On September 11, 2001 the world changed forever. It is a day that will live in infamy, not only because of the 2,997 people who lost their lives in the immediate aftermath of the attacks on the twin towers, but in the decades of fear, warfare, and general upheaval that followed.¹ September 11 saw the birth of the global "war on terror." George W. Bush had campaigned on a promise of a "humble" foreign policy in which America was to step away from its self-appointed role as the global policeman, but instead ushered in a new era of militarism under the branding of "humanitarian interventionism" and the "war on terror"; phrases used to justify the full-scale invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq. As Philip H. Gordon puts it "the terrorists hijacked not just the airplanes, but also the direction of U.S. foreign policy."² The "war on terror" would come to be the cornerstone of U.S. foreign policy for the next half century. 

In the wake of the attacks on the World Trade Center, there was a flurry of writing, as journalists, poets, sociologists, psychologists, and political scientists sought to get a handle on how this catastrophe. The inimitable Canadian songwriter Leonard Cohen charted a course between madness and responsibility: "Did you go crazy or did you report on that day they wounded New York?"³ Others were less circumspect, transforming grief into a sort of ra-ra political jingoism that was able justify a whole host of military adventures. Unlike traditional warfare, the "war on terror" was open-ended, its targets amorphous. The adoption of the Patriot Act allowed for the considerable expansion of the surveillance state. 

Theologians, too, waded into the fray to reflect on what resources faith could offer, particularly when religious violence seemed to be so much at the heart of the problem. Rowan Williams, who was at the time the Archbishop of Canterbury, wrote with his characteristically gentle wisdom in a small volume entitled Writing in the Dust: After September 11. Williams was, in fact, not far from the Towers when they went down. Preparing to give a talk on spirituality at Trinity Wall Street, just a few blocks away from the Twin Towers.  

His reflections open with a discussion of last words; particularly the contrast between the last words of those who managed to get their message out to loved ones from the planes, and the spiritual advice apparently given to the hijackers themselves. 

"Last words. We have had the chance to read the mes-
sages sent by passengers on the planes to their
spouses and families in the desperate last minutes; and
we have seen the spiritual advice apparently given to the
terrorists by one of their number, the thoughts that
should be in their minds as they approach the death
they have chosen (for themselves and for others). Some-
thing of the chill of September 11 lies in the contrast."⁴

Religious language, Williams points out, is supposed to be about the "triumph of pointless, gratuitous love, the affirming of faithfulness even when there is nothing to be done or salvaged," and yet it is often everyday language that proves itself more adept at making space for grace. Religion, seeking the glory of martyrdom, convinced in the sheer rightness of its own cause, can be an obstacle to the outpouring of love. Williams describes "religiousness" as a dangerous thing, particularly in its ability to reinforce a diseased perspective and to make it easier for some people to kill other people. "Our religous talking, seeing, and knowing," he writes, "need a kind of cleansing." We need language that 'brings somether other than self-defensiveness; a breathing space in the asthmatic climate of self-concern and competition"⁵ 

Williams is well aware that "religious language" is not always very successful in creating this breathing space for itself. Too often it is clouded with suspicion, the mentality of us vs them, the justification of the murder of some of God's creatures. The imagery of writing in the dust is drawn from Williams own experience of the dust filled city, but also from the example of Jesus, writing in the dust when the religious people are ready to cast stones at the "sinful" woman.  

In the midst of that confrontation, Jesus stoops down to write in the dust. He adopts a position of humility, drawing attention away from the moment of anger. We don't know what he wrote, and in the end the words are not all that important. What is important is that he creates a breathing space; a space where the phlegmatic, choking anger of the religious mob has been stilled. A space for self-reflection; it is so much easier to spot the sins of others than it is to reflect on one's own shortcomings, to see the violence in which we ourselves have been complicit. Cohen in "On that Day," begins such a reflection, but quickly cuts it short as if it may be too painful. "Some people say that they hate us of old. Our women unveiled, our slaves, and our gold. I wouldn't know...." 

Too painful, or perhaps an unimportant thing to know. In the end it is not knowledge, but compassion which spares the woman. The compassion of Christ, which shames the indignant piety of the religious. The ability to exercise mercy which changes the world from a place in which fear and anger reign, into a place where the warring madness of the human heart can finally be still and know peace. 

 

1. "Casualties of the September 11 attacks." Online Wikipedia article available at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Casualties_of_the_September_11_attacks. Accessed on September 11, 2026. 

2. Philip H. Gordon "What Was the War on Terror? A Quarter Century of Fear and Fantasy." in Foreign Affairs September/October 2026 Volume 105 No. 5. Available online at https://www.foreignaffairs.com/reviews/what-was-war-terror Accessed on September 11, 2026. 

3. Leonard Cohen "On That Day" from the album Dear Heather.  Released by Columbia Records in 2004.  

4. Rowan Williams Writing in the Dust: After September 11. (W.B. Eerdman's Publishing Company, 2002), page 3. 

5. Ibid., 5.