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9-26-01
Even in Tragedy, A Little Humor
By Rabbi Daniel S. Brenner
On the Thursday
after the attacks, I went to serve as a volunteer chaplain at the Armory on Lexington
Avenue, where the city had set up a center for families of the missing. Walking up the
steps to the entrance, I couldn’t help but remember the last time that I was there.
It was at a contemporary art show packed with sculptures made with sardine cans and
inflatable cows, all being hawked by stylish gallery people from places like Helsinki or
Zurich. Now the massive hall was occupied by folding table after folding table of police
officers, assisting families as they completed a seven-page form and stapled on dental
records.
Like the other
clergy who were volunteering to staff the site, I felt overcome by the anguish I found
there. I had sat with families in grief and loss when I worked in a Philadelphia Hospital
as a chaplain, but the scene in the Armory was a thousand times more desperate. In the
hospital we always had a body, sometimes a vital sign, doctors to explain the situation,
information; here I spoke with family after family only to say, “We don’t know
yet. You are doing everything you can. My heart is with you.” Some family members
approached me to ask: “What happens if they don’t find any bodies?” Coming
up with an answer felt unbearably grim.
After a few hours
spent absorbing the tremendous tension and sorrow in the main hall, some of the chaplains
were called downstairs to the basement, where the police were setting up more tables. Now
would come the most difficult of tasks – bringing families in to see the list of
confirmed dead. On a long wooden bench along the wall sat priests, ministers, and an Imam.
I squeezed in next to a Catholic priest and a young Episcopalian minister with a
“Hello, my name is Christopher” name tag, feeling like we had just been drafted
for a dreadful and hopeless task. Then the Red Cross Spiritual Care Coordinator spoke.
“OK, guys, listen up!” She was an amazingly energetic minister from California
who conveyed a mix of pep and compassion: “I’m gonna make this brief because we
don’t have much time before those families come in here and I’m assuming you all
know what to do. I’ve seen this before. This is like what I saw in Oklahoma
City—we need to be there and show God’s love—but I want to remind you that
this is not a time to proselytize. This is ecumenical. No praying in the name of Jesus.
Just be a spiritual presence. Show God’s love for them. Do what you do best.
Remember, no praying in the name of Jesus!”
I raised my hand
and she nodded at me. “Yes, Rabbi, what is it?”
“Is it all
right if I pray in the name of Jesus?”
The laughter from
the other clergy filled the room. This was the only joke I cracked the entire week, which,
you might imagine, is an all-time low for a rabbi.
It is hard to
relate anything other than grief in connection with this tragedy, but there were some
precious moments when something else—some recognition of the shared sense of
absurdity that this chaos has wrought—broke through.
On Wednesday
morning, the day before my experience at the Armory, I was among a group of rabbis who
were down at the Chelsea Piers, which had been set up hastily as a triage area, but ended
up serving as a spot for families to fill out the missing persons report. This was not my
first visit to the Piers, either; I had once enjoyed the driving range with some old
college friends on a summer night, smacking golf balls into a large net over the Hudson.
Now I was organizing a clergy table with the help of a Catholic priest from 135th
Street, Episcopalian ministers from the seminary two blocks away, a Buddhist teacher from
the Upper West Side, and an Ethical Culture minister from Riverdale. We prayed silently
with one another as we began our work.
Mainly, we escorted
the families as they filed through to the tables to fill out the reports. We offered them
water, directed them to the bathroom, and tried our best to speak with them in a calm,
understanding way. Some of the ministers and priests were taking families over to get food
that had been set out along one wall. One of the rabbis, David Sable, realized there was
nothing kosher. He made a tactical decision to call Mendy’s Deli, home of classic
pickles, pastrami, corned beef and tongue that some people insist is New York’s best.
Soon after, a donated platter of cold cut sandwiches arrived, and much potato salad.
A few hours later,
I was with a Jewish family as they looked for an uncle in a tireless search. After they
filled out their forms, I told them that we had some kosher food, and asked if they wanted
anything. They looked exhausted, and I guessed that they had not eaten since the attack.
“No, thank you, we’re alright,” they responded. I pushed. “Do you like
Mendy’s?” I asked. On hearing this, they brightened just a bit, and answered in
that quintessentially Jewish way which answers a question with a question:
“Mendy’s?” We laughed.
I’ve never
seen such comfort from a corned beef sandwich.
Such life-affirming
moments could not come close to consoling the thousands of families in enormous grief. But
as all the solemn declarations about tragedy are being made, it should be remembered that
even in tragedy, New Yorkers did not lose their sense of humor.
In fact, New
Yorkers retained their character. This city, which can harden even the most laid back
soul, has always thrived on unexpected kindness, the quick joke from a stranger, and a
shared sense that there is astounding beauty in a world that trucks along just a notch
above chaos. So while the attacks have changed the lives of thousands, the subway map, and
the skyline, I am proud to report that they haven’t drained the sweetness from the
Big Apple.
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