(Note: I wrote this back in 2008. It still captures how I feel on September 11.)

Barry attended the church I served in Cayce. He wandered in one day looking for food and company.

On a Sunday afternoon, a child from Noah’s Klubhouse, our children’s ministry, came running into my office.

“Pastor Mike! There’s a strange man sitting in Noah’s Klubhouse eating macaroni!”

I rushed down the hall to see what was going on. There, sitting in a kiddie chair, was a man who looked to be in his mid-twenties, eating a plate of macaroni and cheese. He looked up at me and smiled.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Pastor Mike.”

“I’m Barry,” he said.

It was immediately apparent that Barry was developmentally disabled.

“Glad to meet you, Barry,” I said. “Why don’t you bring your supper with you and join me in my office?”

I grabbed a plate of mac and cheese, and the two of us walked back to my office.

It turned out that Barry had been walking down the road, saw people going into the church, and simply followed them inside. He lived about a mile away and attended a “school” nearby. I told him he was welcome anytime the church doors were open, but when the little people were meeting, he needed to come see me first.

And Barry started coming to church.

Every time the doors were open.

Worship? Barry walked in and made himself at home. Covered-dish supper? Barry was there. Youth or children meeting? He came to see me first, just as I had asked. Trustees meeting? Barry sat quietly in the back, never bothering anyone.

Eventually, he asked if he could join the choir. The choir director and members said, “Of course.”

Barry couldn’t read music or carry a tune. Mostly, he sang whatever the choir sang, only about half a beat later.

The choir was wonderful about it. No one complained. In fact, they began looking after Barry—helping him with clothes, food, transportation, and medical needs.

Eventually, I gave him another job. I asked him to carry our church banner into the sanctuary each Sunday with the acolyte. Barry would put on his robe, take hold of that banner, and carry it proudly down the aisle.

Then came September 11, 2007, the sixth anniversary of the terrorist attacks. It fell on a Tuesday, the same day of the week as September 11, 2001.

I had announced that our sanctuary would be open from 7 a.m. until 1 p.m. for anyone who wanted to stop by and pray. I arranged for quiet, meditative music to play throughout the morning. On the altar were four candles: two tall ones representing the Twin Towers, a shorter one for the Pentagon, and an even shorter one for the field in Pennsylvania. Prayer guides were available at the sanctuary door.

After getting everything ready, I spent some time there praying. Then I went back to my office to work.

A while later, I stepped outside for a breath of fresh air and noticed Barry’s “car” lying beside the sanctuary door.

Barry’s car was a long stick with a two-liter soda bottle attached to the end. He carried it with him everywhere and called it his car.

I knew Barry was inside.

I stepped into the sanctuary and saw him sitting there alone. No one else was there.

When he saw me, a big smile spread across his face.

“Passa Mike!”

Barry always had trouble pronouncing his t’s.

“Hey, Barry. What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for the 9-11.”

“Mind if I join you?” I asked.

He slid over, and I sat down beside him.

We sat there for a while, listening to the music and looking at the candles.

After a few minutes, Barry asked me a question.

“Passa Mike, is God sad?”

“Yes, Barry,” I said. “I think God is sad whenever we do things that hurt each other.”

“Oh,” he said.

We sat quietly for another minute.

“Barry, would you like to pray?”

“Sure.”

We bowed our heads. After a moment, I began praying aloud.

“Father God, on this day we remember—”

Barry began patting my leg.

“Passa Mike. Passa Mike. Passa Mike.”

I stopped.

“What is it, Barry?”

“Let’s be quiet. God is sad.”

So we were quiet.

Barry was my teacher that day.

Every year since, when September 11 comes around, I think about that morning in 2007 and about Barry sitting beside me in the sanctuary. Sometimes I listen to Bruce Springsteen’s “Into the Fire.”

But mostly, I sit in silence.

God is sad.