St. Paul writes, "What then are we to say about these things?"

About 2:00pm on Tuesday, September 11, 2001, the local radio station announced there would be a special worship service at Grace at 7:00pm. Would anyone even want to leave their homes, their families, their televisions? Who knew? But I knew the church doors ought to be open wide as a response to an America under attack. It turns out there was standing room only. To be sure, the sanctuary was about half as big as this one ... but it was obvious that on that dark, dark clear day, people yearned for a gathering place. A place of public prayer and private tears; a space to try to make sense of the senseless. What a privilege for Grace to provide community and commentary.

As I prepared for the evening worship, I felt comfortable in the decision. Community, of course, was the easy part; open the doors. I was a bit anxious about the commentary part. Again from St. Paul, "What then are we to say about these things?" The context for Paul's question is the suffering and grief Christians were subject, as a result of their faith in Jesus. Roman terrorism in Paul's day was as intense as the terrorism of a cloudless September day in 2001. "What then are we to say about these things?" Paul's question, however, is rhetorical. Indeed, Paul has something to say!

Rhetorical or not, we understand the concern: "What then are we to say about these things?" Parents, teachers - any adult interacting with children - can be reduced to tongue-tied stammering trying to explain difficult things to their children. Not only the bad things in life, bad people doing unspeakable things. But the big questions of life: "Who made God?" "Why do people die?" "Where do babies come from?"

Actually, talking about birds and bees is a piece of cake compared to sitting with your youngsters watching TV on the evening of 9/11, with incessant images of planes flying into twin towers, buildings collapsing, men and women huffing and puffing northward covered in the soot and ash of destruction, and finally, people frantically passing out pictures of loved ones on Greenwich Village street corners. 5:00pm on that Tuesday evening and I'm wondering, "What then are we to say about these things?"

Many of you can answer this better than I: What kind of questions are children asking concerning Leiby Kletzky, the young boy brutally murdered some ten days ago? Brutally murdered? That's redundant. Is there any murder not brutal? The news reports were pretty graphic. Were parents watching Sesame Street when a breathless reporter broke in with gruesome new details? What are the kids asking?

The blast in Norway Friday was bad enough - but how do you talk to children about what came next, the carnage on that idyllic island? I mean, "What can we say about these things?"

Maybe we should ask Rob and Janna. Their son Colin is going to be Baptized this morning, and his parents, Rob and Janna, are not rank amateurs in providing answers to the perplexing questions children can toss at them. They have had practice with first Jarrett and then Lina. They have already been challenged with the "whys" and "hows" of the big questions of life.

This is a messy world into which Colin was born - but it's the same 9/11 world of his siblings. One thing Rob and Janna can do - assure the children that in spite of the messes - the same God who claimed them in Baptism, will walk with them throughout their lives. In other words, God is going to love Colin like God's own child - and he is!

"What then can we say about these things?" Maybe a easier question would be, "What then should we not say about these things?" About these horrific evil impulses and senseless tragedies that seem to surround us. Here's a hint of what not to say: we do not echo the words of Mayor Bloomberg, nor his theology - his way of understanding God.

I have a lot of respect for Michael Bloomberg and it was touching he visited the parents of Leiby Kletzky. Yet there's a reason he is Mayor Bloomberg and not Rabbi Bloomberg. When he left the Kletzky house he told reporters, "I don't know why God sometimes does things, but it is what it is...." Excuse me? Why God sometimes does things? Is it just me? It seems a little harsh for the mayor to pick God out of the line up and say, "There's your killer."

Now I've said some pretty dumb things in my time. Don't we all? And fortunately the dumb things have never been televised. Here are some comments I've overheard in a funeral home - all in the Bloombergian vein: "I'm so sad about your daughter; I guess God wanted another angel in heaven." "Your Dad seemed so healthy, but God must have needed him more than you do." Or the generic, "It's all a part of God's plan!" How unfortunate it would be if someone told Lilli Nilssen that Marc's ALS is a part of God's plan. "What then can we say about these things?" Sometimes the sound of silence - punctuated by a hug - says the most!

"What then are we to say about these things?" Well, I for one am sticking with the faith of St. Paul, that proclaims nothing, absolutely "nothing in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord." Nothing. Nada. Nil. Sometimes when we are engulfed by deep grief, this may be the only the best - and only - thing that sees us through: the knowledge that nothing can separate us from our God. Nothing. Nada. Nil.

In our reading this morning, after Paul acknowledges that sorrow and grief so often come our way ("we are accounted as sheep to be slaughtered"), Paul concludes and Pastor Eugene Peterson paraphrases, "None of this fazes us because we know Jesus loves us. I'm absolutely convinced that nothing - nothing living or dead, angelic or demonic, today or tomorrow, high or low, thinkable or unthinkable - absolutely nothing can get between us and God's love because of the way that Jesus our Master embraced us." Nothing. Nada. Nil.

I'm not quite sure what I said to the gathered community on the evening of 9/11, but I'd like to think this was the gist: "God love us - and in spite of the great evil of this dark day - nothing can separate us from the love of God. Nothing. Nada. Nil."

You see, echoing the faith of St. Paul means we do, after all, have something to say.