Editor’s note: As news of the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks spread, The Lutheran staff gathered at the Lutheran Center in Chicago to watch the events unfold. Plans for the November 2001 issue were quickly scrapped to make room for 15 pages of stories about New York Lutherans. As we observe the 25th anniversary of Sept. 11, we look back at that coverage through the lead story by then-editor David L. Miller and selected quotes from the issue.

A city not forsaken

Sorrow and grace weave together in stories of New York’s Lutherans

A kind of “new scripture” is emerging among Lutherans in New York City since the World Trade Center attack, a patchwork quilt of stories revealing how the suffering are connected to God and each other.

As stories are reverently passed from mourners to the merciful, the quilt grows more colorful and complex, but no less troubling.

Each story elicits another just as tragic as the last: the empty chair of a family member who didn’t come home Sept. 11, a coach whose baritone will never again be heard teaching kids, a friend whose smile is now only a photograph gently held, the little girl whose mother didn’t pick her up from school.

As stories are passed, each expands the fabric that now binds formerly disconnected lives into one cloth.

Pastors have become the “story-bearers,” says Stephen Bouman, bishop of the Metropolitan New York Synod. And if their shoulders sag beneath the tonnage of sorrow, they are also lifted by the grace subtly sown into each story.

For whatever else New York is today, it is not a city forsaken. Just ask Bouman.

“Even while it was going on, I didn’t feel this horrendous dread. I’d like to think that was because of my faith.” —Daniel Nigro, then chief of the New York City Fire Department and member of Good Shepherd Lutheran Church, Bayside, Queens

Seeing faces

“You see faces as you look into that blasted pile,” Bouman says, having just returned from the smoldering stench at “ground zero.”

But the faces are visible only in his mind. Still, one stands out: Lars Qualben, president of Trinity Lutheran Church, Brooklyn. Lars had assisted his father, Paul, who presided at liturgy the previous Sunday. But now he is gone, one of about 100 slain church members or parents and relatives of Lutheran schoolchildren.

Walking among the ashes at ground zero, Bouman recited the committal service for the dead. “I saw Lars’ face,” he says. “I saw all of them in Lars’ face.

“You see their faces in there, and you want to say, ‘Unbind them! Unbind them all!’ You want to say, ‘Lord, if only you had been here!’ You want to sit in sackcloth in the middle of Broadway and scream.”

“We break one bread and are one body. Let us together seek the healing of the nations. Evil does not overcome evil; it augments it. Christ taught us that.” —Riad Jarjour, then general secretary of the Middle East Council of Churches

As he left the site, Bouman pronounced a benediction over this “holy ground,” calling on God’s mercy for the dead, for the shell-shocked firefighters laboring there and for all whose grief and fear mingle like a dense cloud quieting the city.

Across the East River in Brooklyn, Richard Miller, pastor of St. John-St. Matthew-Emmanuel Lutheran Church, also tries to redeem the day. He scoops up a layer of ash coating his deck. “Sacred ash,” he calls the mixture of cremated concrete, steel and flesh.

He used it to sign the cross on the foreheads of worshipers. The mother of a woman who died on the 98th floor of tower one was among those who came forward to be “marked” with a sign of sorrow and hope.

Ultimate questions

Throughout the synod, such liturgies and prayer services have been filled with people hungry for words that will make meaning of tragedy.

“No one is willing to accept meaninglessness,” says Bill Hurst, pastor of Trinity Lutheran Church, White Plaines, N.Y. “There’s a hunger to know how to relate to God from people who are only now able to take baby steps in that direction.

There’s also “skin hunger,” a tremendous desire to be touched.

Members of Generation X, who make up a large portion of those killed in the towers,  also show up in churches and at makeshift memorials citywide. Many with little or no religious background are dealing with ultimate questions of death, evil and God for the first time, their secular value systems shaken.

Bouman’s 23-year-old daughter, Rachel, a Sunday school leader, phoned him from in front of the church before she could go in. “I’m afraid to go in,” she told him. “What am I going to say? Please pray with me.”

Carla McKenzie, a member of Advent Lutheran Church, Elmont, N.Y., was on the 16th or 17th floor of tower one when the plane hit. She will never be able to forget the faces of rescue squads going up as she was coming down, Bouman says.

But he can’t forget her faith. As bodies fell from the sky and people fled, screaming, a woman kept asking, “Where is God?” McKenzie, stopping to care for the woman, quoted Romans 8: Nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. “She had the faith to say God was with them even as they fell,” Bouman says.

Then McKenzie tried to get to her congregation’s school to support teachers as they ministered to children who would soon receive horrible news. About 40 Lutheran schoolchildren lost a parent or grandparent, said Marlene Lund, executive director of the Lutheran Schools Association in New York City.

Grace in the pain

That theme, that God will be found in the pain—not by avoiding or minimizing it—echoes through the stories and sermons of the city’s Lutherans. Easy assurances and glib talk about closure and healing are rejected as falsehoods—or as an unwillingness to be faithful to what the times require.

“I’ve had groups of people ask me to pray for them right there while they’re working [with the remains at the Pentagon]. And I’ve had people ask me ‘why?’ questions. As chaplains, we can’t give answers, but we can help folks grow in their faith.” —Gregory Hager, then a chaplain at Dover Air Force base

Kathy Carpenter, the city’s deputy director for WIC, a government program serving needy women and children, watched with colleagues as the towers collapsed a few blocks from their office window. “The wail came up from the street,” says the member of Advent Lutheran Church, Manhattan. “We were all sobbing and screaming. We knew people were dying in the most horrible way as we watched.

“It was a beautiful fall morning, and here we were holding onto each other knowing people were being vaporized before our eyes. But now what echoes in our heads is the sound of our own screams.

“We’re not ready to hear words of comfort. The most wonderful thing about our pastors is that they didn’t try to make it all better. They didn’t say we’ll all heal. They respected the situation. I don’t know if it will ever come back to normal. I don’t think we’ll ever be the proud, carefree city we were.

“We need time. We don’t need people telling us it will be OK in the morning. Clergy need to listen and provide a framework where people feel safe to breathe and feel what they feel.”

“Help us pray for our enemies, because if we cannot do that, we will never be able to love them. If we are pregnant with hate and revenge, we will surely birth hate and revenge.” —Arlyn Tolzmann, Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Wheat Ridge, Colo.

Carpenter worries about the children, especially those she sees at Advent’s Sunday school.

Advent’s children made a quilt for hope and healing, and they visited a nearby firehouse with flowers. Carpenter said she couldn’t tell who got the most out of the visit and the hugs—the children or the firefighters.

Bearing the weight of these stories takes a toll. “I phone our pastors,” Bouman says. “And the crying starts almost as soon as they hear my voice. But these people are magnificent, so present to what they must attend to, so trustworthy with the stories.

“What they are receiving is a psalm, a lamentation, a kyrie or a gloria—whatever is being experienced. And they add the name of Jesus to it and lift it up as holy story.”

Not wasted

They “share the heat of the day,” he adds, being faithful to what this time is, not what they might want it to be.

But what this quilt of sorrow and grace will be remains well beyond the horizon. This unfinished story will be shaped in part by millions of prayers, by the faithfulness and ingenuity of New York’s Lutherans—and by the depth of commitment of Lutherans far beyond the city.

“The last thing we are is abandoned,” Bouman says. “It astounds us, the level of care we are receiving from around the church.

“The city at its best can be a sign of shalom [God’s peace]. So we will keep pestering God. … God is not the destroyer, but we know that God wastes nothing—and God won’t waste this.”

April is Arab American Heritage Month in the United States. While this is a celebration of all Arab Americans—Christian and Muslim alike—I’m going to focus on Christians. As an Arab American Christian myself, I share this history to highlight the significant role this community has played in shaping American society and culture.

Arab immigration to the United States began in the late 1800s. The majority of these immigrants were Christians from Syria, Lebanon and Palestine, seeking economic opportunity, religious freedom and relief from political instability in their homelands. Most belonged to Maronite, Catholic and Greek Orthodox churches. These churches became more than places of worship—they provided spiritual guidance, helped newcomers find employment and fostered strong, cohesive communities. In this way, Arab American Christians maintained their heritage while adapting to American life.

When we think of American Lutheranism, it’s natural to picture the legacy of German or Scandinavian immigrants. Yet a small but vital part of the Lutheran story in America belongs to the Arab and Middle Eastern community. Though smaller in number, their contributions to education, social justice and interfaith dialogue have left a lasting mark on the Lutheran churches in America.

The roots of this community trace back to the mid-19th century in the Holy Land, where German and English missionaries established the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Jordan and the Holy Land (ELCJHL). Lutherans in Palestine and Jordan embraced a calling to diakonia, or service. They built world-class hospitals and schools that served all people, regardless of religion. When Lutheran Palestinians began immigrating to the United States—especially following the conflicts of 1948 and 1967—they brought with them this enduring spirit of service and a deeply rooted sense of identity.

In the United States, Arab American Lutherans have established vibrant centers of community, including Salam Arabic Salam Arabic Lutheran Church in Brooklyn, N.Y., and Mother of Our Savior Lutheran-Episcopal Church in Dearborn, Mich. These congregations continue to nurture faith, culture and connection across generations.

One of the most significant expressions of this leadership is the Association of Lutherans of Arab and Middle Eastern Heritage (ALAMEH). Through its work, ALAMEH encourages the broader church to grow in understanding, strengthens community ties and amplifies voices that too often go unheard.

Arab American Christians have long served as cultural ambassadors, bridging American society with the rich history and traditions of the Arab world. Their witness demonstrates how diversity strengthens a nation, fostering both innovation and mutual understanding. Though a minority group, their impact is profound. Through their commitment to education and advocacy for the marginalized, they remind us that the story of Christ’s church is a global one—spoken in many languages, including Arabic.

As we observe Arab American Heritage Month, we are invited not only to celebrate but also to recognize the enduring contributions of immigrant communities to our shared life—both in this country and across the world.

The timbre of my voice rumbles at the back of my throat, and my mouth opens as a roar of laughter fills the space. Laughter is good for the soul. Too often, our brown bodies feel the tension of the world, and it dulls us. It quiets us, and its load weighs our shoulders down. Time and time again, the broken world shatters our being. So we must grip joy despite our pain because living in those joyous moments refuses pain the power of finality.

In a world that can be painful, Black joy is a sacred breath of insistence that flows through life. It is refreshing, breathtaking and enveloping, washing over us with peace, love and happiness. Its melody carries through the community, bringing people together and connecting them. It is love—love that protects us, and memories that give us strength. It is generations of praises that refuse to be silenced or erased. Black joy withstands. Black joy heals. It weaves through places of agony, bringing a balm of Gilead. It is quiet and audacious in our harsh world, turning struggle into beauty.

Far too often, we don’t celebrate and honor Black joy because it feels out of reach or fleeting. Its tempo is temporary. We put it off, telling ourselves we’ll get to it after finishing other tasks. Then it slips away, and life’s struggles weigh heavily, leaving us barely able to remember the last time we heard that sweet melody of peace. Sometimes we don’t even notice the absence of joy in life until it becomes blaringly urgent rather than a regular hush of our daily routines. Yet, when we recognize that we need sparks of happiness throughout our lives, to find the hope that keeps us pushing, the love that reminds us to care for ourselves, and quiet spaces that feed our souls, we realize joy is the marrow in our bones that gives us strength. Joy in Black bodies is essential. It shields us, protects us and gives us spaces to simply be. In those moments where pain and suffering are so tangible, we need these deep breaths of happiness to permeate our souls, swaying us to move past the hurt and twirl past the negativity.

In this state of being, we are free—free to be, free to thrive without looming pressures or expectations. It’s choosing tenderness and gentleness with oneself. In this space, our coiled locks spring freely and bounce in the wind, our faces feel the warmth of the sun, and our lives are fully lived.

Black joy is transformative and healing. Embrace it today. Lean into the delights of life and let it flow and form around you. Let it inspire you to be creative. Let it empower you to laugh loudly and often.

My mother had the most sumptuous deep dark chocolate skin, full lips, large African nose and big beautiful eyes. She had a unique sense of style and a calming way of being. She chose the best fragrances that finished the whole experience—touching all the senses. I remember watching people come to her as a child. Some wanted to drink from her wisdom. Some were struck by her confidence and beauty. Others just wanted to laugh at her clever, inviting jokes. She made them feel both seen and safe. She had a fair share of friends, family and fans.

I witnessed her taking the last of what she had and using it to care for multiple people. Even as she figured out how to be a daughter and caregiver to her mom while raising two girls, she helped other people—giving them a place to stay and healing them with her Black joy. She seemed unstoppable. She made a way out of no way.

I remember a time when she took in my two cousins who are around my age. It felt like fun to us. We were too young to appreciate the financial, physical or mental weight it brought with it. It was just fun-having two extra siblings. Watching the world continue to lean toward her, we felt invincible and blessed. She worked at Goodwill that year as a supervisor and, when Christmas rolled around, we got the best gifts. I still wonder how she did it. We still nostalgically think back to the “Goodwill Christmas” with fondness—not just for the gifts but for the time together.

Looking back, I think it had to be Black joy. It eclipsed the weight and heartache of the reality of a woman coming out of the pain of divorce and welcoming added responsibility. She emulated the example that her mother showed her as a young widow when her husband died leaving her alone with two small children. She embraced the possibility and crushed the seemingly insurmountable odds.

Black joy is God-breathed. It’s the mystical resilience of African ancestry. It’s the personification of hope. It seeps up from the ground beneath our feet. It pours down from the sky. It blows every way the wind goes and glides through the stillness of when the wind stops. It leaps in the darkness of night and in the brightness of day. It’s edified by all things because it extracts the good from all it encounters. It is unmistakable. It has nourished millions and has not been depleted by even a drop. Black joy is so immense and so powerful that it cannot be destroyed. It walks in the surreal balance of arrogance and humility from the power and promise of God.

It’s easy to be distracted by other things and forget the access we have to Black joy. Then we get glimpses to remind us. Like Venus Williams who was the oldest player in the Australian Open women’s singles. Or like the passing away of Claudette Colvin, who at the tender age of 15 defiantly refused to give up her seat on the bus nine months before Rosa Parks did. Or like the election of Yehiel Curry as presiding bishop, an African descent person serving in the whitest denomination in the United States.

Black joy is an undercurrent that makes the good times better and the hard times bearable. It’s infectious and cannot be imitated no matter how hard one tries. It is the laughter, joy, love and excitement of God showing up as amazing energy in people of African descent who tend to let it flow to anyone in reach. It’s the Vibranium (from Black Panther) of real life and explains the unmitigated gall of Black people to excel irrespective of circumstance. It’s the rhythm of the earth in step with the rhythm of God’s heartbeat. Can you feel it? Black joy.

ELCA Indigenous Ministries and Tribal Relations is a program team of ELCA Ministries of Diverse Cultures and Communities, which focuses on fostering relationships rooted in mutual respect, spiritual solidarity and cultural understanding. For November, the team is asking the church, its congregations, its members and its affiliated ministries to seek ways in which to observe Native American Heritage Month. Here are two possible ways that you might participate.

Vine Deloria Jr. Theological Symposium | Nov. 10-12

Hosted by the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago (LSTC) in partnership with Indigenous Ministries and Tribal Relations, the annual Vine Deloria Jr. Theological Symposium honors the renowned Indigenous scholar, activist, theologian and LSTC alum, who died in 2005 at age 72. For the 15th annual symposium, community leaders, students and faith leaders will gather to discuss Indigenous justice, theology and decolonization under this year’s theme, “Challenged and Transformed: A Vision for the Church.”

Throughout his life, Deloria routinely challenged systems of power—the church, the U.S. government, anthropological scientists—to acknowledge the validity of (and pursue justice for) all Indigenous peoples. He tirelessly advocated for Indigenous representation, access, acknowledgement and acceptance. This year’s educational celebration of his legacy will begin with a lecture by Robert Two Bulls, an enrolled member of the Oglala Lakota Oyate who serves the Episcopal Church as missioner for the Department of Indian Work.

Manuel Retamoza, a citizen of the Cherokee Nation and a pastor of both St. Andrew Lutheran Church and the Border Church in San Diego, serves as a planning team member for the symposium. Retamoza, who has previously preached and presented at the symposium, was asked what his hopes are for attendees of this annual event. “I want the attendees to hear how Vine’s words continue to resonate in our culture and within the Christian Church,” he said. “I hope that attendees will leave with a deeper understanding of the complex intersections between the Christian faith, justice and Indigenous rights. I pray that the discussions will inspire a renewed commitment to solidarity, advocacy and action. As Christians, we are called to love our neighbors and seek justice; I hope that this symposium will challenge attendees to consider how they can live out these values in their own lives and communities.”

All are welcome to attend the symposium, which will include a lecture, two panel presentations and a special chapel service, either online or in person. No registration is required. Visit the official event webpage on the LSTC website for more information and links to the Zoom sessions.

National Day of Mourning | Nov. 27

The National Day of Mourning started as a protest demonstration in 1970, in Patuxet (currently known as Plymouth, Mass.), after Wamsutta Frank James of the Wampanoag people, who had been invited to speak at a Thanksgiving celebration, was prohibited from speaking on the continued effects of colonial settlement. Today groups such as United American Indians of New England (UAINE) commemorate that incident by hosting events, activities and demonstrations every fourth Thursday in November to call attention to the ongoing oppression, genocide and struggles faced by Indigenous peoples. The National Day of Mourning offers an alternative Thanksgiving story rooted in truth and shared annually for the sake of increased public education, sustainable remembrance and continuing demands for justice.

On Nov. 27, all are invited to join Jennifer De Leon, ELCA director for racial justice, and other ELCA leaders on Cole’s Hill in Patuxet for a public demonstration. De Leon, in partnership with ELCA Indigenous Ministries and Tribal Relations, has spearheaded many November trips to the National Day of Mourning events hosted by UAINE, which have included participation by synodical bishops, ELCA staff, leaders of affiliate ministries and members of local congregations. In a recent interview with Justice Nichols, program coordinator for Indigenous Ministries and Tribal Relations, De Leon said: “While the focus is on lifting up the ongoing impact of colonization and the theft of Native land on Native peoples today, all forms of oppression were acknowledged—such as the attacks on immigrants and the war on Gaza.”

Nichols also spoke with Phoebe Morad, executive director for Lutherans Restoring Creation. Morad grew up near Patuxet and learned from her Indigenous neighbors that she could show up to National Day of Mourning events and provide support as an uninvited Christian. Morad emphasized the importance of taking accountability through participating in the events every year and actively listening to every speaker. She recounted being present when the granddaughter of Aquinnah Wampanoag activist Wamsutta Frank James read the letter he had attempted to share on that first Day of Mourning. She was also present to witness another young woman, a Palestinian American, “as she conveyed the violent assault on the Indigenous people of her home country,” reminding those gathered that colonialism continues to wreak havoc on the world.

Morad stressed the importance of demonstrating publicly on behalf of the most vulnerable when overindulgence is standard practice and not even your employer expects you to show up. She knows how much showing up over the years helped her to grow as a person, especially in the month of November. “To reflect on these truths on any other, more convenient day, I believe, misses the point,” she said. “The dissonance made every word, every step of the subsequent march together more impactful … especially when I connected later with my extended family around the dining room table.”

To stand in solidarity with Indigenous peoples and further support the Truth and Healing Movement efforts of the Indigenous Ministries and Tribal Relations team, join De Leon, Morad and other ELCA members on Nov. 27 in Patuxet for the annual demonstration.

Learn more

Details for both of these events will be shared on the ELCA’s Truth and Healing Movement webpage. For more information, please contact Vance Blackfox (vance.blackfox@elca.org), director of ELCA Indigenous Ministries and Tribal Relations.