April 19th Remembrance
Thirty years have passed since that early spring morning of April 19, 1995, a day etched into the collective memories of many Oklahomans. This year, April 19, 2025, falls on Holy Saturday and in our congregations will be marked by services of waiting and reflection, culminating in a striking of the first fire, from which we will light the Paschal Candle. In the moment of lighting the Paschal Candle, we rejoice in the power of light to overcome darkness and life to overcome death. This resource is intended to help us remember how the light shone through the darkness of April 19, 1995, and to serve as a means for contemplation, prayer, and communal remembrance. We invite you to use one or all of the resources here in individual remembrance or as a practice within your community.
In this resource, you will find a detailed outline and instructions utilizing the practices or prayers intended to help you, your family, or your community engage in a time of intentional remembrance. Included are:
A scripture and resource for Dwelling in the Word
A resource for reflection on two personal stories from April 19th, 1995
A Collect for Remembrance
Prayers for Individuals and Communities
Resources for Talking with Children and Youth
Reflections from April 19, 1995
There are many stories from the events of April 19th, 1995, and the aftermath. Each story is a unique experience of God’s presence and the numerous ways in which the light overcame the darkness of that day. We share two of these personal stories below and include questions for your reflection and prayer.
A Remembrance from Susan Urbach: Member of St. Paul’s Cathedral and current member of the Episcopal Diocese of Oklahoma Standing Committee
On that beautiful April morning, lying on the street at NW 6th and Robinson, I waited for an ambulance to take me to the hospital. I could turn my head and see St. Paul’s Cathedral still standing. I had no idea what was happening. I was in the former Journal Record Building, and we had exited my office, which faced the Federal Building. My office was in rubble, smoke was pouring through our building from the cars burning in the parking lot, and we thought something had happened to our building. I did not see the Federal Building, and in a state of shock and damaged hearing, I had no idea of the extent of the destruction all around.
From the moment I left home, my world revolved around a 5-6 block area of Downtown, which was now either destroyed or heavily damaged. I knew seven who died, others who were injured and survived, and nothing was the same. What do you do, how do you live when not just you, but your community is thrown into the darkest dark by an action deliberately committed by others? Does being a Christian, and particularly an Episcopalian, help in going from darkness to the light of a new normal?
One story, and being at St. Paul’s, made the difference. In a conversation with a BMX bicycler shortly after the bombing, he was truly excited by the fact that I’d perhaps have a lot of scars. He was excited because scars tell stories! You don’t get your scar until a wound has healed, and the guiding principle for me was that healing comes in an entirely different way than wounding, generally in very quiet and soft ways, so that you could miss healing unless you looked for it to recognize it.
The spiritual leadership at St. Paul’s, Dean Back, our clergy, and parishioners was incredible. You must grieve. What was “normal” yesterday is gone and will not come back the same way. Ever. Even in our brokenness, we could be a community, find ways to worship, work not to “put things back to the way they were,” but to envision what could be. As Episcopalians, we can celebrate, bless, and sprinkle holy water for every event and step, large and small. It is a way to recognize those moments of healing that can be so easily missed.
Light is always stronger than the darkness, but like healing, it is not necessarily a flipped-on switch but comes more gradually. It is more like being in the darkest night in the most remote location, and at some time, you begin to see outlines, the darkness is less dense, you start seeing without straining and at some point, it is dawn, and then day.
A Remembrance from the Rev. Susan Colley Joplin: Dean, St. Brigid’s School of Spiritual Direction in the Episcopal Diocese of Oklahoma
Leonard Cohen writes, “There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”
At 9:02 am on April 19, 1995, a shattering explosion rocked the foundation of not only Oklahoma City but the nation as well. On 7th and Robinson, 1 1/2 blocks from the blast, St. Paul’s Cathedral imploded as the force of the bomb hit the ancient church. When the walls settled, the building was no longer steady and strong, but was a condemned property.
Cracked in several places but not destroyed, the 100-year-old Celtic cross remained atop the nave. Loving hands lifted the cross high up off the roof and into a safe place. From that moment on, the broken cross was the symbol that would guide us through the rough patch of healing.
The aftermath was a dark and difficult time on every level. For me, sitting with families in the First Christian Church as they were awaiting the news that the remains of a loved one had been found was heartrending.
We could not experience the familiar and steadfast details of everyday life as we had known it because that had been blown away by the bomb. And yet, mysteriously, moments of light broke in, and always in unanticipated packages. And when that happened, joy had never felt so joyous.
The Sunday immediately following the bombing, Dean Willey Hall became our new sacred space. Smashed tiles and electrical cords dangling from the ceiling told the story of the past days. Yet what I remember even more strongly is the light-filled surging of my heart and sweet relief in encountering the faces of treasured souls, so grateful to see each other alive. Nothing was taken for granted that day. The experience of light breaking in at that moment and others like it was what kept me moving forward through the grief and loss.
On Easter morning, 1997, triumphant strains of the organ, newly built for the restored Cathedral, flooded the church with the sounds of familiar Easter hymns. I don’t remember a lot of details about that day, but I do remember how it felt. A newfound strength seemed alive and resplendent. New life emerging from the brokenness in such a profound way that it can only be described as Resurrection.
