The Hole In Brown Ground

Perhaps it was an act of quiet protest. Who knows? But instead of packing myself into a theater to see The Da Vinci Code Friday night, struggling for elbow space with people dressed like Mona Lisa, I went to a rather empty theater to see United 93, the riveting film about the 9/11 flight that crashed into a Pennsylvania field. Perhaps it is wrong of me to note that there are many people who believe that The Da Vinci Code is real and that 9/11 was not. But that this surprises any of us is alarming, as most of us pride ourselves at not being shocked by the crazies among us. But the crazies are out: 9/11 was the result of nefarious American military operations and the Church has been hiding the fact that Jesus had children (and that I am one of his descendants).

If you want reason to slit your wrists and bleed out in a Da Vinci Code chalice (soon to be made available with McDonald's Happy Meals, I think), then check out any number of 9/11 conspiracy media, particularly the brooding "documentary" Loose Change. But I warn you: with headphones on (and several one-hitters on your Cheech and Chong bong) you will not only doubt that 9/11 happened as you KNOW IT DID, you will doubt whether bleeding yourself to death is the best way to silence your outrage. (Seriously, I warn you: Loose Change is disturbing, not because it is at all right, but because it does not offer you alternative explanations.) But if you don't want to watch something, you can read hundreds of webpages that will prove that 9/11 was a conspiracy pulled off by literally thousands of people (which proves that miracles DO occur). I am sure that the next thing we will find out is that those who "died" in 9/11, especially those passengers on the four deadly planes, are actually alive and well, held for re-assimilation in Guantánamo Bay (affectionately known as Club Re-med, or so say the voices in my head). By the way, if you do watch Loose Change and you need to regain a foothold on the world, go here for help.

United 93 is a powerful, frank, straightforward tale. But it is not as powerful as one's imagination, especially if one has a strong imagination and is at all familiar with flying in commercial planes. Reality is far worse than the film could depict, which is not to say that the film flinched at realism but rather to admit that film, any film, is limiting. Irrespective of this film's limitations, I wept (which I am wont to do at such movies) during many of the film's scenes. And one line struck me as significant: "We have a real world situation here." Real world indeed.
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When I used to paint houses (on the side, pun intended) I became pretty good friends with Bob, the man who worked the counter at the paint store. Bob Peterson was a simple man in the good sense of the word; he surely was not a simpleton. His simplicity was more Thoreau than Forrest Gump; and yet he was far more St. Francis than he ever was that recluse on Walden Pond. Bob also was a Christian, and he wore his faith beautifully, but not on his sleeve; he wore it in his every word and deed. He was an exemplar of everything Christ might be as a husband, father, paint store clerk. And yet Bob no doubt could have been more, more like his brother, a man who attended MIT and Harvard and later became the president of a major company. For Bob, his calling was far less lofty.

Bob told me about his brother several times. The most poignant tale was right after the first anniversary of 9/11 when Bob and his family traveled to Pennsylvania to meet President Bush, to hold hands with others in ceremony, to cry and weep and pray on a quiet tract of land. Bob told me that before the ceremony, a firefighter was assiduously looking for members of the Peterson family. Finally finding them, the firefighter specifically spoke to Bob's nephew. The fireman shared how he was one of the first people to arrive at the scene of the plane crash one year earlier. He said that as he got near the crater left by the plane's horrific impact, the very first thing he found was a lightly scorched Bible. Apparently it still smelled of jet fuel.

The Bible belonged to Bob's brother, Don Peterson. Don and his wife, Jean, sat in Row 14 on September 11, 2001.
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I think of conspiracy theories, and I think of how cruel they are. The 9/11 theorists, to me, are committing a gross form of spiritual and emotional abuse, even battery. To read (and see) suggestions that Don Peterson's Bible was scorched not by the evil acts of terrorists (and the heroic feats of the United 93 passengers) but by a missile, or some other outside violence, is hard to countenance without anger. It is even harder to countenance without being wounded. 9/11's effects have been monstrous, with not only the collapse of common sense but the collapse of common decency being the most obvious.

The mythology of The Da Vinci Code may indeed lead some people to hell or some sort of apostasy. But the conspiracy theorists scavenging on fear and uncertainty in the wake of a truly awful tragedy are already in hell, the hell of a well-repudiated delusion.

There remains a gaping hole in the earth, with all sorts of things crawling forth.

Remember 9/11.

Peace.

©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.

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