A Cassette Tape, a Trial Sermon, and the Sunday After 9/11

25 years ago, the week of 9/11, I was composing what we used to call a "trial sermon."

That Sunday, I was scheduled to preach at Seymour Christian Church. After my sermon, the church would decide whether or not to hire me as their Youth Pastor (for the king's ransom of $18,000/year).

Sometime after the realization settled in that our nation had been the victim of a terrorist attack, I called the pastor at Seymour Christian on our cordless home phone. Not wireless--cordless. Kids, if you don't know the difference, ask your parents.

"Do you still want me to preach this Sunday? The new guy that no one knows?"

To my surprise, he did.

At the ripe old age of 23 years old, I knew that my original sermon concepts had to be scrapped.

Using our boombox, I recorded snippets of news broadcasts onto a cassette tape (kids, ask your parents again).

That Sunday, at the beginning of my first-ever sermon at Seymour Christian, I told the AV guys I wanted to play the cassette recording at the beginning of my sermon during each service.

The speakers boomed with voices that took us back to Tuesday morning.

"I looked up just as the second plane hit the tower."

"There's fire and ash everywhere."

"People were jumping out of the windows. We watched them jump out of the windows."

The news anchor's baritone voice broke in.

"This morning, in New York City, two commercial airplanes struck the twin towers of the World Trade Center. A third plane has crashed into the Pentagon in Washington, D.C., while a fourth went down in a field in Pennsylvania. Death tolls are preliminary, but will certainly be catastrophic."

As the sounds of the hell we were living through echoed through the small sanctuary, we were instantly on the same page of the dystopian horror.

The first service went as well as possible. I attempted to give assurance and hope to a room full of people who had never met a Muslim, visited NYC or D.C., and probably could not identify Saudi Arabia, UAE, or Lebanon on a map. Now we were trying to make sense of all of those things. 

But nothing could have prepared me for what was about to happen during the next service.

A middle-aged man named Mark and his wife, Terri, attended the second service. They were both accountants and handled the church's book keeping. Mark was a non-verbal quadriplegic and he spoke via a spelling aid that relied on Mark blinking his eyes at certain intervals. Terri navigated the system with lightning speed and precision befitting an accountant. I later learned that Mark was brilliant, as was Terri.

But one of the impacts of Mark's injury was a diminished ability to control his emotions.

During my weekend visit for a trial sermon, I didn't know any of this.

But when that cassette started to play during the second service, Mark did what we all wanted to do.

He wailed. 

He lamented. 

Loudly. 

From his wheelchair in the back of the sanctuary, he did not keep his emotions concealed beneath a controlled exterior. 

He didn't hold back.

He bawled a long, soul-crushing howl that shook the room and opened the door for the rest of us to join him.

As the youthful prospective minister, I held the moment carefully. I let my own tears fall. 

Then I recited scriptures about the comfort of the Lord in our times of troubles.

I've had a lot of surreal experiences in my life. That might be the most poignant of my early career. 

Thank you, Mark, for being the man we all needed you to be.

What I know today is that the vast majority of the world, including the Muslim world, wept with us that week–just like Mark and the little congregation wept together. 

Hate that kills is always televised. The everyday camaraderie of normal citizens from every country, religion and language seldom makes headline news.

Enter the World Cup 2026. With Iranians, Irish, Argentinians, French, and Americans all dancing in the streets of Kansas City, Canada, Seattle, Mexico, Boston… with arms around one another’s necks. Fairly normal people (despite their neurotic love for soccer, the world’s most boring sport). They are people who don’t innately hate each other at all.

While I can be a cynic sometimes, the overwhelming evidence is that the World Cup displays of good-natured humanity is one million times more common than the tragedy of 9/11. Thank God. And thank our neighbors. 

Is there violence in our world that needs to be addressed? Obviously. 

Injustice that seems to go unchecked, awaiting the judgement of God and history? Yes.

Competing national interests that need careful consideration and diplomacy? Always.

Then, there are the other 99% of us that generally believe that every person has value, worth, and probably doesn’t wish us any harm.

On the 25th anniversary of one of our worst tragedies, I treasure that 99% that weeps with Mark over the violence and injustice of our world.