Father Mychal Judge: Honoring 9/11’s First Officially Recorded Casualty, 25 Years Later

In the Longwood neighborhood of the South Bronx in New York City, the firehouse of FDNY Engine 73/Ladder 42 had just undergone a multimillion-dollar renovation and was being rededicated. During the ceremony, Franciscan priest and seasoned FDNY chaplain Mychal Judge delivered a homily:  

Good days, bad days, up days, down days, sad days, happy days—but never a boring day on this job. You do what God has called you to do . . . You have no idea when you get on that rig, no matter how big the call or no matter how small, you have no idea what God is calling you to, but He needs you. 

It was September 10th, 2001. 

Father Mychal Judge was born and raised in Brooklyn and early on cultivated a fascination with the priesthood, and at just 15, Judge began attending seminary. After graduating, Judge would later be assigned to various parishes and roles throughout the Northeast and eventually make his way back to New York City. In 1994, after a few years of serving as a part-time chaplain, Judge agreed to serve in the role full-time for the FDNY. 

During his chaplaincy, Judge’s biographers, Francis DeBernardo and Michael Daly, point out that Father Judge crafted a “theology of firefighting” of sorts. That is, he viewed the firehouses as holy ground and the firefighters (or “holy rascals,” as Judge would say) as participating in God’s mercy in the city. While the colorful language and bluntness that frequently accompany firemen were likely not a perfect mesh for Father Judge’s disposition, there was a type of similarity between the life of a priest and a fireman. The firefighters’ ways of life in the firehouse, their subsequent roles, hierarchy, and selflessness resembled the Franciscans’ camaraderie, structure, rhythms, and humility in their friary. Two uniquely different vocations, but they shared an oddly similar way of life and calling. 

In reading various reflections on how Judge handled his role as an FDNY chaplain, it’s hard to imagine a person more fit for the job. He was endlessly compassionate, brave, and willing. Judge became an authority figure that firefighters not only trusted but expected to be by their side in the darkest of days, and 9/11 was no different. 

Most retellings of 9/11 routinely state that it began as a “normal” Tuesday, but in the expansive metropolis of New York City, there is no such thing. For starters, it was primary election day, and New Yorkers were headed to the polls to elect the replacement for Mayor Giuliani. Additionally, it was the first full work week after Labor Day, and the weather was stunning. Due to a storm the day prior, there was not a cloud in the sky, a sensation aviators dub “severe clear.”

When the disasters ensued on that day, starting at 8:46 am, Judge quickly raced down to the World Trade Center (WTC) wearing his white fire helmet and black FDNY overcoat with his last name and the title “Chaplain” stenciled in. For all intents and purposes, Judge looked like a regular fireman in photos, the only noticeable difference being his clerical collar. 

That morning, Judge’s disposition stood out to almost everyone who knew him. Routinely at fires, Judge would often stand back from the site and remain a positive and warm presence for New York’s bravest. On this day, however, Judge was inside Tower 1 (the North Tower), completely distraught, pacing back and forth alone, mumbling desperate prayers.

At 9:59 am, a thunderous sound came from Tower 2 (the South Tower). As the sound grew, the crew on the ground level in the North Tower scurried to find refuge; unbeknownst to them, the sound was the collapse of the South Tower. The debris from the collapse swarmed those in the North Tower, turning everything black. As the crew in the North Tower regained their footing and looked for light, they quickly discovered Father Mychal Judge’s body lying lifelessly. It’s been reported that his last words were “Jesus, please end this right now! God, please end this!”

Chief Joseph Pfeifer was one of the first to discover him. Pfeifer, who was the first FDNY chief on the scene at the WTC that morning, had set out to become a priest before joining the department, even attending seminary. In his third year of seminary, Pfeifer would instead choose a wife, and though he didn’t become a priest, he forever remained a lifelong admirer of the holy calling. Given his background, Pfeifer had a particular affection and respect for Father Judge’s role in the FDNY. Upon discovering Judge’s body, Chief Pfeifer removed Judge’s clerical collar to search for a pulse, but found nothing. 

Of the two men, Pfeifer was the one who had signed up to give his life for the sake of others, but on this day, it would be the priest who performed such a holy and sacred task. Once Chief Pfeifer discovered the body, true to the FDNY code, he would not leave one of their own behind. He ordered some of his men to carry Father Judge out; they took him to nearby St. Peter’s Church. It was a tragic reversal of roles: the priest died the death of a fireman, and the fireman initiated the priestly procession of a lifeless body.

Father Judge was lifted onto a plastic chair and then carried out by five men. As they carried him, a photographer snapped a photo of the moment. It became one of the most famous photographs of 9/11, dubbed the “American Pietà.” Judge’s body is held by five men who possess the persona of Joseph of Arimathea, performing a sacred mission in a profane time. When they arrived at St. Peter’s, all the clergy had left to attend to the crowds, so two of the men administered the last rites and placed Father Judge on the altar. 

Soon, Judge’s body was taken to Bellevue Hospital, where many bodies were being taken to, waiting for an autopsy to be performed. Upon arrival, Father Peter Brophy, OFM, insisted that no autopsy be done and stated that Judge was Jewish and needed to be buried before dusk. Of course, neither of those statements was true. Nevertheless, the hospital gave in. Father Judge circumvented the line and was given a death certificate “DM” (Disaster Manhattan) “0001-01”—the first certified casualty of 9/11.  

Each fall, I find myself reflecting on Father Judge’s life and legacy. There are plenty of stories on 9/11 of heroism, bravery, tragedy, spirituality, heartbreak, and redemption. And yet, I remain fixated on Father Judge. I have no obvious connection to him. During 9/11, I was five years old and lived roughly 3,000 miles away. But these days, I now live just over a mile from where the Twin Towers once stood. Often, during my morning jogs, I run past the reflecting pools where the Towers once stood, wondering what that day must have been like for my fellow New Yorkers, asking why the prayers of Father Judge weren’t granted. 

Perhaps my fixation on Father Judge stems from the fact that I also constantly find myself in awe of the bravery, selflessness, and integrity of those whom I minister to. I am not a chaplain for the FDNY, but I spend my days in prayer and conversation with urban planners, film directors, lawyers, physician assistants, and nonprofit workers, all of whom serve and bless New York in ways that go above and beyond what I can. And yet, when I see Father Judge dressed in his chaplain’s gear, inside the North Tower, praying without ceasing, I see a pastor with his people, suffering with and for them, right by their side, to the detriment of his own life. He’s not far off, locked up in a parish with thoughts and prayers, but in the Garden of Gethsemane with his brothers, begging God to act.

Less than 24 hours after his final homily, Judge lived the reality he spoke of. That is, we have no idea what God is calling us to, but He needs us, and we need Him, and twenty-five years later, we need Him all the more.