What I had to cut from my sermon

All across the diocese this weekend, congregations are joining together to pray for peace. We have added litanies for peace and special prayers of the people to our services. Many of us will use a Eucharistic prayer with a theme for peace. And, we divided up the names of all of the US servicemen and women who have died in Iraq, and each congregation will pray for about 150 of them by name.

All that is to say that I wrote what seemed like a great introduction to my sermon and then realized that with all the other stuff in the service, my sermon needs to be shorter, rather than longer. So, as I was quite pleased with my reflection, I wanted somebody to read it. Here goes:

There are certain events in this country's history that are iconic. These events have had such a profound impact on our national consciousness, that they are permanently burned into our collective memory.

I have yet to meet a person who was over the age of five when President Kennedy was shot who could not tell me precisely where he or she was when they heard the news of his assassination. Many can describe the days that followed his shooting, and what they did.

The same is true for the September 11th attacks. Nearly all of us can tell the story of where we were and what we were doing when the news of that terrible morning became known. I myself was in a meeting at the local Chamber of Commerce. One of the office staff came in, looking stricken, and turned on the television. We were all surprised, as we were working on a project. When Marian explained that a plane had struck one of the towers, we stopped to watch, and like many, saw the second plane hit. Shock. Fear. Tears. All work ceased, as we remained glued to the television. The whole day took on a strange character. The bookstore was crowded, but not with people who were shopping. Instead, people came in to talk.

There are two other moments that are also burned into my consciousness. This country has declared war twice in my adult lifetime. And in both cases, I had been hoping and praying that diplomacy would win out. The news of both Operation Desert Storm and the War in Iraq were bitter disappointments.

On January 16, 1991, I was in Sylvester's bar in Northampton, MA - having dinner with friends. The lively bar scene grew suddenly quiet as all TVs filled with the image of news commentators announcing that "the liberation of Kuwait has begun." I remember sitting in stunned silence. I remember shock, fear, and tears that night, as well.

In March 2003, I was at Virginia Theological Seminary, interviewing for admission. I was visiting with the one student I knew, when she suddenly burst into tears. The war in Iraq had begun, she told me. I was crushed. That evening, I joined members of the community in the chapel to pray.

Ironically, on Thursday in Ironwood, we were watching a video of the Archbishop of Canterbury, ++Rowan Williams; it was filmed in April of 2003. It might be premature, he told the audience, to talk of a great victory in Iraq, at this point. How right he proved to be, in this regard.

OK - must finish my sermon - the one I'm preaching in about 12 hours!