Defending Our Worth and Dignity

Rev. Abhi Janamanchi

September 16, 2001

{I had a very hard time composing my remarks for today. I knew what I wanted to say but wasn't very sure about how I was going to say it. I felt torn between conflicting and contradictory feelings and emotions; finding a balance was difficult. So, I want to apologize at the outset in case you experience some of that in the course of my reflections.}

My heart feels heavy. I feel weary and depleted. The past week's events have taken a heavy toll on my spirit. All those lives lost -- all those families and friends bereft. Two familiar American landmark buildings - symbols of prosperity, creativity, and stability - are gone, reduced to rubble and shattered glass, blighting the entire south end of the island of Manhattan. The center of our country's military at the Pentagon - symbol of our nation's security - has a gaping, cavernous hole in it. How much hate and bitterness, how much fanaticism and obsession, does it take to pull off such a meticulously planned and executed act of mass murder? Whatever justice may lie beneath the grievances of the group responsible, this incident has surely damaged that cause, however righteous. If these were acts of God, I couldn't see God in any of these acts. All week I went about, as I'm sure you did, carrying a variety of feelings and emotions.

I was angry. I felt outraged by the unmitigated evil that could propel someone to hijack planes and crash them into buildings full of thousands of people. A piece of me did not give a damn about what may have provoked Tuesday's attacks. They offended every moral fiber of my being. I knew there would be explanations and analyses. But I also felt that there can be no excuses and certainly no justifications, absolutely no justifications, for what happened. This was kamikazi fanaticism - Oklahoma City & Columbine combined and magnified several times - taken to its illogical and indefensible extreme. As the horrors started to unfold, the pacifist in me, wanted revenge and retaliation. I wanted the people behind these attacks to suffer the same kind of pain and horror that innocent people experienced. And I was horrified and ashamed with myself for thinking such thoughts.

I also felt it was some kind of a sick, perverted joke to perpetrate such horrors on the International Day of Peace. Yes, in case you didn't know, the United Nations was going to ring the Bell of Peace on that day and observe a moment of silence in support of world peace. Instead, they were evacuated.

With this anger and rage, came confusion, doubt, uncertainty. It was truly hard to comprehend the minds of people and the movement they served, which could have spawned a terrorist act of such colossal ugliness. How can human beings, in the name of whatever religion, ideology or nationalism -- in loyalty to whatever God or gods -- unleash such savagery on innocent people? And so we are left to wonder and to wander -- to ask repeatedly, what provoked this outburst? How can one body of humans hate another with such intensity? Why is this country so despised that now it has come to this? What are we to think? How are we to respond?

Then, there was grief; immense sadness over the horrendous loss of life that occurred in New York City and elsewhere. It is simply impossible for me, standing here, to imagine the terror and despair that those caught up in this calamity must have experienced. My heart goes out to the hundreds of thousands, if not millions affected by this catastrophe - parents, spouses, siblings, children, colleagues, friends, neighbors, associates. The ripples of pain continue to radiate further and further from the circumference of Tuesday's events. The dimensions of our grief and sadness are huge. When all is said and done, many of us will know someone first or second hand who was killed or injured or who escaped on Tuesday.

I did. My dear friend, the Rev. Frank Robertson, called to share the sad news that his former wife who worked on the 97th floor of the South Tower was presumed dead. He also said that his daughter, who lives in Brooklyn, witnessed the crashing of planes into the two towers while realizing with horror that her mother worked there. My prayers are with them as they prepare for the memorial service.

Finally, I am, of course, afraid. I am less afraid for myself than I am for my family, our community, our country, and our world. Afraid that this will, by no means, be the end of terrorist attacks. Afraid for my children and for the children of others -- for future generations -- who may be fated to live in a world of gross inequalities and fierce jealousies -- a world connected by an inescapable network of violence in which oceanic barriers and fortified boundaries mean nothing. I am afraid of what might happen in the days to come and of what this nation and the world will be like ten years from now, if this is any indication of things to come.

Events such as these shake the very foundations of our faith in the basic goodness of humanity. We are plagued with questions: Can we continue to trust people who have different beliefs than us? Can we continue to trust people who we know nothing about -- who sit next to us on an airplane or who drive on the adjacent lane on US 19? A culture of camaraderie and friendliness suddenly seems as if it is being replaced by a culture of suspicion and paranoia.

And events such as these also make us question the principles of our faith - our commitment "to affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity of every person," "in justice, equity, and compassion in human relations;" in our belief that each and every human being on this planet is, by nature and birth-right, worthy and valuable, that each of us has an "equal claim to life, liberty, and justice."

How can one say, we may wonder, in the wake of such an awful tragedy, that every being possesses inherent worth and dignity, even those who hijacked those planes and crashed them and those who were behind those attacks? It's quite clear that there are some people who just don't seem to possess even an iota of humanity or compassion who don't even deserve our regard, let alone our affirmation.

What, then, do affirmations about "human worth and dignity" mean in the present context? Do they even make sense? Do they come laced with caveats and exceptions or are they unconditional and absolute?

Despite persuasive evidence to the contrary, and notwithstanding the unprovability of the assertion, I heartily endorse and re-affirm the first Principle of Unitarian Universalism. I do so simply because I must, because I think the world would be considerably worse off if I didn't. And, yes, hard as I find it to say this, let alone practice it, my endorsement of the first principle is absolute -- no "if's" or "but's, " no exclusion even of callous criminals or remorseless terrorists.

I believe that the affirmation of inherent worth and dignity is not a moral assessment, it's not a claim that human nature is basically good nor that it is fundamentally depraved. It's not an attempt to condone terrible acts of violence or passively accept the inevitability of evil. Instead, it's an active assertion that a human being, virtuous or not, good or evil, normal or depraved, possesses a value that cannot be taken from them -- it is a condition of one's humanity.

Let there be no mistake. This is not a simple or easy thing to do, nor do we do it as well as we think we do it or as we ought to do it. It is not simple because when people hijack planes full of passengers and crash them into buildings full of people going about their business, it is hard to see their worth and dignity. But what our First Principle tells us is that we must resist these easy paths of feeling and acting vengeful and make for the difficult road of honoring and caring for every person. In the measure in which we accomplish this, we are living our faith.

We could do no better than follow the example of Dennis Shepard, whose son Matthew was murdered a couple of years ago because he happened to be gay. Shepard spoke before the sentencing of one of Matthew's killers and asked that he not be given the death penalty. He said that "this is the time to begin the healing process. To show mercy to someone who refused to show any mercy." One can only imagine the courage of this distraught father to say this, a courage grounded in a sense that every human life is precious. Taking life dishonors that. Saving life honors it, even life that seems unworthy. Now, Matthew's father was not saying that the killer should be released, he was only saying that he not be given the death penalty. The point to remember here is: Justice does NOT mean revenge.

Howard Thurman, in the Ingersoll Lecture of 1947, writes: "Whatever may be the pressures to which one is subjected, the snares, the buffetings, one must not for a moment think that there is not an ultimate value always at stake. It is this ultimate value at stake in all experience that is the final incentive to decency, to courage, and to hope. Human life must be lived worthily of so grand an undertaking. Only of that which is possessed of infinite potentials can an infinite demand be required."

"Only of that which is possessed of infinite potentials can an infinite demand be required." As human beings we have infinite potential and in this situation, an infinite demand is being required of us. And there is an ultimate value at stake in every human life. That is why we are spending so much time, energy, resources, and money searching for any survivors and then, the bodies of people killed in the attacks on Tuesday. Every one of these people, dead or alive, is a person, someone who mattered, someone in whom an ultimate value was at stake, that is, a value that goes beyond price.

The Jewish tradition expresses it this way: to destroy one life is to destroy the world; to save one life is to save the world. The Christian tradition says through Jesus that if a shepherd has 100 sheep and one gets lost, then the shepherd will go after the one and leave the 99 behind. Islam says that "every child is born of purity," (hard to acknowledge under the circumstances). In Buddhism, we r'ad that "every being has the Buddha nature." In Hinduism, every being possesses the atman (individual soul) that is a part of the Brahman (eternal soul). And, Unitarian Universalism says that every person has inherent worth and dignity. Respecting that in ourselves and in others is the highest religious virtue because it recognizes the ultimate value of every human life. Another aspect of the enduring value of the first principle is that worth and dignity are within us, not something that we have to pursue outside of ourselves or that are given to us by others or by God. Our inherent worth and dignity are an integral part of our nature.

What does a deep commitment to the first principle do for us?

Commitment to the first principle gives us the necessary moral and spiritual strength to face our anger, our rage, and channel it, not towards retaliation and revenge, but towards justice and peace and love.

The First Principle is a gentle yet firm reminder that we cannot succumb to prejudice or stereotyping. It opens us to the reality that there are many, many Muslims in our neighborhood, in this country, and around the world who are as horrified as us, who are as revolted as us to the actions of these terrorists. Our first principle enjoins us to work actively towards eliminating any kind of prejudice or violence towards innocent people on the basis of their ethnicity, religion, or race.

Commitment to the First Principle does not mean that we are being soft-minded, that we do not believe in bringing the perpetrators of these attacks to justice, or that it is not prudent to take preventive measures to prevent such attacks in the future. On the contrary, the Principle makes justice an imperative. Affirming the first principle means being "wise as serpents and gentle as doves." It means cultivating a tough mind -- a mind that is sharp and penetrating, breaking through the crust of legends and myths and rumors, sifting the true from the false, and willing to move away from simplistic solutions. And it means cultivating a tender and loving heart because without it, a tough mind can become cold and detached, cruel and remorseless -- just like the perpetrators. With a tough mind and a tender heart, we are asked to discern how we will go about providing justice and establishing peace.

I was channel surfing on Thursday night when I happened to see Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson in conversation on the 700 club. Both were earnestly accusing "pagans, abortionists, feminists, gays and lesbians, and liberal civil liberties groups" for being partially responsible for the terrible tragedy because their actions have turned God's wrath on America. Both of them heartily agreed with each other that America got what it deserved, in part, because of "these" people.

My first reaction was not very kind. In fact, my thoughts and the actions I contemplated were NOT in keeping with "affirming the inherent worth and dignity of every person." I went to bed seething inside. But then, the next morning, I realized that this is exactly what the forces of terror would like us to do -- turn against each other because we are afraid and turn our fear to anger to hatred and then, to violence; thereby, creating a repressive and vindictive culture that went against our values -- freedom, equality, plurality, and justice.

I hope and pray that people like Falwell and Robertson realize that scapegoating or inciting violence against other ethnic and religious groups are not the solutions to the violence and terror that pervades our society. And I hope the people of this nation who listen to such people have the wisdom, the courage, and the insight to ignore these kinds of rhetoric and work hard to come together as a peaceful community that honors differences, that respects diversity, and that promotes peace and harmony.

Let's face it, folks - the future as we know it is dead. I hope that in the future we will be known not as a nation devoted to technological and material progress but by how well we learn to recognize our own tears in one another's eyes. "Hope will answer helplessness if, and only if, from the sacrament of this shared sacrifice of innocence and the innocent, we become for one another channels through which our faith may flow, and wells of love from which to draw much needed comfort and new strength." A loss of innocence does not mean a hardening of the heart.

At first these visions of a future being rebuilt upon Tuesday's ashes may seem to contradict each other. Retribution and compassion. Justice and mercy. War and peace. Love and hate. Yet they will only be at odds should we choose one in place of the other. On the one hand, if hatred and vengeance fuel our lust for retribution, rather than the greater quest for peace, we will but add to the world's terror even as we seek to end it. Though it is hard to keep our perspective, particularly when we see Palestinian children dancing in the streets to celebrate the slaughter of innocent Americans or read reports about Islamic mullahs and the Christian right saying that America got what it deserved, we need to realize that our real enemies are not Palestinians nor Muslims nor Islam nor any religion for that matter. Our real enemy is our own capacity for hatred and violence and the temptation to succumb to the cycle of violence.

On the other hand, if we pray only for peace and remain inactive, we shall surely abet the spread of terrorism. You see, peace is not about lighting candles and singing songs. It is a state of being, a means as well as the end. I believe that we must unite as a nation with the world to flush out the people or groups responsible behind these acts. Being peaceful does not mean being a coward. From this day forward, any state that harbors terrorists as a secret part of their arsenal must be held directly accountable. And, we should lead the world in an open and honest dialogue on creating a peaceful global society. These are daunting challenges. Though I am skeptical about our being successful in these endeavors, I refuse to give up hope.

The Rev. Forrest Church, Minister at All Souls Unitarian in New York City, shared these words with his congregation the day after the attacks -- "Our only hope lies in the balance we strike as we enter this uncertain and forbidding future. It rests in how well we balance justice and mercy, retribution and compassion, the might of weapons and the power of love. Our hope hinges on how effectively we unite a riven world against a common enemy. But it also requires that, singly and together, we answer to the challenge of maturity that will arise so quickly from the ashes of our shattered innocence. To do this we must not only gird our minds; we must also prepare our hearts."

We are faced with a spiritual challenge, a moral imperative, one that each one of us must meet. If before we could seemingly afford the luxury of relegating our spiritual lives to the occasional Sunday, today, facing a transfigured future, we must redirect our energies and spirits to redefine the way we go about our lives.

This is already happening all over the country. This is happening in New York led by its mayor, Rudolph Giuliani, its police, fire fighters, and countless other people. This is happening in other parts of the country with people gathering together to pray, to reflect, and to serve. And this is happening here, in Clearwater. The service we had on Friday night and what we see here today are testimony to that change.

I hope we will rise to the challenge and pledge our hearts to a higher calling.

I want to end my reflections with this quote:

It is difficult in times like these: "ideals, dreams, and cherished hopes rise within us, only to be crushed by grim reality. It's a wonder I haven't abandoned all my ideals, they seem so absurd and impractical. Yet I cling to them because I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart. It is utterly impossible for me to build my life on a foundation of chaos, suffering, and death. I see the world being slowly transformed into a wilderness. I hear the approaching thunder that, one day, will destroy us too. I feel the suffering of millions. And yet, when I look up at the sky, I somehow feel that everything will change for the better, that this cruelty too will end, that peace and tranquility will return once more. In the meantime, I must hold onto my ideals. Perhaps the day will come when I'll be able to realize them."

These were words that Anne Frank wrote in her diary in 1941. So be it.