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The End of the Beginning

Forrest Church • September 23, 2001

In England’s darkest hour, Winston Churchill said. "This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."

End times talk is the linguistic coin of millenarians, the charged currency of the apocalyptic realm. We heard a smattering of it a year ago, and lightly dismissed it, sailing as we were on the liner of progress from one American century into another. The Cold War was over, our enemies subdued or in disarray. Manifest at last, American destiny was now a given, the only question remaining–how we would choose to exercise our power. A few thoughtful souls attempted to voice warnings about the continuing nuclear threat, even about the growing danger of domestic terrorism. Did you know until this week that Senators Gary Hart and Warren Rudman had devoted much of last year to chairing a bipartisan panel on our nation’s growing vulnerability to terrorist attack? They issued a four hundred page report. No action was taken. No notice was paid. As for the nuclear menace, we appear to be trying to catch up with terrorism in part by abdicating any pretense whatsoever that nuclear devastation remains the final game breaker. We talk of reinstituting underground testing (working in tandem with China) and backing down on our pressure (ethically unpersuasive in the first place given our own double standard) on countries like Pakistan and India, to secure their cooperation in the war against terrorism.

This haunts me. Just imagine a terrorist cell plotting to wreak its havoc not with four airplanes but with four nuclear bombs. Here again, history should be sobering. It is we, through our CIA, who armed and trained the Taliban during the final chapter of our struggle against the menace of Soviet Communism. It is we who continue to defend the ultimately indefensible posture of nuclear apartheid.

And yet, these truly apocalyptic warnings notwithstanding, I somehow feel that the events of a week ago Monday do not mark the beginning of the end. With most Americans, the determination and restraint of our national leaders in this time of crisis has impressed me. Yes, the rhetoric has sometimes gotten out of hand. To speak of the war against terrorism as a crusade at the same time we are attempting to assure Muslims in this country and around the world that we respect Islam sends the wrong message; but President Bush recognized that almost immediately and apologized for his choice of language. Less noted, but more troublesome, at least theologically, is the code name first selected for our campaign: Operation Infinite Justice. Infinite justice is not ours to dispense. Even as outrage is appropriate while rage, uncontrolled and often misdirected, is dangerous, the justice we seek should not be compromised by arrogance. Righteousness and self-righteousness are very different things. The former is redemptive, the latter delusional.

Apart from these concerns, I applaud our leaders’ actions to date. In Afghanistan, we are embarking on a struggle for world peace and security against an enemy that threatens all of us, not only America. The struggle is one between order and anarchy, civilization and nihilism. In a shrinking globe, with a shared world economy, a world-wide communications system, common nuclear threat, and shared environmental concerns, for the one body to protect its many members, the cancer of terrorism must be removed as best we can. To expand this metaphor–which works better, both geo-politically and theologically, than any I can think of–given that the cancer has metastasized, our leaders are correct when they remind us that a surgical operation, even if possible, will not prove sufficient to neutralize the threat. Even as doctors fight cancer with experimental treatments and a variety of antidotes, in our changed world with this new enemy we too will have to find new, more effective methods of statecraft to root terrorism out of the world’s body politic.

If this struggle promises to prove humbling, that too is not a bad thing. Pride will not conquer terrorism; in fact, pride will only incite it. Humble and righteous determination, in concert with a greater and more essential coalition of allies than the world has ever seen assembled, holds out far greater prospects for success than does unilateral and prideful retribution. Recalling the theological diction of Armageddon, hubris leads only to nemesis. The same pride that may unwittingly have invited a fall, if further empowered by illusions of infinite justice could lead to a nemesis of truly unimaginable proportions.

My confidence that this will not happen stems from many little things. Last week’s tragedy seems to have served as a terrible but chastening wake-up call, not only for our leaders and leaders of many other nations, but also for us, both as a people and as individuals. Few of us, I think, would like to return to being the same people we were nine days ago. Recall the way we were back then. Hardly conscious of life’s fragility. Far more driven to compete than inspired to cooperate. Our energies misdirected to secondary endeavors. Our passions often petty ones. Our spiritual priorities neglected or misplaced. We are far more cognizant today than we were then of what really matters: generosity of spirit; sacrifice for others; patience; thoughtful consideration; above all, loving kindness. We ask strangers in elevators "Are you okay?" We commiserate with our neighbors. And we see our loved ones with new eyes. In unexpected ways, the shadow of death has brought us back to life again.

If my confidence is not misplaced–if this truly is not the beginning of the end, but rather the end of a new beginning–this unconscionable tragedy will work its way deep into our being and unlock the souls we have imprisoned there. It may unlock our hearts as well to experience true freedom, leading to greater investments in responsibility, community, and mutuality. It may even fire our minds to embrace a higher calling, one worthy of the human promise we so casually squander during the numbing repetition of days that, all too often, we fail to redeem.