Rushing forward, seized with fear
Twenty-five years ago, Rosh Hashanah came about a week after 9/11.
I imagined that the angel in charge of “who by fire” had discovered she was short of her quota and had taken drastic action.
As a Pentagon policy analyst at the time, I naturally imagined the heavenly court as a massive bureaucracy with annual performance reviews, which lined up nicely with the liturgy of the High Holy Days.
I sat in the sanctuary that year and took note of the exits. I spent my workdays thinking about the various ways terrorists could wreak havoc, so I figured that my heightened threat perception would allow me to spot the first signs of a terror attack during services. I may not look like a fighter, but I keep my head in a crisis and would be able to sound the alarm and direct people to safety.
I had been in the Pentagon when the terrorists crashed a plane into the building on 9/11. There were half a dozen of us in the congregation who had been there that day, or who could have or should have been there.
One of them, a Marine, hosted a table at that year’s Marine Corps Ball in Washington a few weeks later. Ours was probably the only kosher table in the vast ballroom, the only one to receive our fancy dinners sealed in tinfoil and plastic like airplane meals. Otherwise, we blended in, wearing gowns, suits, and gold-braided uniforms no different than the ones on other guests.
I would have liked to keep my Jewish identity under wraps at work. Jews were a tiny minority in the defense establishment, and in the lingering aftermath of the Pollard affair, I was afraid my loyalty to the US would be questioned. However, it was too much a part of me to hide, except when I was traveling for meetings in places like Saudi Arabia and Bahrain. One of my Saudi counterparts called to express his sympathy after the terror attacks – to the delight of my evangelical Christian officemate, who saw the hand of God in every human interaction.
I’ve been thinking about Danny Lewin, the American-born IDF special forces veteran, who reportedly became the first casualty of 9/11 when he rose from his seat on Flight 11 to battle the hijackers. He, too, would have blended in as he boarded alongside other tech and finance guys on their way to Los Angeles, his skills and his story invisible to the casual observer until he jumped into action and became a legend.
There were other hidden identities that became very public after 9/11. Two of the men who helped bring down Flight 93 in a Pennsylvania field went to my high school. My classmate, Mark Bingham, was a 6’4” rugby player. He was gay. In high school, he was popular and I was a nerdy student-newspaper editor. I never got close enough to him to know what he was eating for lunch, let alone who he might have had a crush on.
The plane’s voice recorder captured the sounds as he and others battered the cockpit door with a food cart, and the terrorists crashed the plane in an empty field instead of into the Capitol or the White House, saving untold numbers of lives.
The Rosh Hashanah service describes angels rushing forward toward judgment, trembling and seized with fear. I can think of no better words to describe what Mark, Danny, and so many people did on the planes, at the World Trade Center, and at the Pentagon.
When I came home on 9/11 after crossing the Potomac and walking through the fast-emptying streets of Washington, DC, my neighbors fed me lunch. We were pretty good friends, and they often hosted Shabbat morning services in their home. Sometimes I would join, and sometimes I would stay on my couch, as the melodies and intentions of the prayers filtered through the concrete mechitza of the wall between our apartments. That day, their door was flung open, their love and care fully exposed as they waited to see if I would come home.
On Rosh Hashanah, it is said, the Day of Judgment was announced by the sound of a great shofar and by a still, small voice. My Evangelical colleague would suggest it is no coincidence that 9/11 fit so well with the sacred poetry of the service. As for me, I believe that crises like the terror attacks of 9/11 summon us with the trumpet of bravery and the still, small voice of love. We may rush forward and we may be seized with fear. Whether there is an actual Book of Life, or just a flat, blue September sky above us, we will write our stories with our deeds and stand ready for the next summons.
