, “The Prospect of Planting Arts and Learning in America,” the last stanza being:

“Westward the course of empire takes its way;/The first four acts already past,/A fifth shall close the drama with the day;/Time’s noblest offspring is the last.”

Although he never saw Berkeley, he was correct about the course of the British Empire taking its way westward to the New World and on to the coast of California. America was, after all, the child of England and thus the child of classical education in the English language, with studies in Latin, Greek, history, English, mathematics, natural history, and later, modern languages.

America’s colonial colleges had been founded by religious institutions: Harvard, Yale, and Dartmouth by Puritans (Congregationalists), Princeton by Presbyterians, the College of William and Mary, Columbia, and the University of Pennsylvania by Anglicans, Brown by Baptists, Rutgers by the Dutch Reformed. The University of California at Berkeley, a century later, was no exception. The degree of religious influence varied and lessened over time, but the drive to achieve and to educate the young was a key aspect of Christianity. This “course of empire” was driven by Christian assumptions and worldviews and, of course, was meant to reflect the positive aspects of empire: peace, law and order, public health, and a solid education in the liberal arts, all considered necessary for democracy to thrive.

While much has been said about the negative aspects of British colonialism, it cannot be denied that wherever the empire found itself, it worked untiringly to better the population to the degree it knew how. And the British heritage, the heritage of the West, is one of learning, law, and charity, seeds planted by Christianity. It is a legacy of freedom that flowers throughout the world on every continent among all races and is no longer unique to the Western world, but characteristic of the “Anglosphere.”

Jessica considered her words. There was, and remained today, a thin but necessary line between Church and State. Yet if credit were not given to the Western tradition, if the next generation were not taught the ideals of democracy and free speech, American culture could lose the benefits of their precious tradition of liberty and law. That would be a tragedy indeed.

Christine Sunderland, The Fire Trail (eLectio Publishing, 2016, 135-143)

Chapter 16, Father Nate Casparian, age 77, caretaker of Comerford House and Chapel, brother to Nicholas Casparian, dying of ALS, former Cal professor, 2014:

A sudden silence fell over them like a pall as they stepped slowly and carefully down the gravel path through the gardens, hearing only the sounds of their footfall and the caws of unseen birds high in the pines. Pausing, they looked out to the pale sky spread over Comerford House. When Anna spoke, Father Nate could barely hear her. “I was making breakfast when I heard,” she said. “Where were you on Nine-Eleven, Father?”

The question jabbed the priest’s memory, but he didn’t mind. Memory, he knew, could be healed by love. Anna wouldn’t probe too deep. He trusted her to heal and not hurt. He could see, when she glanced at him, that she simply desired to remember the day, to mourn for America then and now. He tried not to waver, but his face must have betrayed him, for she added, “You don’t have to tell me.”

“It’s okay, Anna. Stories are good. Especially true stories that explain the present, like all true history, all good history, handed down to the next generation. But let’s sit so I can rest my legs again.” He motioned to her to join him on a bench in the garden. Taking a deep breath, he said a quick prayer, forcing himself to give voice to that time of sudden, shocking loss. “I was a parish priest and friar. Nicholas was teaching at Cal. I lived near the church, St. Joseph’s. I remember hearing the news when I turned on the TV early in the morning.”

“Me too.”

“It was before the fire.” He touched his crimson cheek. “And before the ALS.”

“Two more tragedies.”

“But the worst tragedy was . . . Louise.”

“Louise?”

“Louise Casparian, Nicholas’ wife.” Anna grew silent, and Father Nate could see an array of emotions pass over her face. She waited for him to speak. “She died that morning,” he said, focusing on a pale pink rose in the garden. “She was visiting a cousin at her office in New York at the Trade Center. They never had a chance.”

“Oh, no.” He turned to Anna and met her soft dark eyes, caring eyes, eyes that understood loss. Encouraged, the words tumbled out, and he found himself gesturing with open palms, standing, pacing, and sitting again. “We didn’t realize, at first, where she was at the time, but when we didn’t hear from her . . . well, we learned soon enough. Nicholas was devastated, as were the children. They were adults, of course, a son and a daughter with families of their own. But it was so violent, so unexpected.”

“How did he manage such a loss?”

“He plunged into his work. But his academic colleagues claimed that America asked for it, citing our imperialism, capitalism, and wealth, and saying that the terrorists were the real victims. Nicholas was furious. It became his mission to correct their lies.”

“What did he do?”

“He fought them with words and ideas. He set up courses to teach the next generation the truth: America’s history, her institutions, what defines her, his six grand pillars.”

“Six grand pillars?”

Father Nate ticked them off on his fingers. “There were the three L’s: Limited government, individual liberty, rule of law . . . let’s see, the other three were free markets, personal responsibility, and traditional values.” 

Anna repeated them as if committing them to memory.

Father Nate continued, venting the concern he shared with his brother and welcoming the healing tonic of Anna’s friendship as though she could carry his burden by gathering it up, at least for a time.

“Nicholas claimed that our country had grown weak and vulnerable to another attack. Clinton eviscerated the CIA, he said, so intelligence was ineffective. He used the word eviscerated, I remember. I had to look it up.”

“And President Bush?”

“Nicholas admired Bush, said he would go down in history as one of our great presidents. He thought the liberal media had reached a barbaric low when they made fun of him. He often said that the guarantors of freedom and free speech were their close cousins, respect and responsibility.”

“I remember how the papers and TV made fun of President Bush, even little things, personal things. I don’t like sneering and bullying. It isn’t right. It isn’t civil.”

Father Nate nodded. “It crosses the border between the civil and the uncivil. But the media bias soon was out in the open. When President Bush’s term was up in 2008, the media orchestrated the next election. The new president, their man, eviscerated, my word this time, the military across the board, leading to our current crisis.”

“And this encouraged the rise of Islamic terrorism?”

“Yes, to put it simply.”

“Americans don’t like war.” Anna looked doubtful, and Father Nate knew she voiced the feelings of many, that if you don’t like something then it must be wrong. Even national defense was now guided by feelings.

Father Nate breathed deeply and spoke firmly, as though explaining to the daughter he never had, telling the truth, emboldened by love.

“Nobody likes war. But balance of power keeps the world safe, prevents war and protects peace. War is inevitable when you have tyrants in the world, regardless of their reason. Russia is another rising tyranny. So the balance of power has now been tipped in tyranny’s favor.”

They headed downhill, following the path.

“What happened to Nicholas’ son and daughter? And their families?” Anna asked as they neared the chapel.

“They’re fine, in Arizona and Maine. Each invited their father to come live with them, but he didn’t want to be a burden. So he sold the house in the Berkeley Hills and moved in with me.”

“He wanted to keep teaching.” 

Father Nate nodded. “He lived and breathed academia and the free exchange of ideas. Working was the therapy he needed. And now he was on a mission, to correct the media’s lies, the lies taught on campus, politically correct lies.”

“Was it really that bad?”

They crossed the lawn to the French doors. He wanted Anna to understand what it means to be a refugee, to emigrate to America. “Anna, our grandparents fled the Armenian genocide of 1915 in Turkey, where their own parents—our great-grandparents—were murdered. They worked hard when they came to this country. They farmed near Fresno, living in a refugee community. Nicholas and I grew up during World War Two. We were raised to deeply value liberty—the freedom to think, speak, and worship as we choose. We loved America. We loved the culture of the Western world. We didn’t have much, but we had America. We were Americans.”

“I understand, Father.” She opened the door. “I’m so glad to hear your story. Thank you.”

“Not an unusual one, even if ignored or forgotten. Thanks for listening to an old friar, Anna.”

“But what happened to Nicholas’ Western Civ program?”

“It struggles. Many faculty still think the West is the cause of the world’s problems, not the solution.” Father Nate shook his head. “I can’t figure them out. Do they want to be like Russia? Or China? Or Iran? Do they want women to be enslaved, children raped? Do they want Jews, gays, and Christians slaughtered, beheaded, crucified? Blasphemers whipped and adulterers stoned? What are they thinking? I’ll never understand the America-haters, and there are lots of them with powerful tenure in respected universities today. They’re teaching our children and grandchildren to hate their own country.”

They stood in front of the table, and Anna tasted her tea. “Cold.”

Father Nate picked up a towel and reached for a cup. “This Fire Trail killer is a victim of our not enforcing the law. We’ve grown lax because many don’t believe in the source of our laws. Nicholas sometimes quotes Jefferson: ‘Can the liberties of a nation be secure when we have removed a conviction that these liberties are the gift of God?’ The words are etched into the Jefferson memorial in Washington, D.C.”  

Anna glanced up at him. “He means that if we don’t believe in the source of the gift we might not believe in the gift itself?”

“Exactly.” 

“Religion is important, I’ve come to see, even if I’m not very good at believing. Now go and fetch Nicholas. I’ll meet you in the chapel. We have lots of prayers to say tonight.”

Christine Sunderland, The Fire Trail (eLectio Publishing, 2016, 128-133)

Chapter 15, Anna, age 57, Zachary’s mother and docent/librarian of Comerford House Museum, 2014:

“As Zachary ran the Fire Trail on Nine-Eleven, Anna busied herself in the Comerford kitchen, making tea. A grandfather clock tolled four. The notes, Anna thought, sounded mournful, appropriately so, on this day of such remembrance, such national tragedy. The day had cast a spell of sadness over her. She had skipped CircleFit and instead worked steadily in the library upstairs. No one showed for the two o’clock tour, now that school was in session, and she turned on the small TV in the pantry, muting the sound, simply wanting reassurance that her country had not been attacked again.

Having set the table with a bowl of sliced apples and a plate of oatmeal cookies (steel cut oats, whole wheat), she added a vase of red roses from the garden. She waited for the water to boil, glancing from time to time at the TV screen, reading the running news panel along the bottom: Trade center rises from ashes, opens 13 years after terror attacks; Berkeley Free Speech Movement rally planned; Militants behead British hostage in video; Suicide risk on the rise for elderly; Fire Trail suspect still at large …

Comerford House was quiet, as though a pall had fallen over the grounds. Anna vividly recalled September 11, 2001. She had been thirteen years younger then, only forty-four, and Luke had not yet left them for that young Rosalind, and they were a family. California time was three hours earlier than New York time, so Anna first learned about the attack shortly before six in the morning and Zachary was still sleeping. She had risen early to see Luke off for his shift at Foodmart and was making breakfast, the portable TV blinking and flashing its morning news.

The first TV bulletin had been nearly unbelievable. The voices of the reporters moved from pragmatic concern to astonishment to horror at what they were seeing, and then saying, as they described the planes diving into the towers. Today, thirteen years later, Anna could see it so clearly: the black smoke of the first plane and the fiery explosion of the second. It was, she recalled, when the second plane hit, that she, along with a stunned nation watching, concluded this was not an accident. The United States was under attack. But who would do such a thing? Later, she learned, four passenger airliners had been hijacked by nineteen terrorists who had turned the planes into suicide bombs.

That morning Anna had stared at the screen, dumbfounded, as American Flight 11 and United Flight 175 dove into the North and South Towers of the World Trade Center. She witnessed men and women jumping from upper windows to their deaths. She saw the towers implode and fall to the earth, and she could even now feel the terror of it, as though she were there. She could taste the dust billowing through the cavernous streets, the heart of America’s financial markets, as terrified workers ran from flying debris. The third plane, American Flight 77, crashed into the Pentagon and the Department of Defense in Washington D.C. The last plane, United Flight 93, diverted by passengers rushing the hijackers, exploded in a Pennsylvania field. Over three thousand died, including hundreds of firefighters and police, the deadliest attack on American soil in the history of the United States.

The kettle whistled. Anna turned off the burner, the flame died, and she poured boiling water over tea leaves in the pewter teapot. Leaving the tea to steep, she moved from the kitchen into the foyer and crossed to the music room. From there she could see the San Francisco skyline, its misty shape still visible, still intact. Comerford’s porch flag flew at half-mast, and she watched the heavy canvas ripple in the growing damp, its stars and stripes waving as though holding the past and the future in its weave.

Anna heard the French doors open and close in the kitchen. Father Nate had arrived for tea…”

Christine Sunderland, The Fire Trail (eLectio Publishing, 2016, 115-116)

Chapter 14, Zachary, age 26, grad student, UC Berkeley, 2014:

“On Thursday, September 11, close to four p.m., Zachary parked his car at the trailhead where the East Bay hills bordered Berkeley. It was the anniversary of a horrific day of national tragedy, and he needed to see the silvery bay, the San Francisco skyline, and the Golden Gate. He wanted to think. His mind and heart were a jumble. He needed to sort things out.

He began with a few stretches but could feel the chill of the fog moving up from the water, so turned up the uneven path toward the Fire Trail at a slow jog, watching his step and soon hitting his regular rhythm.

Zachary ran, pounding softly the packed earth, parting California bay laurel, passing under gnarly oaks, their aged branches turning and twisting into the air. He ran through stands of cypress pines, their trunks straight and strong, punctuating broad meadows of green grass. He ran through patches of lingering fog and splashes of sudden sun… He loped along the narrowing trail through low grass in a wet and foggy hollow. He plowed through more bay and laurel and on through live oaks to another crest. Soon he would emerge onto a vista point. Hopefully, he could see the San Francisco Bay, if it was not yet engulfed by fog.

He could stare at the city and figure out his life, what to do next, as he had done many times over the years. The long bench was welcome, and he sprawled on it, pulling out his water bottle. The San Francisco skyline and the Golden Gate glistened in the encroaching mist. Berkeley dipped low and shadowy toward the shoreline.

Thirteen years ago today, 2001, the year of the New York City attacks, he was only thirteen. Zachary could not imagine what it was like to have been in New York on that Tuesday morning, September 11th…. With the Trade Center attack, the recent wars, and now the beheadings, trust and truth and commitment were more important than ever. Life became serious when it was threatened.

Nine-eleven. Zachary stood and stared at the skyline, imagining the planes attacking San Francisco as they had attacked New York. He had seen the images on television year after year, and each time was astonished that others would hate America like that, hate their freedom. Such hate and such tyranny were so opposed to the innate human desire for love and transcendence. Those terrorists chose the bestial way, the way of the jungle, the way of illiteracy and babble, the way of chaos and death.

And yet America had its own communities of chaos and death. There were moments, Zachary admitted, that he desired greater control over criminals, greater safety on their streets. Was that a desire for tyranny? He hoped not… He could see the boundary between liberty and law was not always easily seen.

Zachary suddenly felt a great love for this skyline, this bay, this American city with its bridges. The nation had been at peace for many years before 2001, so that events like Nine-Eleven were shocking. They burned the mind and memory, seared images onto the soul. In this way, Zachary judged, the attack pulled Americans out of their lethargy and into paying attention, to watching, to being alert. Just so, the recent beheadings of American journalists James Foley on August 19 and Steven Sotloff on September 2 by the Islamic State woke up Americans. Even home-grown horrors like the Boston Marathon bombings of 2013 and the Fort Hood massacre of 2009 nudged the nation to evaluate who and what America was and is, and how best to re-form this perfect union of cultures, races, and beliefs.

But America, Zachary believed, still held close to her heart the values of freedom, even in the face of the hate flying into New York City on that clear, September morning. America still valued free speech, democracy, and peaceful assembly. America still had the will and the resources to protect the world from tyranny. The nation wasn’t perfect, the balance precarious, but that was the price of freedom…”

Christine Sunderland, The Fire Trail (eLectio Publishing, 2016, 107-111)