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GROUND ZERO
It's the smell.
You can feel it wrinkling your nose as soon as you emerge from the
Fulton-Broadway subway station. It is like no other smell I've ever
experienced. It was not the smell I had feared, the smell of dead
bodies, but a sharp, acrid odor. "Infernal" is an adequate adjective.
The Presiding Bishop and The Rt. Rev. George E. Packard, Bishop for
the Armed Services, Healthcare and Prison Ministries, kindly arranged
for me to join, if only for a few hours, the ministry of The Episcopal
Church at the site of the World Trade Center terrorist attack. I had
studied the briefing materials provided for our chaplains, and fortified
by Morning Prayer and a pre-dawn ferry and subway ride, I arrived
at St. Paul's Chapel of Trinity Parish at the corner of Broadway and
Fulton at 6:45 AM.
St. Paul's is a classic structure that dates from pre-revolutionary
days. George Washington worshipped in its colonial beauty. These days
it is entirely given over to ministry to the firefighters, police,
National Guard and others who work at Ground Zero. The interior walls
of the church and its pillars are covered with letters, hand painted
banners, school children's picture tributes, prayers, all dedicated
to those who labor at Ground Zero. The fence around the church contains
thousands of similar votive tokens. The pews of the church are filled
with maybe 30 sleepers who were beginning to pull on boots, get coffee
and breakfast from the steam tables set up at the rear of the church.
The masseurs and masseuses whose tables fill part of the north aisle
of the church await the exhausted men and women who work in this appalling
epicenter of violent destruction. Chiropractors and podiatrists volunteer
their services as well.
"Come unto me all ye that travail and are heavy laden and I will
give you rest."
The Rev. Betty Belasco is the supervising chaplain for today's shift.
We recognize each other from shared experience of the Joint Education
Committee at General Convention. Betty, a priest from the Diocese
of Long Island is a pro, she knows stuff, and while we drink some
coffee in the pew she briefs me about hard hats (need 'em), face masks
(have one handy in case of thick smoke), respirators (stay away from
green smoke). I fill a pocket with lip balm, cough drops, and tissues
for giving to the disaster workers who know that the chaplains have
them available.
We leave the church, turn the corner and there is the charred façade
of a building you have seen many times on television.
We turn another corner and we're there: Ground Zero.
That smell is potent now; the quintessential essence of destruction.
The Pit still smokes. Occasional bursts of black or gray, and yes,
an evil looking green smoke pollutes the air. The wind is blowing
the latter away. (Good. I didn't bring a respirator.) Elevated water
hoses pour streams into The Pit. Bulldozers, cranes, long lines of
dump trucks snort and cavort to a diesel-powered dans macabre.
We check into the first of two control shacks where Betty registers
her cell phone number. "Glad to see you, Chaplain." "Thanks for being
here with us." Outside a platoon of firefighters is receiving orders
for today's descent into The Pit. Betty points out the Cross that
has been formed naturally from surviving structural steel and a fragment
of remaining wall, a place of Eucharist and the brink of The Pit.
"In the Cross of Christ I glory, towering o'er the wrecks of time."
Workers nod, chat for a moment with the Chaplains. "Where you from?"
"I grew up in Ireland, but now I live in the Bronx. How 'bout you?"
"Texas. San Antonio, Texas." "Thanks for coming. It means a lot."
"God bless!" "God bless you, too!"
I cross a muddy stretch of 20 yards and come to the brink of The Pit.
Most of it now is below street level, irregular in depth; two, three,
maybe five, six stories deep. Men and machines play at the Devil's
own monstrous game of pick-up sticks. 'Dozers and shovels load an
endless procession of trucks. The danger is palpable for the workers.
"Lord, let me focus all the prayers of the people of West
Texas in this Pit. Give rest to those who have died here. Comfort
and sustain those whose loved ones perished in this horror. Deliver
from all danger these brave workers who labor with courage and exhausting
perseverance."
Rest eternal….
And the blessing…
Betty and I continue the circuit of Ground Zero. More brief conversations
with the workers. Then back to St. Paul's. I eat scrambled eggs and
sausage in the pew with two policemen. Across the aisle firefighters
head back to The Pit, pulling on their heavy coats. I visit briefly
with Sister Grace, SSM, from St. Margaret's House. She is managing
the volunteers working inside the church.
One more glance around this old church which witnessed the British
occupation of New York City, and from which now radiates the compassion
of Christ into a place where "the powers of death have done their
worst."
Even as we stand weeping o'er the grave we sing our song: Alleluia!
Alleluia! in the men and women of courage and endurance who labor
in the wreckage wrought by hatred.
Alleluia! in the blessed company of volunteers who minister to exhausted
bodies.
Alleluia! in the faithful chaplains mucking about in the stench and
mud blessing comforting praying, joking; the priests in muddy boots
and sneakers.
"And lo, I am with you always…
The Gates of Hell will not prevail!"
+Robert B. Hibbs, Bishop Suffragan, Episcopal Diocese of West Texas
| Bishop Joe Doss is the retired bishop of New Jersey and
continues his advocacy for capital punishment reform. While
at a meeting at General Seminary he visited ground zero. This
is his reflection. |
Visiting the work site was as moving as it was emotionally difficult.
St. Paul's Church is located only a matter of yards from the bombed
out cavity of space we call ground zero, and it was there that I first
was taken together with Bishop Gelinick of Minnesota and Clay Morris,
the Episcopal Church's Officer for Liturgy and Music. Our guide was
Mary Morris, who has coordinated the enormous effort for delivery
of resources through the good offices of The General Theological Seminary.
We were allowed through the barriers set up across the street from
St. Paul's due to Mary's established status and walked up the front
steps carrying a few bags of cookies that had been cooked by Chelsea
area school children and wrapped with a personal hand-written note
to a firemen. However, an official did not see Mary and immediately
relieved us of the bags with the intention of throwing them away because
nothing could be accepted from the street. They were on guard against
the threat of a biological attack. Once everything was clarified,
we assured them that we appreciated their due diligence.
Inside the church, surrounded by signs of support posted on every
available surface and sent from all over the nation and the whole
world, I had a sense of pride in the Episcopal Church, seen here at
its best. The care and compassion of the people serving there is immediately
apparent. But even as I surveyed the goods and services being offered,
and talked to the dedicated and genuinely inspired people, I was overwhelmed
by a hushed tone of awe and respect that was disconcerting. Gradually
I realized that this quiescence was not just for the people taking
a break to sleep or rest or have a massage, for the workers having
the doctor check their feet and provide them with new boots against
the fires still billowing from the ashes and rubble, or for the two
professional violinists playing soothing music from the ambo. It was
for the dead and suffering. With the realization came a blow right
to the gut. At ground zero the silent specter is pervasive. People
seem puny beside it; people also loom heroic.
Together we stood at the back of the church and looked out a window,
over the venerable cementary, upon the scene of devastation. I thought
of Dante and the circles of hell. The various images of Geneha, the
dump and graveyard of a holy city, magnified as we gingerly stepped
over all that lay beneath the wasteland where great building had served.
Again, my first impression was of how small, frail, and vunerable
the human beings working there looked up against the scale of the
scene. The space was vast, and even with many workers the people seemed
insignificant. Their actions seemed small and incapable of making
a mark. There were great bodies of twisted and tortured shapes left
of steel structures and concrete. Objects were recognized as ordinary
and familiar but made so unfamiliar as to seem unreal. I could not
help while looking upon the little human beings placed in the midst
of this terrible range of objects and vast emptiness but to start
to picture the scene of destruction as it occured and the way in the
midst of imploding steel and glass and concrete the little bodies
must have looked-and even, unimaginably but necessary imaginable anyway,
how those human bodies must have felt. Too much.
People would pass by with hard hats on, grimmy faced and covered with
soot and ashes, nodding politely, perhaps even breaking out with a
smile. A sense of commardery was shared by all present. I noticed
a number of cavities in the earth as spaces would open intact somehow
in the rubble, holding the weight above in the way arches may be designed
to hold things in steady tension against one another. The awful thought
jumped to my mind that sooner or later these workers would uncover
the bodies of people who were not quickly crushed or incinerated,
but left whole in such openings only to dehydrate slowly.
Smoke rose more fiercely in certain places and then suddenly there
would come a burst of smoke and even flame as a smoldering spot was
uncovered and fresh air rushed in. In places the smoke was sulfurous
yellow and grey. It was all ugly. Massive and twisted steel beams
were placed on long truck beds, tied down by great chains and driven
off to Staten Island in a slow but steady stream. Art objects of destruction,
created untentionally but inevitable, jutted up in various forms and
angles against this scene with a broken sky line, destined to influence
the future of art of years to come. It was not the representation
of beauty, truth and good-and yet perhaps they were signs of how God
shall bring good out of together with and after the horror and the
suffering.
Prayers formed before being considered. Lamentation. Lamentation.
Lamentation.
Joe Morris Doss
The
Bishop's Notebook, Ground Zero in its twilight
26 October 2001
Day 46 of the 100 Days
 |
This
recent trip to the pile was certainly different from those rough
and ready days during that awful, first week. Now we are aware as
much of the potential danger in our mailboxes as we are of the epic
pictures of the WTC and the Pentagon.
Some things don't change though. The squads may be smaller but the
persistence of the pit workers is still there to find remains or
personal possessions. In the overnight Saturday to Sunday morning
we uncovered nothing, though. The exhilaration of a find and maybe
a sacramental moment never came. When a void was discovered it was
usually an entry way into an area that had already been checked.
It was grimy, suffocating work done on your knees amidst some of
the most toxic ground on the planet. Your palms tingled through
the heavy gloves. Attention is now focussed on Fresh Kills landfill/dump
where everything from this deconstruction site is hauled. There,
morticians and others rake and sift through the fine rubble again
and again hoping for something to enable DNA comparisons.
The stress on the recovery workers is almost intolerable. Said one
to me, "My wife said, 'OK, this is enough, the kids and I haven't
seen you in three weeks!'" But they have to be out there digging,
they say. Oklahoma City has seen so much of this before and we have
a lot to learn from that time capsule. Some frightening statistics
await us: 40% increase in the divorce rate and similar spiked increases
of abuse after a disaster. We can be prepared if we don't lose heart.
Everything has a time. With the memorial service this Sunday come
the first pause ever in the work since September 11th and a new
schedule. Nothing will be attempted during cold winter nights. The
site will be closed until dawn.
Perhaps we are all dulled by the intensity of this recovery, so
it is refreshing to be brightened by a sense of history. As one
beam was pulled from the wreckage that night a welded seam popped
open producing a treasure trove of "illegal" old beer cans, recognizable
by their 1970's zip tops and hard rimmed bottoms. Apparently
the welders had had some quick beers for lunch as they cat-walked
back and forth on the newly installed
girders 100 stories up. Consigning the spent cans to what they thought
was oblivion, they welded the secret shut. Who would have thought
this would be disclosed?
Having a sense of history whether it is from the learnings of the
prior anguish in Oklahoma City, or now, the impromptu guffaw from
an ironworker's lunch hour, it all contributes to a sense of time
and space and how we occupy ourselves in these days. Not coincidentally
the Daily Office Psalter selection ended with this: "Be strong
and let your heart take courage, all you who wait for the Lord."
Ps 31:24
+gep
Chaplain
Peter Larsen's Reports from Ground Zero
Friday, October 12, 2001
It is total devastation. The Twin Towers are a pile of rubble...each
was about 110 stories...about 1 acre in size for each floor.
Cannot see any office furniture...bodies...clothes...shoes...telephones...computers...NOTHING
but mud and piles of twisted steel. The police officers and
fire fighters are NYC types and also from around the country.
All are gung-ho. Nobody is searching for bodies anymore...this
is a cleanup effort. What I find interesting are the buildings
surrounding the area. All are closed for business. Most have
some/all of their windows blown out. These buildings rise up
to some 40 stories. The brand new American Express building...which
hadn't opened yet...has a gash right down the middle...where
one of the towers hit and blew out the first seven stories.
You can see right into the building about three offices deep.
The stores and banks which are on the first level of most buildings
have blown out windows...covered with ash inside...chairs overturned...a
shoe here and there that was left in the rush to get out...food
still on the tables of cafes...coffee in the cups...doughnuts
in the doughnut store still on display but covered in ash. Bicycles
locked onto lightposts...tire burned off and the paint on the
bikes blistered. The trees that are still standing are filled
with debris. I have to go now...to attend a briefing before
escorting families to ground zero. These computer are supplied
by AOL for free internet use...there must be 100 of them. PETER
Saturday, October 13, 2001
Saturday is just as busy as any other day. Spent the early morning
at Ground Zero. Was allowed underneath Tower #5. Walked all
through the ruined stores...good bit of debris in the walkways...about
one inch of dust and ash everywhere. The other chaplain in my
team and I were the only live persons down there.
Sbarro's...Coach...Casual Corner...Crabtree...Godiva...Warner
Brothers Studio Store...Hallmark...Sunglass Hut...Nike Shoes...Chase
Bank...a watch store whose name was destroyed...various newstands
with stacks of September 11th newspapers, gum, cigarettes, magazines...all
covered with ash. No electricity...therefore the only light
came through holes in the roof of the arcade. Many threats to
Bin Laden written in the dust of store windows...most were vulgar...probably
done by fire fighters on the 11th and 12th who were searching
for survivors. Unfortunately not a watch or a pair of sunglasses
remained in the speciality stores that sold them. I walked into
the Chase Bank and waved at the surveillance camera that is
inoperative. Found an open briefcase in the arcade outside a
store...copied down the name and address of the owner...will
first check the data base of the missing...if he survived I
will write him a letter telling him that I saw it. We, of course,
are not allowed to touch anything. Signs at the end of each
hallway pointing directions toward the different Towers, street
exits and subway platforms. All clocks in the stores showed
the time being 10:05. We surfaced outside by going up a ruined
escalator and surprising a Police Officer...who nearly drew
his gun...I think he thought we were ghosts...in that we were
covered with ash...and he had not seen anyone in his area all
morning. We are now back at Pier #94 at the Family Support Center.
In twenty minutes we will escort another group of family members
on the ferry ride to ground zero.
V/R CHAPLAIN PETER LARSEN
Sunday, October 14, 2001
All day Sunday was spent on top of Tower #1 wreckage. Teamed
up with a K-9 handler and his dog...searching for remains. I
asked him how many his dog, "Storm" had found...and he lost
track two weeks ago. He and his dog have had one day off in
the past four weeks. He said that the first few days all of
the search dogs became very frustrated when no one was found
alive...so fire fighters hid in different spots so that the
dogs could find them and then feel good about themselves. We
began to find many pieces of the airliner...the first one that
hit. The skin of planes is painted a pale green on the inside...so
it is easy to spot airplane wreckage among other wreckage. Our
dog began to dig in the ground and became very excited...which
was explained to me that he smelled humans. We then found the
remains of two people. Sixteen fire fighters and police officers
were on their hands and knees digging with small shovels and
gardening tools. What we found would fit in the palm of my hand.
With hard hats off...a prayer was said...then the remains were
bagged. A remains removal team was radioed...when they arrived
they took a Global Positioning reading and enter that and a
log number on the bag. We accompanied the remains to the temporary
morgue on site...where a civilian RC priest from Chicago and
a Protestant type chaplain said a few prayers. The remains were
then driven to the NYC Medical Examiner's Office at New York
University. DNA from relatives will be matched with the DNA
from the remains. Several fires are still burning...and the
guys cutting the steel beams for removal are constantly starting
new ones which are the result of their work. We wore heavy duty
masks that day because of the smoke, ash, asbestos and smell.
Today we have had two boat runs to ground zero (GZ). The first
had 26 family members. The Mayor of NYC joined us when we arrived
at the site and took time with each of us. He is like a god
around here. The second boat contained 73 Flight Attendants
from American Airlines who lost coworkers in the planes...very
sad trip. V/R CHAPLAIN PETER LARSEN
Tuesday, October 16, 2001
On the family trips to Ground Zero (GZ) a ferry is taken from
Pier 94 for the twenty minute ride on the Hudson River...escorted
by an armed Coast Guard cutter. On the boat are the family members
of the missing (from around the world)...Coast Guard chaplains...police
officers from several agencies and states...Red Cross mental
health workers...and Emergency Medical Tech's (EMT's). In addition
there are two other very important groups of riders...and those
are therapy dogs with their handlers and residents from Oklahoma
City. At first I thought that the therapy dogs were some sort
of "new age" crap that had no business on our ferry. However,
over the past 10 days I have done a 180 degree change. Nearly
everyone on board pets the dogs...and gets some comfort in doing
so. I have seen hysterical crying soothed by a dog when the
human touch had no effect. The second group...the people from
Oklahoma City are wonderful...usually three per trip...they
have all lost mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, children
in that bombing several years ago. The comfort and understanding
that they give to the families is matched only by the dogs.
Whatever ministry I have offered pales...in my opinion...to
theirs. This afternoon at 2:00 I will accompany a family from
my home parish who lost a daugther in the attack...93rd floor
of Tower #1. Cat MacRae's parents, Annie and Cameron, along
with Cat's fiance, Andrew, will see GZ for the first time. I
had her memorial service in Southampton before reporting to
duty in NYC one day later. Please remember them in your prayers.
V/R CHAPLAIN PETER LARSEN.
Wednesday, October 18th, 2001
Wednesday, October 17th, was very windy...gusts to 35 MPH...and
most of the day was spent at Ground Zero (GZ). Over the past
two weeks I have befriended a number of personnel on the site
aside from the hundreds of police officers and fire fighters
that I greet. One special guy is an FBI agent...sent from DC...to
search for the black boxes from the two planes. I make a point
to talk with him everyday. Yesterday was his last day before
being rotated back to Washington. I spent two hours with him
looking for those boxes. We climbed the pile of Towers 1&7 and
began to pick through the debris. We stayed toward the center
because the wind was causing the broken glass of the nearby
buildings to rain down around us. The wind also kicked up a
good bit of ash so we wore our respirators. Pieces of clothing...charred
papers from the various offices...more pieces of the airliner...shoes...umbrellas...but
no black boxes...or bodies. We had a meaninful good-bye fueled
by the bond which had developed through shared tragedy.
V/R CHAPLAIN PETER LARSEN.
Thursday, October 18th, 2001
Today - October 18th - I spent the morning on a family tour
of GZ with a family of four from Japan...they did not speak
English...and my Japanese is non existent. However, that therapy
dog did his job...and they grieved for their lost daughter/niece
while viewing the total devastation of where she once worked.
The area now is beginning to be filled with golf carts...carrying
for want of a better word "suits"...possibly supervisors...who
try to look important while holding onto their hardhats as they
bounce along over the potholes. Eariler everyone walked everywhere
and greeted one another. Things have changed though...and greetings
are becoming rarer...as these vehicles speed through the area.
Outside of the guarded perimeter are groups of people waving
signs of support and American flags...day and night...as we
come to work and as we leave. They don't ride carts...they arrive
by foot.
V/R CHAPLAIN PETER LARSEN
Monday, October 22, 2001
This is my final report...I am finally home. My last day at
Pier 94 and the Family Support Center was filled with good-byes
to many people I had grown to respect and admire. The two family
trips to Ground Zero were moving. On the first I befriended
a woman from the suburbs whose husband worked in a building
several blocks from the devastation. In fact his office was
unharmed. He never came home the night of the 11th. She doesn’t
know what happened to him...he just vanished. On the second
trip I attached myself to a family of four. I told my fellow
chaplain...”Those look like Episcopalians...so I’ll take them.”
Of course, as usual, I was wrong...RC’s...close, though. They
had come from Chicago. Two brothers and their wives. Their brother
had just arrived in NYC from London and began working with Cantor-Fitzgerald
on September 1st. Upon hearing where he worked I felt a daggar
in my heart...they were wiped out. He and his wife (no children)
had rented a house in NJ and had not yet joined the local RC
Church. The family inquired about a funeral but the church had
29 on the schedule. Fortunately the Episcopal Church in town
had room...so the service was there. Each day when we leave
Pier 94 to come back to base at Fort Wadesworth on Staten Island...we
pass through Ground Zero. My last vision of GZ was the Fire
Department loading ash covered vehicles onto wreckers...they
had unearthed a parking garage under one of the buildings and
found it full of cars.
V/R CHAPLAIN PETER LARSEN |
The
Bishop's Notebook
28 September 2001, Eve of Saint Michael and All Angels
Day 18 of the 100 Days
|
Volunteer
Clearinghouse is being Coordinated by the Office of the Bishop
for the Armed Services, Healthcare, and Prison Ministries
|
 |
| left to
right, Mildred Gonzalez, David Munk and Chaplain Gerry Blackburn
coordinating the volunteer effort |
While the Crisis Intevention team is off site at the metro dioceses
conducting clergy training days, the volunteer effort is being coordinated
by Bishop
Packard's staff at 815.
Led
by Chaplain Gerry Blackburn, Mildred Gonzalez and David Munk are
fielding calls from across the country and from 815 staffers requesting
information on how to help with the relief and recovery effort in
New York City. Working with Mary Morris of General Seminary, they
are organizing lay volunteers to help serve food at the Seaman's
Church Institute and coordinating with clergy who will be offering
counseling and care to firefighters, police and other relief and
recovery workers at St. Paul's Chapel. The office phones are being
monitored 24/7 and a database of those who
have called to volunteer has been compiled by Chaplain Mike Stewart.
Terry Foster has been working to keep our website current with much
needed information and resources. Bulletin boards listing contact
numbers and information on key sites for the relief and recovery
effort are being constantly maintained and updated.
As
the Reserve and National Guard are called to active duty we are
recording this deployment information in order to provide support
to our chaplains in the field. And work by our chaplains continues
at the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. (See refelctions
from CH Neal Goldsborough and CH
Jay Magness, below). Closer to home, Chaplain Gerry Blackburn
has liasioned with the National Guard units and their chaplains
assigned to the site in New York City.
The
effort continues here at 815 and in the field as we work to fulfill
our 100 Day Support Mission.
Terry
Foster
 |
| left to
right, Chaplain Mike Stewart and Terry Foster review the database
listings |
The Bishop's Notebook
25 September 2001, the 15th day
( 13 September 2001 Eve of Holy Cross Day)
Day 3 of the 100 Days
 |
Last
night I went below Canal Street to visit the old Beekman Hospital
about 300 meters from the east edge of Ground Zero. I was concerned
that our healthcare chaplains be connected with the Diocese of New
York. Now was not the time to miss anyone. It was also reconnaissance
since I wanted our Office to have a clear focus for this mission
of recovery and healing.
All the way down Broadway rescue workers were walking toward me.
You always noticed their shoes.
When the blast came it filled the area with an enormous cloud billowing
from the site, around buildings, all over everything, coating the
neighborhood with a strange, gray-white powder. Shoes coated with
this talc indicated one had been on ground set apart by the devastation.
We are a sacramental people, sensitive to God using the mundane
for the mysterious, drawing us forward to know more of ourselves,
others, and a relationship with Him. I returned there for three
more nights finding a ministry to firefighters and recovery workers,
taking turns at the morgue, blessing remains, and staring at the
smoke rising from the pile of debris. Shift after shift of workers
rotated in and out always in the same silent procession except for
backup signals of heavy equipment and a cry-- but not often--for
a body bag.
They tell you to wash your shoes when you leave the site. That dust,
though mysterious could be toxic. I took a picture of them as a
memento and then thought how frivolous that was to do. This time
I couldn't get them cleaned--or so it seemed. I scrubbed harder
but no. I cursed the damn shoes, the sink, and plenty I'd never
considered. I found myself crying, stupidly I thought, but God in
this sacrament had touched me. I thought of my new friends at the
site and that quiet, great space hallowed by those thousands of
souls.
How devastatingly painful this all is and we share that. Thank you,
Lord, for your Son who walks such ground with us in these fragile
days. He was always faithful, always trusting, always hopeful. May
we be so. +gep
|
Reflections
from
our Family
|
Below
are Navy Reservist Chaplain Neal Goldsborough's notes to Bishop
Packard. Neal was activated to help pastoral response at the Pentagon.
(21 September 2001)
Bishop
Packard, I worked last night at the Pentagon site from 1900-0700.
The mood and emotional tone of the recovery/search workers has change
dramatically since I was first on site last Saturday. The recovery
operation has almost run its course, and the FBI will continue their
gathering of evidence. Some fire and rescue units have gone home
and others are preparing to leave. Folks were relaxed last night,
sitting in their areas talking and smiling-overall a sense of relief
pervaded the area. Gone was the tightly focused intensity of the
prior week. I talked with a number of these wonderful people: an
FBI agent, a Red Cross volunteer who toured me around in his golf
cart, a search team professional from LA who has worked such disasters
in Oklahoma City, Turkey, and Los Angeles (he is packing his bags
to head for NYC today) and, of course, many members of the military.
This work has been my first truly joint operation, with chaplains
from all the services working as a team. We worked well together,
and although we sometimes had to translate each others jargon and
acronyms, it was free from the snafus that I expected to see. Surely
God was in our midst in the last ten days. I will let you know asap
when plans are released for the memorial service. You and your staff
are constantly in my thoughts and prayers. God bless you.-Neal Goldsborough
(19 September 2001)
Bishop
Packard, There are no firm plans yet for a memorial service for
those killed in the attack on the Pentagon. I will certainly e-mail
you as soon as I get the word. Yesterday was a hard day. I spent
the first six hours as a member of a mortuary team. Our job was
to recover remains from the building. A chaplain is always present
when the body is carried out of the ruins. His or her presence there,
noted by the cross on their hard hat, reminds those wonderful search
team members that God is with them. We always paused to pray before
the body is lifted by the stretcher bearers and I said the commendation
from the BCP: "Rest eternal grant to him, O Lord, and let light
perpetual shine upon her". Thankfully, military only allows us do
that ministry for six hours. The other six were spent walking about
talking with the firefighters, law enforcement officers, and military
personnel who have given so much of themselves to the rescue/recovery
effort. Today, was a very different day. I spent it with the family.
Families of the dead and missing here at the Joint Family Assistance
Center at the Sheraton Crystal City. They wait anxiously now, with
no longer hope for a living relative, but simply praying for some
remains to bury. I am in awe of their strength and faith and love
for one another. You and everyone at 815 continue in my prayers
in your ministry to a much larger community at a much larger site.
May God continue to bless you in your ministry to us all!--Neal
Goldsborough
|
The Bishop's Notebook
21 September 2001,
Feast of Saint Matthew, Apostle and Evangelist,
Day 11 of the 100 Days
|
More
Reflections from
our Family
|
GROUND
ZERO CHRONICLE
(Tragedy in New York City)
Brook Packard is the wife of Bishop George
Packard and a lifelong resident of New York City. We thank her
for allowing us to publish an excerpt from her journal.
Day 5, Saturday, 15 September 2001 (continued)
Back down to 815. So many small tasks, those threads to pick
up, store, have handy just in case. George asks if I know where
he can get a Saudi flag, or a flag with Arabic writing to be
displayed next to the American flag. I know the area where one
is most likely to be found, and I also know the perfect person
to get it. By the end of the day, our old friend Joel has not
only procured the flag but gives us a laugh. He writes via e-mail
that the translation says: "God is pretty good, but have you
seen Disney World?"
The next wave of focus is to write a protocol for distribution
in metropolitan area parishes regarding Critical Incident Stress
Management. Someone makes a point that priests in the area should
be on the lookout for the symptoms of this phenomenon. I suggest,
given the magnitude of what has just happened, that a there's
a problem if someone does not display any symptoms of secondary
trauma.
Now I am off to General Seminary to participate in a model CISM
briefing. I am also charged with getting American flags or red,
white, and blue ribbons. One man is selling flags on the street.
Tiny ones, for $2 each. The wholesale district is 8 blocks away.
I'd pick them up for a dime apiece if I weren't wearing heels.
The odds are they're sold out. Throughout the day, I witness
photocopied sheets with pictures and descriptions of missing
loved ones. On bus stop shelters, taped to the back of cars,
in doorways. Images of individuals in so many different poses:
formal, candid, trying to look glamorous, hugging children,
on the beach, in the living room. Accompanied by height, weight,
color hair and eyes, and always with the words "Missing" or
"Have you seen?" I am nauseous. "Missing" is now a euphemism.
Yellow ribbons hope in the face of reality. I remember a conversation
of a few days ago up in Westchester. There was the theory of
the underground city. Many people had fallen through to the
levels below the World Trade Center, below the towers, above
the PATH trains. There were restaurants and stores there. There's
air down there. Someone's going to lift up the right series
of beams and we'll take everybody home.
At General, an EMS technician facilitates my group. We are to
take turns answering 3 questions: Where were you when it happened?
What is the worst thing about the incident? How do you feel
now? There are three seminarians there, one with whom I worked
for 3 weeks this summer in Vacation Bible School. I love her.
She is a person of fiber and good character. All three seminarians
are exhausted having hit the streets immediately, and signed
up for shifts at the Seaman's Church Institute where 600 meals
a day are being provided. One classy place. It is a powerful
session in that some of us are deeply affected. It is powerful
also, to note one for whom the worst thing is worrying about
an upcoming flight. You wonder if the person has shut down to
survive, or if that is as deep as it gets.
One woman has an engineering background. She speaks of how the
buildings were designed to withstand the impact of a 707, but
not a jumbo jet. She is not surprised that the first building
went down - the jet hit the "sweet spot". It's the second collapse
she keeps trying to understand. On top of the survivor guilt
we all feel, she has an additional burden of feeling her field,
her science has failed so many.
In a cab on the way back, the driver is clearly from the Middle
East. I ask if he is OK, are people treating him well. Thank
God, yes. I ask if his family is all right. Well, his uncle
was on the 103rd floor and is missing. His uncle's name is long,
and when he sees I can't understand it, he tells me to pray
for Bulbul.
Back at 815, more work. Gerry and Marilyn Blackburn have invited
us for a home-cooked meal at their apartment. It is so welcome.
To be around people of such a generous, kind spirit helps us
all. Their Westie, Riley, is so alert and affectionate. I watch
Jackie Means pet him and understand how therapy dogs heal.
The evening is late. Around this time George and I are preparing
for bed, but tonight we are going to ground zero. We change
clothes. In addition to the hard hats, we put on jackets with
pockets where our military IDs can be quickly accessible. The
cab takes us down Prince and Lafayette where there is a firehouse
that has lost two-thirds of its men. There are candles and flowers,
and George tries to speak to the chief, but he is not in. They
are so overloaded with items similar to the ones I purchased
on Friday (eight flashlights from Home Depot) that they give
us flashlights to take downtown.
We proceed down to Canal, to our first checkpoint. From now
on, the military IDs are like magic talismans, enabling us to
get deeper into the heart of this disaster. I can tell already,
that I am a hindrance to George's work. It's one thing for a
cop or a firefighter to talk with a man in a collar who has
an aura of compassion born of intimate knowledge with disaster.
It's another if he's with his wife. While our IDs are checked
out, a black SUV pulls up. Three young, 30ish people energetically
get out of the car and offer everybody coffee and Krispy Kreme
donuts. Not Dunkin' Donuts. The arrival of this Rolls Royce
of donuts in Manhattan 3 years ago was much ballyhooed. One
guy made about $1,000 a Sunday morning delivering Krispy Kremes
to hungover partygoers in the Hamptons. The cop laughs.
"No thanks, you're the third car in half an hour." As we walk,
the scent of smoke increases. It's a different kind of smell
than that of a few days ago. Back then it was acrid, as of an
electrical fire. Now it's just the smoke you smell from garbage
burning. There are HumVees, guys in camouflage, army trucks,
driving around. A friend had asked on Thursday where all these
military vehicles had come from. I tell her, the armories. "You
mean they're not just for the antique show?"
We keep walking downtown. Little Italy decorated for San Gennaro.
I have no idea if this annual feast day which links Neapolitans
is actually being celebrated. Is that a canoli and sausage truck
tucked away on Mott Street?
There is no way to sum up this experience. In fact, to do so
cheapens it. I can only respond. Over 20 years like many New
Yorkers, my main entertainment was walking. Countless times,
I'd take the subway down from 86th Street to Battery Park and
then walk home. Every intersection is a memory. On some corners
I have a vivid sense memory, seeing the weather, the friends
and family members I was with, hearing the conversations. George
reminds me of the memories we share. He also points out how
the area has been considerably cleaned up since this happened.
Federal Plaza is almost normal in that there isn't 2 inches
of dust.
As we walk by the courthouses, one private memory comes back.
After returning from an excursion in Brooklyn, I went to the
row of food purveyors that set up next to these buildings. Behind
one counter was an Asian man, lost in singing "Somewhere out
there" in English with a very thick accent and a sweet falsetto.
I am struck by the fact that New York is the most democratic
city in the world. During the course of one day, you share space,
sometimes conversation, with people who have the highest incomes
in the world, with people who have nothing. If those who have
more believe they're better than those who serve them-well,
it's their loss and illusion. They need to go back in the kitchen
and see how impressed the dishwasher is with their portfolio.
Watch out with whom you throw your attitude around, the guy
in the ripped jeans could be on his way to closing a deal with
DeNiro at the Tribeca Grill. Here, good conversation and moxie
are better social currency than a house in the Hamptons. New
York grit.
So it is with memories and a love of the democracy of New York,
that we approach ground zero. Past St. Paul's, now a rest area
and good coffee The last time I was in this area was a glorious
day in May when the Vicar, Lyndon Harris, and I met about music
for his upcoming Monday night services.
Here is a bagel cart outside of St. Paul's, still stocked, the
knife stuck in the butter. The ground is littered with paper.
Memos, business letters, the contents of files and desktops.
Here is a pile of twisted steel girders. Here is a pile of cars.
An ambulance looking as if it was imploded or crushed or both.
This particular night, we have to approach the ground zero site
from the south. The checkpoints indicate tighter security, the
path to the heart indirect as a result. There is the sound of
generators. Conversation is nearly impossible as they charge
up the huge lamps required for work on the pile of debris.
We get closer, the generators musically scoring our approach
with their percussive drone. You are struck by the height of
the pile, the smoke rising. The second thing I notice is the
shell of the first two or three stories of one of the towers.
This lower skeleton of the building is a familiar sight to all
now. But it's different standing a block away. Even without
the 90 plus stories on top, you still must tilt your head back
to take it all in. A friend who is an architecture expert, tells
me that when Minoru Yamasaki designed this part of the towers,
he wanted to evoke the structure of a gothic church. His intention
has never been more fully realized than at this moment. The
graceful arches, the long lines were never so apparent.
In Saipan, there is a cliff where civilians-mothers, fathers,
grandparents, and children-jumped to their deaths willingly
during the Second World War. The Japanese had told them of unspeakable
atrocities the Americans would inflict once they took over the
island. American ships were helpless at the sight of this. The
ships, unable to anchor at this particular end of the island,
came as close to shore as possible, and broadcasting in Japanese
that they would not hurt the people of Saipan. Please, stop.
But they didn't. When you visit that site today, you sense the
presence of those many lost souls. It is there, even though
it is an echo you cannot hear, a vapor you cannot see or smell.
So it is at ground zero. You turn a corner and even though you've
been through checkpoint after checkpoint, seen the dust and
the rubble, the physical evidence of this act, it is a surprise.
Like happening upon a glade in a forest where Rumpelstiltsken
dances, or a secret society convenes. There is industry here.
Maybe more industriousness than that square block has ever seen.
People working so intently, in the manufactured light, looking
like a mining operation on another planet. Still, there is the
presence of all the lost and it will never go away. It is hallowed
ground.
And look. Here are the Scientologists in their yellow T-shirts
manning the water and sandwich concessions. Here are the Hassidim,
to offer their blessings. We always joked about the "Mitzvah
Mobile" as it drove around New York, and parked for a day of
ministry. Here are the dogs, the chiropractors working on the
firefighters. In the distance, the job is taken over by the
ironworkers with huge equipment. The diligence of all the workers
stops, making room for the next level to be cleared.
Now I have an extraordinary moment. I feel like a voyeur, although
all this is oddly helpful, like seeing the body at a funeral.
A firefighter is crossing to a curb at the same time I am. He
can barely move his legs from exhaustion. A lot of these guys
stay on after their shift, going home without making the extra
effort to find life unbearable for them. I stop to allow him
to go first, but he steps back, making a gallant gesture with
his arm. He says silently "ladies first" in such a way that
I cannot refuse. I say thank you. Pause, take my air filter
mask off, and say "Thanks for everything." He looks me in the
eye and puts his hand on my shoulder briefly. Then he proceeds
in the direction of the building that houses the food, rest,
CISM, and the morgue. I am reminded of a neighbor who while
running down the stairs of Tower 1 encountered the firefighters
running up. She looked into their eyes, and some looked into
hers. Then, on the street below, the collapse of the tower gives
her a shudder more internal than physical.
I meet the two Roman priests who have been working with George.
They could be from central casting. Young, hopeful, one a redhead,
the other black Irish. There is business in the morgue, and
my husband protects me as the three enter without me. My heart
goes out to these young men. Their denomination's ritual of
final blessing includes sprinkling water directly on the remains.
After ordination what was the worst of their expectations? Mission
work, exhaustion, and maybe an unruly CCD class. Not this.
There is more that we see but overall I cannot get over this:
the City of New York has set up an emergency situation, which
combines absolute efficiency with heart. Each day reveals a
new response in us to this event. They took advantage of our
generosity. Years ago, at a party celebrating his new American
citizenship, a friend commented that he couldn't believe he
was asked if he would ever instigate insurrection in this country.
He was incredulous that they'd taken his word for it.
George leaves the morgue. We need to go. It is 1:30 in the morning.
We pass by the Winter Garden. I can peer through the windows,
see the row of palm trees in the atrium. There were times when
I left glamorous parties held here, around this same time in
the morning. Laughing with friends, we'd walk uptown, until
we found a cozy bar for one last round of drinks together. This
time, as we retrace our steps past the checkpoints, we notice
the names of towns, EMS units, and firehouses written in the
dust on the windows. Kilroy was here.
It's 2:30 by the time we reach the hotel. We have ridden uptown
in silence. On our arrival at the hotel, the lobby is filled
with British Air flight attendants and pilots. The first planes
have landed at LaGuardia. Our hearts are lifted at this sight.
There is more evident courage. Still in the habit of thanking
everybody we see, we make it through the lobby, sharing an elevator
with a blonde woman in her flight attendant uniform. Before
we can thank her, she asks us how we are doing in the most concerned
tone.
The National Altar Guild has a wonderful ministry. They make
vestments for chaplains in the field. These are most welcome
gifts. Sometimes the difference between a spiritual presence,
and particularly an priestly presence, is the wearing of a stole
over camouflage. They are made with great care and craft. Last
year, at the General Convention, I sat next to a woman who told
me she said a prayer with every stitch.
George has asked me to bring in a stole for use on the pile.
Before leaving home, along with one of his stoles, I take some
vestments from an assortment on hand for when I give talks about
worship in the military. We are now on our way to the Cathedral
of St. John the Divine to support fellow 815 sixth-floor mate
Fagamalma from Samoa in her installation as Anglican Observer
to the United Nations. The stole is in hand to be blessed by
Mark Sisk before it goes out in the crisis areas of his diocese.
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I have made the mistake of packing the clothes I wore downtown
before going to the Cathedral. The dust is so fine it permeates
everything. It goes from my hands, to my hair, on my face.
In the apse, the lines of the stone cathedral walls echo the
gothic intentions of Mr. Yamasaki. Even the way they are lit
brings back the wave of sensations from ground zero. The offertory
anthem a fitting background to these memories. I can taste the
dust. We expect to catch up with Mark at the end of the service,
and have him bless it quietly. Remarkably, unexpectedly, Mark
calls George forward before the dismissal. Throw out everything
you every read about preciously crafting a liturgical moment.
Mark's heartfelt response, his ability to understand the moment,
created a powerful ending to the service. We are overcome. We
know where this small stole has come from, and where it will
go.
Another salute to Gerry Blackburn, who then went back down to
the pile. We cannot say enough about his steadfast goodness.
Our daughter needs tending at the end of the weekend. As I drive
down the street, I see my neighbor Faith walking with her two
sons. It is an another glorious fall day. I roll down the window
and thank her for being our neighbor and having two great kids.
In Greenwich, everybody is having bake sales, tag sales, apple
sales to raise money for relief. I think they're all buying
from each other, spending a little more with each purchase.
It's interesting, this small-town economy of relief. At my in
laws, we stroll down to the beach at the end of the block. The
kids play in the sand, we watch the plume. The word "irrelevant"
returns. I have empathy for all the rabbis and pastors who feel
obligated to put an immediate capper on this event. I hope our
spiritual leaders are bold enough to preach a path that walks
from day to day. Our internal structures are changing. God is
working new interiors in us, and we will build relevance out
of the rubble of our souls.
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Episcopal
chaplains respond to Pentagon disaster
Navy Chaplain Jay Magness was attending a
meeting at the Pentagon when the airplane hit the building and
he quickly went to the site to offer his ministry. Soon after
the crash he was joined by the Rev. Neil Goldborough, a Navy
Reserve chaplain and rector St. Luke's in nearby Arlington,
and the Rev. Marcel Algernon, an active duty Air Force chaplain
from South Carolina. Magness reflects on his involvement.
When I worked on the staff of the Navy Chief of Chaplains in
Washington in any given week I would be in the Pentagon 3-5
times. Now since I am in Norfolk on the U.S. Atlantic Fleet
staff I only get to the Pentagon about once a year for a conference
of Joint Command chaplains.
Well, last week was my week to be there. In the Pentagon last
Tuesday morning at 9:40 a.m. people out in the hall began yelling
to evacuate the building. I thought it probably was a bomb threat.
We exited out into the North Parking area. About 100 yards out
of the building people began to turn around and point up in
the air at a plume of smoke coming from about a third of the
way around the building. At that point I still thought it was
a bomb. Only later did someone tell me that a plane had crashed
into the building.
Though it was a tense time for me and my chaplain colleagues
there at the conference, it was also fortunate that we were
there. We immediately began to stage ourselves with the medical
treatment stations to help take care of the injured. Over the
next 4-5 hours we cared for about 35-40 people who experienced
various types of wounds. Almost all of the people were burned,
some rather severely. We transported them to the hospitals using
any available type of vehicle. We found that a mini-van can
serve as a pretty good make-do ambulance.
My ministry consisted of a great deal of "arm about the shoulders"
work and keeping victims talking so that they would be able
to resist going into shock. I can't say how valuable it was
to have a good cellular phone with a full battery. Not only
was I able to connect with the anxious family members of the
injured, also the rescue workers and medical treatment personnel
frequently needed to call home and tell someone (usually a spouse,
son or daughter) they were okay.
On a number of occasions we tried to re-enter into the building
to rescue people, but the intense fire continually drove us
back. The heroic firefighters tried and tried to get the fires
out, but they just couldn't seem to effectively douse the flames
on Tuesday. I suspect that there was too much combustible fuel
available. In fact we did go into the Pentagon inner courtyard
for about 2-3 hours, but all that enabled us to do was eat a
lot of smoke. Time and time again we gathered as teams to go
into the damaged area, but could not gain entry because of the
enduring fires.
At around 2:30 p.m. we moved the medical treatment function
to a location outside of the Pentagon immediately adjacent to
external wall impacted by the aircraft. When I first saw the
damage all I could do was stand there and stare. I could not
believe what I was seeing. After an hour or so in the new location
we realized that there was nothing else we could do.
Three of us from Christian sacramental traditions (Roman Catholic,
Orthodox, and Episcopal) had organized ourselves to receive
bodies in the temporary morgue. Though we spent that last on-scene
hour waiting for more bodies to be brought out, the persistent
fire brought all such removal efforts to a standstill. Aside
from that, a number of local military chaplains had massed up
on the scene and were ready to take over for us.
By 4:00 p.m. I left the area to return to my hotel, check out
and get on the road south to Norfolk. Even that was not without
its problems. I was staying in the Sheraton atop the hill above
the Arlington (Navy) Annex. Until about 5:00 p.m. the Arlington
Police had the upper floors closed. The reason for that never
was clear to me. It had something to do with the fact that the
hijacked airliner had to nearly skim the top of the hotel building
in order to fly low enough so it could hit the Pentagon.
At about 6:00 p.m. I got into my car and left town headed back
to Norfolk. Though I didn't get home until about midnight, it
was worth it. I needed to get to my office early the next day
to begin to play my part of the unfolding operational plans.
Right now, after six days of reflection, I struggle with what
our response ought to be to this tragic, unnecessary and basically
evil action. As a Christian believer the concepts of justice
and peace swirl around in my mind. Obviously, in accordance
with New Testament scriptures we are called to be peace-makers
and peace-builders. How can we perform those functions while
persons inspired by religiously based righteous indignation
are moving about within the societies of the free world with
a mandate to create terror through mass murder? Will our understanding
of Christian moral theology allow for such a thing as retributive
justice? How will we ensure that through some form of social
defense we protect innocent citizens? |
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Crisis
Intervention Team being called from around the country accepting
assignments at various metro-dioceses
front row, left to right: David Knowlton (New Jersey),
Bishop George Packard, (New York), Chaplain Francis Zanger (Washington
State), middle row, left to right: Chaplain Jackie Means
(Indiana), Chaplain Mike Stewart (Iowa), Fr. Hilary Bercovici
(New York) back row, left to right: Chaplain Babs Meairs
(California), EMT Technician Al Szigethy (New York), Chaplain
Mike Carr
(Michigan, Chaplain David Henritzy (New York) |
| Crisis
Intervention team at work |
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