Seared in my heart and mind are memories of what I experienced on Sept. 11, 2001, and in the months afterward.
As I lifted the paten at the Offertory of the Mass and began the prayer over the bread, a loud boom was heard. We were in the lower church of Saint Teresa, Manhattan, as the upper church was undergoing renovation. Everyone looked startled and looked up as if something happened above us. I assured the congregation that the noise came from outside and that we were safe. A few minutes later, the piercing and incessant sounds of sirens from police cars, ambulances and fire trucks were blaring.
As I gave the final blessing, my secretary appeared at the door and yelled that one of the towers of the World Trade Center was on fire. We quickly exited and saw the shocking sight. A few minutes later, a plane appeared in the sky and flew into the second tower. A cacophony of shouts and screams from those on the street were heard as well as prayers.
An elderly Cabrini Sister standing next to me grabbed my hand and said, “Monsignor, this is war.” At that moment, little did she or I know the truth of her words. To get a better understanding of the disaster, we went up to the roof of the convent and watched scores of emergency vehicles rush over the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan. As we gazed at the burning towers in shock, we became aware of people at the windows – and then of some falling from them. “Jesus, have Mercy. Jesus, have Mercy,” one of the sisters prayed. We joined the litany.
My parish staff quickly organized themselves as hundreds of people covered in ash and dust rushed up Henry Street to escape lower Manhattan. We set up stations on the street to wash eyes and ears and comb the debris from people’s hair. Everyone wanted to make a phone call. In those days, cell phones were a rarity. Between the rectory and the convent, we made five phones available. Others wanted to sit in the quiet of the church; many were weeping; some were hysterical; others acted like zombies. Water and bathrooms were in great demand. Some asked for something to eat; many were sick to their stomachs. Everyone asked for directions to get out of the area. The police were cruising the streets of the parish and urging people to remain calm.
Calm amid Chaos
There was much confusion at the East Broadway subway station located in front of the church. The subway system had shut down, and mobs of people were pushing and shoving. We gave support to the police, who were doing their best with crowd control. Father Alfredo, the associate pastor, joined two priests from the neighboring parish who were headed down to the inferno as crowds were rushing the other way.
I was to join them when I received a call from the administrator of the nearby 250-bed skilled nursing facility, of which I was chaplain. She pleaded with me to come over ASAP, as she was having trouble with staff. I went immediately to the facility and was met by a scene of hysteria – not on the part of the sick and elderly patients, but on the part of some staff who wanted to get to their families, their children and away from the area. But, there was no way out except by foot.
When I returned to the rectory, there were even bigger crowds being assisted – those who had escaped lower Manhattan, rushed up the East Side and found themselves at Saint Teresa. A note I received from one of those who found respite at the church gives insight to what many experienced:
“I sought refuge within your walls on September 11. I saw a priest extending his hand to me, leading me to the voices of my relieved and grateful parents on the other end of the receiver, and I collapsed into the arms of a nun, who cried with me and would not let go until I was certain I could stand on my own.”
That afternoon, the two parish priests from Saint Peter’s Church, the oldest parish in the State of New York, on Barclay Street, adjacent to the World Trade Center, arrived at the rectory as the authorities would not allow them to return to their own. They stayed for a week. Both were on the plaza when the buildings collapsed.
P.S. 2 was located directly across from the church, and the principal dismissed students to parents who were able to get to the school. Many of his faculty and staff were unable to leave since roads, bridges, highways and public transportation were shut. We assisted him with arranging a supervised safe waiting area for the children. For many, it was evening before their parents could pick them up.
The parish children who attended area Catholic schools walked in groups back to the church, where their buses would normally deposit them; the older children were responsible for the younger ones. Despite the chaos, the children formed disciplined walking lines. There was much emotion when they safely arrived at the church and fell into the arms of those who were there to pick them up.
By 5 p.m., the scene began to calm down. Every store in the neighborhood closed; many did not reopen for a week. Around 6 p.m., we lost computer, phone and fax service – until January 2002! By 9 p.m., the U.S. Army began to set up camp on the streets around the church. While their presence was reassuring, it was also frightening.
Light in the Darkness
An exhibition of Baroque and Romanesque art from the Spanish provinces of Castile and Leon was displayed in late autumn 2002 at the Episcopal Cathedral of New York, Saint John the Divine. The exhibition was titled “Time To Hope,” and was created to help those suffering after 9/11. Masterpieces of Christian art were assembled to remind those of Christian faith that in the midst of tribulations and darkness, a light who is Jesus Christ guides the way. His ministry, preaching, life, Death and Resurrection are like a flame that burns hope into the soul of a believer.
On two occasions, I visited that exhibition and found it comforting and strengthening of my faith, which had been challenged by the events of Sept. 11. I asked, as did others, “Where was God on 9/11?” This 20th anniversary is an appropriate time to look to faith and to Church for grounding and healing.
I especially think of those who lost loved ones and friends on that day. Women and men went to work and were murdered. They never came home. Who was it who said that time brings comfort and healing? Grieving is a process, and grieving over the horrors of that day might be a life-long process. I hold in my memory and heart neighbors from my old Bronx neighborhood; alums from my high school; the fiancé of a friend who died as he administered medical aid to an injured victim; the local fire house on Canal Street that lost firefighters that day – guys we knew as neighbors. I accompanied a group of parishioners to the fire house to express our sympathies, and all we could do was cry with the firefighters.
We Americans are certainly different 20 years after the Sept. 11 attacks, having fearfully lived through this age of terrorism. As recently as two weeks ago in Afghanistan, terrorism once again showed its hatred. This time against our American military and Afghan civilians.
At my south Manhattan parish, within walking distance of the Twin Towers, I witnessed terrible evil on 9/11. Our neighborhood was placed on lockdown for months, and proof of residence was required to enter and leave. Many of our young, newly arrived Asian immigrant neighbors never returned to their apartments. The smell of the fire, which burned for 100 days, could be tasted and was worse in October. It smarted the residents’ eyes and caused all sorts of ill effects on the health of people in the area. The dust was so invasive that in October the federal government removed all window air conditioning units.
I also witnessed goodness, compassion and bravery on 9/11. As those New York iconic buildings, symbols of America’s strength, turned to dust before my eyes, I eventually came to see where our true strength and power are found. Not in commerce and finances, but in deeds of generosity and sacrifice.
The first responders who bravely entered those inferno towers. Their actions remind us that we are surrounded by heroes and heroines, ordinary people, who respond with extraordinary actions; coworkers, in the towers who waited to assist others in the escape from the disaster and never got out; the bravery of those who attempted to overtake the terrorists on the plane that crashed in Shanksville, Pa.; the recordings of phone calls that ended with the words, “I love you” – words stronger than the hate that destroyed innocent lives. Men and women facing death tried to reassure and console those they loved as they faced a collapsing world. In those phone calls, in those first responders, in those coworkers, in those brave passengers, God was acting and present on 9/11.
Against the murders and the hatred of 9/11, I learned to look to Jesus Christ, who bathes us in light and peace, who gives us hope. I was comforted by a simple drawing I came upon after 9/11.
‘Life Has to Go On’
Two days after 9/11, with permission from the NYPD, I accompanied the two priests back to Saint Peter’s. They were anxious to see the place. Wearing face masks and hair coverings, we crossed City Hall Park and were up to our knees in what had fallen from the towers and the other collapsed buildings, the personal effects of the workers. I could not fathom that such hatred, destruction and murder took place in the city to which my Irish ancestors came seeking a better life. It was a very emotional journey.
The roof of Saint Peter’s Church had a large hole in it caused by the landing gear of one of the planes. Rain had poured in and drenched the organ pipes and the pews. The church was a triage site for the first responders, and it was where the body of Father Mychal Judge, OFM, New York City Fire Department chaplain and the first certified fatality of the attack, was reverently laid before the altar by the FDNY.
As the pastor looked around the sanctuary and went to retrieve the Blessed Sacrament, he found a handwritten note on the altar. It was from a doctor apologizing for cutting the altar cloth into strips to use as bandages on the wounds of victims. The cloth that covered the Altar of Sacrifice on which the Body and the Blood of the Lord was placed was used to bind up the wounded.
We put up signs that on Sunday, Mass would be offered on the front steps of the church, as inside had been declared a crime scene. Hundreds of those working on the pile gathered. We prayed; we even sang. “Be not afraid, I go before you always.” It was one of the finest liturgies I ever experienced.
A wedding was scheduled for Saturday. The family of the bride were parishioners who were giving thanks to God for their son escaping tower two. The groom was from Canada, and his relatives were scheduled to arrive in a bus. No vehicles were permitted into the city. The main arteries were closed. I went to the local precinct with my predicament, and with typical New York savvy, the captain said, “Father, life has to go on. I will take care of it.” He arranged for the bus with the groom’s relatives to be accompanied by the NYPD. The NYPD even took myself and Father Alfredo up to Westchester for the reception and brought us back to lower Manhattan.
For days after the horror, family members arrived at the rectory with photos of loved ones who never came home. Some were convinced that people had escaped the towers and were lost in the city. We created a montage and carefully hung those photos and prayed with each desperate family member who came to our door.
Shortly before Christmas, I received a note from a woman with a generous check. I remembered her son very well. He was in New York City for a job interview on Sept. 10. He got the job and went out celebrating that evening, only to be awakened in his hotel by the chaos of 9/11. He ran out in his pajamas and found safety and ill-fitting clothes at Saint Teresa’s.
On Sept. 11, my son was a guest at the Marriott Hotel in the World Trade Center. He wandered around a strange city in frightening circumstances until he wandered into Saint Teresa. There, he found shelter, comfort, friendship and good advice. He stayed for several hours.
I shall always remember and never forget 9/11.
Most Reverend Dennis J. Sullivan
Bishop of Camden