Don't be Afraid

The following is a radio commentary originally broadcast by Vermont Public Radio in September 2001.

My eyes opened slowly. This was not my room; this was not my bed; I was not. . . oh, this is a hotel room in Tokyo. Then I remembered. Was it a dream? No, no, it happened. I grabbed the remote and hit the power button. The TV stirred and Fox News confirmed it. A gaping, smoking hole was surrounded by what remained of the Manhattan skyline.

It was Wednesday morning, the day we were to return home from our mission to Rutland’s sister-city, Ishidoriya, Japan. And all had gone well, until ten hours before, when word reached us that two planes had plowed into the twin towers of the World Trade Center, and another into the Pentagon. We watched the images in horror as we tried to reach families half a world away.

This was the first time Nancy and I had both been separated from our two children, who were staying with neighbors. “When will you be home?” We didn’t know. “Is it safe there?” Yes. We said it was very safe. We didn’t say that the embassy advised us to pay extra attention to our “personal security measures.” Our nine year old said, “they think this could lead to World War III.” “I don’t think so,” I answered, “The nations of the world will stand with us this time.” I never felt so needed, so helpless, or so afraid.

After several hours in front of the TV that morning we had to get away. We wandered aimlessly out of the hotel. We paused on a second floor walkway facing a shopping plaza and fountain. Then, together, Nancy and I saw it. Reaching up into the sky above the plaza, from behind some trees there stood a cross. Dwarfed by skyscrapers but facing us directly, here in non-Christian Tokyo, in the heart of what could be described as the most materialistic city in the world, there stood a cross.

We followed a walkway and a back street for no more than five minutes until we came to a small, plain brick building. Near the front were two police officers and an idling patrol car. The sign – in English – read “United Church of Christ - Japan.” I looked at a policeman who took a drag on his cigarette and returned my glance with curiosity. We went in.

A well dressed man and woman greeted us in Japanese as though we had arrived for an appointment. They handed us each a quarter-page sheet of light green paper with something printed on it in Japanese. They politely motioned for us to proceed down a wide corridor where we soon encountered two gentlemen who opened a pair of brass-handled wooden doors and invited us in.

The sanctuary was stark white, modest in size and unadorned. The pews were the same blond wood, and in the front of the church the wall supported a matching cross of massive proportions. Left and right of the cross stood the brushed steel pipes of the organ. Thirty people – all Japanese, were scattered around the room. They sat at quiet attention.

As we found a seat near the back, I looked at the green paper. The only thing written upon it that I could understand was a time – 12:00 to 12:55. I glanced at my watch and it was exactly 12:00. And at that moment a woman, seated at the organ, drew a breath, raised her hands and began to play. Exquisitely. The first hymn was unknown to us but the style was so familiar we were moved to tears. It was slow and sad and matched our mood. The next I recognized, although I don’t know the name. We prayed for the victims as the music washed over us, for their families, for our children, ourselves and our fellow travelers. We prayed for our hosts, for the world, and for the enlightenment of the authors of this new horror.

With each selection, the music moved from sadness to joy until the final selection filled us with hope and peace. At the conclusion the audience offered polite applause and then filed out. Not a word was spoken that hour, but for us a powerful message was heard. “Don’t be afraid. I am here.”

This is Jeff Wennberg, glad to be back in Rutland.