I remember back in 1996 when the blockbuster film Independence Day came out in theaters. It was, I believe, the first, or at least the most widely known, of a series of movies with an apocalyptic, End of Days-type theme, where each of them became identified with a major landmark being destroyed. For Independence Day, it was the White House. And I remember how incredibly upsetting I found it. I couldn’t have cared less for the amazing special effects that would eventually win the film an Oscar. It wasn’t cool or exciting to see something iconic, something so meaningful to so many people, explode in a million pieces. It wasn’t raising issues around security and self-defense, in the name of provoking thought and questioning and a critical approach to the systems and protocols in place. Not in this action/comedy, where crazy Randy Quaid saves humanity by sacrificing himself, flying right into the alien ship, crying out, “Hello boys! I’m baaaack!” No. Not fascinating. Not intriguing. Just downright upsetting. And terrifying, to say the least.
The question I do remember the film raising, however, was this: What would you do if the world was about to end? That, I thought, was intriguing. That, I thought, was worthy of contemplation and exploration. And yet, while the question could have been addressed in some deep, philosophical, theological, cosmological realm, that isn’t quite what happened. On MTV—you remember that, right?--well, on MTV, when they’d ask this question, you got all kinds of intelligent, selfless, and classy responses such as, “Well I’d throw a big ol’ bash and go out partying!” Or “I’d go try to get it on with every girl who’ll let me!” Or “I’d jump out of an airplane and then go bungee jumping!” Or the best one, which was something to the effect of, “I’d get all kinds of wasted and just let it happen.
Nonetheless, despite the juvenile responses to it, the question is still potentially very powerful: What would you do if the world was going to end? What would you do if you knew you were about to die?
Ten years ago this Sunday, for nearly 3,000 Americans, that question jolted violently from the hypothetical to the actual. Ten years ago this Sunday, 3,000 mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, sisters and brothers, left their homes—for work, for a plane trip—never to return there again. This time it wasn’t special effects, no CGI wizardry from a Hollywood studio. This was terribly, horrifyingly real. Surreal, even; I remember that being the word on everyone’s lips. And before any of us knew what had happened, gone were the towers of the World Trade Center. Gone were the lives of 3,000 innocent people. Gone was the America, the world, the life we always knew.
But what is not gone are the stories. The stories that came to light in the weeks and months that followed. The stories of unfathomable bravery—of police and firefighters and first responders who made the ultimate sacrifice, returning again and again and again into that fiery hell everyone else was running from, to help just one more person, save just one more soul. The stories of strength and courage—of the passengers of United Flight 93, who came together to take down their own flight, and the lives of everyone onboard, before it too could be used as a weapon of further terror. The stories of the purest, truest love—of final phone calls to family members telling them how much they loved them, how much they meant to them, how they would need to be strong to take care of each other; and that famous clip of the husband and wife, clutching each other’s hands, choosing to end it all, together, with one final leap of faith.
The stories live on. They live within each of us, within all of us, and they will stay with us forever—haunting us, yet giving us hope; breaking our hearts, yet opening them up to be full once again.
The question I do remember the film raising, however, was this: What would you do if the world was about to end? That, I thought, was intriguing. That, I thought, was worthy of contemplation and exploration. And yet, while the question could have been addressed in some deep, philosophical, theological, cosmological realm, that isn’t quite what happened. On MTV—you remember that, right?--well, on MTV, when they’d ask this question, you got all kinds of intelligent, selfless, and classy responses such as, “Well I’d throw a big ol’ bash and go out partying!” Or “I’d go try to get it on with every girl who’ll let me!” Or “I’d jump out of an airplane and then go bungee jumping!” Or the best one, which was something to the effect of, “I’d get all kinds of wasted and just let it happen.
Nonetheless, despite the juvenile responses to it, the question is still potentially very powerful: What would you do if the world was going to end? What would you do if you knew you were about to die?
Ten years ago this Sunday, for nearly 3,000 Americans, that question jolted violently from the hypothetical to the actual. Ten years ago this Sunday, 3,000 mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, sisters and brothers, left their homes—for work, for a plane trip—never to return there again. This time it wasn’t special effects, no CGI wizardry from a Hollywood studio. This was terribly, horrifyingly real. Surreal, even; I remember that being the word on everyone’s lips. And before any of us knew what had happened, gone were the towers of the World Trade Center. Gone were the lives of 3,000 innocent people. Gone was the America, the world, the life we always knew.
But what is not gone are the stories. The stories that came to light in the weeks and months that followed. The stories of unfathomable bravery—of police and firefighters and first responders who made the ultimate sacrifice, returning again and again and again into that fiery hell everyone else was running from, to help just one more person, save just one more soul. The stories of strength and courage—of the passengers of United Flight 93, who came together to take down their own flight, and the lives of everyone onboard, before it too could be used as a weapon of further terror. The stories of the purest, truest love—of final phone calls to family members telling them how much they loved them, how much they meant to them, how they would need to be strong to take care of each other; and that famous clip of the husband and wife, clutching each other’s hands, choosing to end it all, together, with one final leap of faith.
The stories live on. They live within each of us, within all of us, and they will stay with us forever—haunting us, yet giving us hope; breaking our hearts, yet opening them up to be full once again.
What would we do if it had been us? God willing, it’s a question we’ll never have to answer. But the question we do have to answer is this: What do we do with the time we have left? What do we do with the time we all too often take for granted, the time that was taken from all of them in a heartbeat?
I’d like to conclude tonight with a poem written by Rabbi Zoe Klein following September 11, 2001. It’s called “Two Candles.”
On Shabbat we would light two candles,
one for remembering Shabbat
and one for observing Shabbat.
Tonight we light two candles:
this one for Building One,
this one for Building Two;
this one for the Pentagon,
and this one for Pittsburgh;
this one for the hundreds of firefighters,
this one for the hundreds of police;
this one for all the men,
and this one for all the women;
this one for all the girls,
and this one for all the boys;
and these candles for the husband and wife
who leapt out of the tower holding hands;
this one for our luck running out,
this one for the New York skyline;
this one for the walking wounded,
this one for the critically wounded;
this one for the survivors,
this one for the dead;
this candle for Building One,
this candle for Building Two.
As we remember that fateful day that changed everything, we say zichronam livrachah, may their memory truly be a blessing for us all. Let us take a moment of silence to honor their memory, and then take it with us by living each moment of our lives as though it were our last.
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