Where Love Took Root

Twenty-five years after 9/11, remembering the call to love across the lines of fear and division

Today, twenty-five years after September 11, 2001, I find myself returning to the day after. I remember September 12 as the day that changed the trajectory of my life and, in many ways, my faith. The smoke was still rising over New York. The grief was still raw. And already, alongside the horror of what human beings could do to one another, I was beginning to see something else: what it might mean to choose love in the face of hate.

I made a promise that night that I would be part of love, not hate. I could not have imagined where that promise would lead me: to live in the Middle East and South Asia, to serve among Rohingya refugees during the largest refugee crisis in the world, to work in immigration advocacy in the United States, and eventually to become a priest in Christ’s Church. Through each of those chapters, the question has remained remarkably simple: How do I live as Christ’s love in a hurting world?

The Kutupalong remains refugee camp in Cox's Bazar, Bangladesh, is the largest refugee camp in the world (photo 2018)

Twenty-five years later, I am still asking that question. I never imagined that the days when people gathered in grief and solidarity would be followed by so many more years of division, suspicion, and dehumanization. But I also have not given up. I still remember the “never agains” of those days. I still believe that we can choose a different way. I still believe love is stronger than hate, and that the Church is called to embody that love, not simply speak about it.

This is the story of where that conviction first began to take root.

(The altar at the arch of UGA, September 12, 2001)

“As I grew to love my Middle Eastern friends, the tension grew inside of me. I still believed Jesus was more than the prophet my Muslim friends viewed him as, but where did they fit into his plan?

It was in this ripe place for growth that I found myself the day the world shook and the smoke rose into the sky over New York City. Many people of my generation recall September 11, 2001, as a day that changed everything—for me it was the day after.

The wounds still fresh—the normal chatter before my Arabic class was replaced with an unnatural hush. I don’t know how long we sat there before our professor with kind eyes spoke quietly. Our class looked very different than most that day—the mixture of white and brown faces, the meeting of different faiths. While others that day discussed the fear of terrorism and blamed those responsible, we talked about a different kind of fear and blame.

I got to glimpse firsthand the pain of those who were at the receiving end of pointed fingers and targeted insults. Tears flowed anew as my beautiful friends spoke of their fear in being targeted because of their brightly colored headscarves, and some admitted—with much shame—that they had thought of removing them.

There were the victims of 9/11 in the official counts announced when the rubble was cleared away. But there was a whole other group of people who became victims that day. The women in hijabs. The Sikhs wearing turbans. The devout men with beards. The Muhammads and Osamas. The Khans and Alis. In one day they were all labeled “enemy” because of their faith or their name, their language or heritage. They became feared and hated, targeted and profiled.

That night I stood amid the flickering flames of a makeshift altar. The iron arch that stood as the entrance to our North Campus was littered with flowers and candles, surrounded by weeping students.

There haven’t been many times in my life I can say I heard God speak specifically or audibly to me. But in that moment the voice ringing in my ears was so clear and forceful that it brought me to my knees: “Love those who, even now, others are growing to hate. Love those who are feared and oppressed, rejected, and who have few who love them.”

“I will go wherever you ask me to, Lord,” I cried. “I will not let hate win in my life. I will love, and I will show your mercy and grace to anyone who needs to know it.”

Jesus found me on the steps of the arch that night. And for the first time, I really found him. The soil, the light, the season—they were all just right. Everything that had led me there, all the seeds of my faith, came together in that moment as my understanding of grace began to take root.”

A selection from Beyond September 11 in Everbloom: Stories of Living Deeply Rooted and Transformed Lives

Twenty-five years later, I still return to that night, not because I have lived perfectly into the promise I made, but because I still believe it is a promise worth making. The world has given us plenty of reasons to be afraid of one another, to draw lines between “us” and “them,” to decide who is worthy of our compassion. But Christ continues to call us across those lines.

Perhaps you have your own September 12: a moment when something in you shifted, when the world looked different and you could no longer go back to the way you had seen it before. Perhaps you, too, have made a promise about the kind of person you want to be in a hurting world.

Women from the U.S. and villages across Bangladesh coming together in prayer, 2019

Twenty-five years later, I am still desperately trying to live into mine. And, I think, that is where the invitation is for all of us: to ask, in whatever place we find ourselves today, What would it look like for me to choose love here? Where is Christ asking me not to let hate have the final word?

I still believe we can choose love. I still believe the Church can be a place where that love becomes flesh. And I still believe it is not too late to begin again.