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| Russell Yount |
Editor’s Note: This piece was written in February of 2020. We are running it now ahead of the 26th anniversary of the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, Okla. on April 19.
It’s a few minutes past sunset, and I’m writing this reflection from the lobby of an atrium-style hotel in Norman, Okla.
The 24th annual In the Father’s Footsteps Catholic Men’s Conference has drawn to a close.
Archbishop Coakley of Oklahoma City and Bishop Konderla of Tulsa have just concelebrated Mass on this vigil of the First Sunday of Lent.
It was a truly blessed day, an opportunity to hear some inspiring talks, to meet some new brothers in Christ, and to reunite briefly with some friends who live a long distance from me.
As I like to do after these events, I’m taking time now to reflect on the day.
One brief comment from the host this morning stuck in my memory.
Earlier in the morning, before any attendees had arrived, police with bomb-sniffing dogs had swept the conference center to ensure everyone’s safety.
Those words sound a bit more ominous here: Norman is approximately 20 miles south of downtown Oklahoma City.
An ‘iconic reverence’
Yesterday morning, my plane landed at Will Rogers World Airport under a cloudless blue sky.
It was, in the spirit of Rodgers and Hammerstein, “a beautiful morning” in Oklahoma.
The late February day felt more like April, perhaps much like April 19, 1995.
I had planned my arrival to allow time to visit the Oklahoma City National Memorial and Museum.
I parked my rental vehicle half a block away and approached on foot. A place like this commands an ironic reverence.
The Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building once stood along a segment of NW 5th St. that no longer exists.
In place of that street segment is a reflecting pool, and on both ends of the pool are massive bronze gate-like structures.
On one side of the reflecting pool, on the original footprint of the Federal Building, is the Field of Empty Chairs.
Each chair represents one of the 168 people who lost their lives that day.
Only a partial foundation wall remains of the Federal Building itself.
On the opposite side of the reflecting pool is a grove of trees, and beyond that is the building that, in 1995, housed the Journal Record newspaper.
That building now serves as the museum.
I entered the museum and presented my ticket, which I had purchased online days earlier.
A guide, apparently in her early 20s, welcomed me.
I told her that I vividly remembered the news of April 19, 1995, when I was in my second semester of college. She responded that she had not yet been born in 1995. I suddenly felt much older than my 44 years.
In the museum, I saw that every moment of the incident had been documented, from the perverse planning among the conspirators to the construction of the memorial.
For me, the most startling exhibit was Timothy McVeigh’s car, an old Mercury from the 1970s.
It’s a faded, sickly shade of yellow and heavily patched with body filler.
That ugly car was the key to McVeigh’s capture: An Oklahoma State Patrol officer pulled him over for a missing license plate less than two hours after the bombing.
Remembering our history
There was a time when I might have avoided visiting a place associated with one of America’s darkest days.
Yesterday, though, I saw the memorial through the eyes of a middle-aged Catholic man. The talks at today’s conference helped me to contextualize the experience.
At the Last Supper, Jesus and the Apostles recalled the first Passover, just as every Passover observance recalled the deliverance of Israel from Egypt.
I believe that humans have an innate need to remember our history, even the ugly parts.
We remember not just intellectually, but also by stepping into it.
As I walked through the museum and remembered the terror and sorrow of that day, two words came to my mind: Heroic virtue.
The perpetrators of the bombing displayed the worst of human depravity.
Even so, their horrific actions brought out the best in the countless others who risked their own lives to save the ones injured and trapped.
The Oklahoma City National Memorial and Museum commemorates not only those who perished but also those who exhibited heroic virtue that day.
In a similar way, we remember the saints for their heroic virtue.
St. Joseph protected the Holy Family from persecution by King Herod.
St. John the Beloved Apostle stood by Jesus when all others had fled.
St. Sebastian remained steadfast in faith under persecution from Emperor Diocletian.
St. Thomas More refused to take an oath that conflicted with his faith, even though it cost him his life.
St. Maximilian Kolbe offered hope in the midst of despair.
Fr. Vincent Capodanno rushed onto the battlefield to administer the sacraments.
Virtue allows us not only to perform good actions but also to give the best of ourselves (CCC 1803).
It was totally unplanned that I exited the museum at exactly 3 p.m., the Hour of Mercy, just in time to hear church chimes playing “Holy God, We Praise Thy Name.”
St. Joseph’s Old Cathedral, which was heavily damaged during the bombing, still stands as a testament to God’s continuing presence in downtown Oklahoma City.
I proceeded across the street, entered the beautifully restored cathedral, and prayed the Chaplet of Divine Mercy.
Later, I found that there is a marble sculpture behind the cathedral that is titled “And Jesus Wept.” Its title describes it perfectly.
We serve a God who has entered into our brokenness and has suffered with us, to whom we can say, “For the sake of His sorrowful Passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world.”