E Pluribus Unum

Across the Potomac from Georgetown, between Rosslyn and Arlington and awash in the bright, lingering notes of the Netherlands Carillon, stands one of America’s great icons. The Marine Corps War Memorial took sculptor Felix de Weldon three years to fix in meticulously and faithfully detailed bronze what Joe Rosenthal froze on film in a fraction of a second. Observers with no knowledge or memory of the events of February, 1945, might presume that all six of the Iwo Jima flag raisers were Marines. They’d be wrong.

Pharmacist’s Mate 2nd Class John Bradley was a Navy Corpsman, a combat medic, who had climbed to the top of Mount Suribachi with a 40-man patrol from E Company, 2nd Battalion, 28th Marines. As Suribachi was being softened-up by aerial bombs and naval artillery, Bradley had been on the beach tending to a badly wounded Marine. He gave the man the last of his water before beginning the long, thirsty, 560 foot climb up the mountain and another 24 hours of tropical combat with no water of his own. Bradley is easy to spot among the other giant figures of the memorial. He’s the one with the empty canteen pouch.

In the agonizing hours after the towers fell on 9/11, 235-year-old St. Paul’s Chapel on Broadway in Manhattan became the hub of a massive rescue and relief effort. The chapel, just across the street from Ground Zero, had been shielded from the massive shock wave and debris of the collapse by the nine-story bulk of 5 World Trade Center. In the dolorous moonscape that had been Manhattan, the Episcopal chapel stood, unscratched, as a magnet for both helper and helpless alike.

The staff of St. Paul’s has poignant stories from that time: George Washington’s historic personal pew being used for medical triage, crowds of exhausted rescue workers for whom the sanctuary was an impromptu dormitory, 15,000 volunteers serving 500,000 meals, and a visit by one frail old lady.

She was African-American, and they guess she was in her 80s. She had taken the subway from the South Bronx all the way to Lower Manhattan, blustered through police barricades and slowly made her way across the toxic crime scene. At the chapel door she lingered only long enough to hand the staff her cane – her contribution, she explained, to be used by anyone among the injured. Then she turned and hobbled anonymously back toward the Bronx.

Years ago I spent a couple of summers counseling at a camp where it was always one of my great delights to recite an allegory we counselors used to call, “The Fable of Heaven and Hell.” It’s the story of a man who, upon arrival at the Pearly Gates, discovers St. Peter’s computer is on the blink and it’s impossible to confirm his reservation. While we’re waiting for a repair, suggests the old apostle, why not let me show you what you’ve avoided? In a flash, the two are standing on a vast plain, spanned by an impossibly long picnic table. The table is heaped with delicacies of every description and set with the finest china. This, says Peter, is Satan’s realm. Our hero, of course, is not buying it. Where’s the suffering, the flames, Bosch’s deranged hellscape of grotesque demons and decaying sinners? Just wait, says Peter, just wait.

And soon they see the legions of the damned approach the enormous table. They are sickly, jaundiced and lethargic, and our hero soon sees why. In place of a right hand, each has a three foot long fork; in place of the left, a three foot long spoon. The denizens of Hell heap their plates and sit, but it’s joyless. Their devilish utensils make it impossible to bring the food to their mouths. Well, the wizened saint gently asks, seen enough?

Happily, the Pearly Gates are up and running when they return and, after a few taps on his keyboard, St. Peter bids welcome to the celestial kingdom. But our hero lurches to a drop-jawed halt just inside the boundary: Heaven, it seems, is a vast plain, spanned by an impossibly long picnic table. The table is heaped with delicacies of every description and set with the finest china. How can it be!? Just wait, counsels Peter, just wait.

They see the angelic multitudes approach the enormous table, laughing, vigorous and beautiful, but our hero cannot understand why. Because in place of a right hand, each has a three-foot fork; in place of the left, a three-foot spoon. The chosen say a quiet blessing, then heap their plates and sit. They load their ungainly utensils and…each leans forward to feed the person across the table.

And that, we would announce to our campers, was the way to make our own lives a lot less hellish: be selfless – feed the person across the table. Invariably, dinner that night would be a messy affair.

The upcoming 9/11 anniversary is what got me thinking about Iwo Jima and St. Paul’s and days in piney woods. I’m just sappy that way, but I’m a guy who likes some occasional reassurance that there still might be some selflessness left in the world. I’m the kind of naïf who believes it only takes simple acts of serial kindness to make humanity truly humane. If only we could take a moment and sit, metaphorically, at the same table.

Today, America seems mired in demagoguery unparalleled since the days of McCarthyism. Uncritical masses are prey to master propagandists of every persuasion who have replaced informed commentary with performance art. To paraphrase H.L. Mencken, doctrines known to be untrue are being preached to people known to be idiots. The result is factious, belligerent discord. We remain a country, but we seem too ouchy to be truly a nation.

On this anniversary of September 11^th, who will join me in resurrecting the spirit of September 12^th? I’m talking not about fear, grief or anger, but about that day when a shell-shocked nation awoke to find that the polarity of right/left, native/immigrant, white/black, gay/straight, choice/life, rap/country, young/old and rich/poor had been switched off. I’m talking about the feeling of national unity, the open expressions of concern for strangers’ welfare, the knowing nods that said we’re all in this together. I’d like to think that next week, for at least one day, we can get that feeling back again. Each of us must have some morsel to offer the person across the table. Or a canteen. Or a cane.