Faith, memory, and what we owe the next generation on 9/11’s 25th anniversary
“Where were you when?”
It is a question often asked when we remember significant historical moments that shake a nation, a community, or a people.
Where were you when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in 1963? Where were you when Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated in 1968? Where were you when the Oklahoma City bombing occurred in 1995? Where were you when the Columbine school shooting happened in 1999? And, perhaps most profoundly for my generation, where were you on September 11, 2001?
Yet, about 30 percent of the U.S. population today was not yet born before September 11, 2001. For them, there is no personal answer. 9/11 is history. But for those of us who lived through it, it is memory.
So, perhaps 25-years later, there is different question worth asking of all of us, prompted by an experience at my local gym on the 25th anniversary.
I participated in my gym’s “9/11 steps” class marking the significant anniversary. I expected it to be a solemn way to remember the lives lost and the events that changed our nation.
Instead, I was surprised to find what felt like a full-blown party. There was a DJ, dancing, snacks, and people recording themselves for social media. Some military members arrived in uniform and participated on the StairMaster for the gym’s social media promotion. Some of the equipment had even been marked for use as part of the event.
Then, in the midst of the festive celebration, one gym member said something aloud for all to hear that made me pause:
“This is odd. Why are we having a party to celebrate 9/11? We should be praying.”
She questioned whether 9/11 should be treated as a celebration, even if the intention was to communicate that we are strong, resilient, and will not be defeated.
Her words should make us all stop and think.
How do we want to spend the significant dates marked on our calendars by horrific events?
With a party—or with prayer?
Those Who Remember
For someone like me who remembers exactly where I was on 9/11, I don’t want to stop praying.
I worked on Capitol Hill and drove into Washington, D.C., late that morning. As I made my way to work, I listened to the radio and heard the reports about the first plane hitting the South Tower of the World Trade Center. Like many people, I initially thought it had to be some kind of terrible accident.
By the time I reached the office, my colleagues were gathered around the television, watching the reports coming out of New York. Then the reports changed to a third plane off course and was believed to be heading toward the U.S. Capitol or the White House. That was the moment we knew we needed to leave the Hill.
The problem was that everyone else had the same idea.
When we got into our vehicles and attempted to leave, Capitol Hill was gridlocked. Pennsylvania Avenue, normally a busy thoroughfare, had become a parking lot of cars. No one could move.
I sat in my car, literally stopped in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue, with the radio blasting repeated reports that the third plane might be heading toward the Capitol or the White House.
Panic began to set in. I was on Capitol Hill, and I couldn’t get out.
Suddenly, I felt as though I couldn’t breathe. I stuck my head out of the car window, trying to get some air. Then I heard an EMT worker shouting for everyone within earshot to get back. There was a brown paper bag on the corner, and they weren’t sure what was inside.
People began getting out of their vehicles and running, even leaving possessions behind. Cars were abandoned in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue. Some ran without knowing exactly where they were going. I ran back to my office.
And there I sat and prayed: “Lord, please, I ask that this not be the day I die.”
Some of my coworkers who lived in the D.C. area offered to let colleagues walk home with them because the Metro had been shut down. There was no public transportation, and anyone who had driven into the district was trapped in the gridlock.
Eventually, some time passed and I returned to my car, still sitting where I had left it on Pennsylvania Avenue. By then, traffic had begun to move, and I was finally able to make my way out of the district. As I drove, I couldn’t help but think about the EMT worker I had seen earlier. While everyone else was running away from danger, he was standing firmly in the middle of it—helping, directing traffic, and trying to bring order to a situation filled with fear and confusion. That image stayed with me.
As I drove towards Maryland, I could see the black smoke rising from the Pentagon as part of the building was burning after the attack.
I Don’t Want to Stop Praying
Twenty-five years later, I am still thankful for the answered prayer that I prayed that morning: “Lord, please, I ask that this not be the day I die.”
I am thankful that God brought me home, that that day was not the end of my story, that 9/11 did not end our story as a nation. For I was not the same person who had driven into Washington, D.C. that morning, and neither was it the same nation. It was, for many of us, the beginning of a calling.
New Nation
The emotional imprint of September 11 called for a change that stayed with me. And it didn’t just change me. It changed our nation. The changes went far beyond what we experience at airports and in the security measures that became part of everyday life. September 11 also changed career paths, academic disciplines, and the way our nation thought about protecting the homeland.
The Congressional 9/11 Commission, comprised of bipartisan membership, investigated the events leading up to and on the day of the attacks, described the response to terrorism that day as “organized chaos.” So, a new government department was created ― Department of Homeland Security. New academic fields emerged. Colleges and universities began developing programs focused on homeland security, emergency management, cybersecurity, counterterrorism, and disaster response.
Our nation needed people who would be prepared to protect the homeland—not only through the experiential knowledge of law enforcement or military service, but through strategic planning, emergency management, disaster response, intelligence, cybersecurity, and multidisciplinary collaboration. Many people answered that call. Some joined the military. Others entered law enforcement, emergency management, intelligence, cybersecurity, or education.
I eventually became part of that response in a way I could never have imagined on the morning of September 11.
Little did I know that my experience that morning would lead me to become a part of the first team of teach servicemembers and public servants homeland security at the American Military University, and also become the first full-time professor in Maryland to teach homeland security at the Homeland Security and Criminal Justice Institute at Anne Arundel Community College, the first institution in the state to offer a homeland security degree.
Later, at Washington Adventist University, I became a program chair to develop a new academic program in homeland security, with an emphasis on emergency response and cybersecurity.
That work also connected deeply with my faith.
Seventh-day Adventists are part of a global faith community present in more than 200 countries, with a long history of emergency and disaster response through organizations such as Adventist Community Services (ACS) in North America and Adventist Development and Relief Agency (ADRA) internationally. I would later have the opportunity to work with ADRA as well.
Over the years, I would write newspaper columns for 9/11 anniversaries asking questions such as: Are we safer today?
But, for this 25-year anniversary the new question arose at the gym.
Light into Darkness
For someone like me, who remembers sitting on Capitol Hill and praying because I thought a plane might be headed our way, I don’t want to stop praying.
I want to pray for the victims and their families.
I want to pray for those who continue to carry the emotional scars of that day.
I want to pray against the evil and brokenness that sin has brought into this world.
I want to pray for people who recognize that there is a void in their lives but don’t know how to fill it—and who may turn to drinking, partying, or other distractions in an attempt to fill that emptiness.
I want to pray that brotherly love, compassion, and unity will reach more hearts and minds.
I want to pray that people of faith will share God’s love with those around them and bring light into some of the darkest places in this world.
And perhaps most importantly, I want to pray for the generation that cannot answer the question:
“Where were you when 9/11 happened?” They weren’t there. They don’t have the memories.
They didn’t hear the radio reports. They didn’t sit in traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue wondering whether they would make it home. They didn’t watch the smoke rise from the Pentagon.
But perhaps they can answer a different question: “Where were you on the anniversary of 9/11?”
What if their answer was:
I was with people who were praying.
I was in church remembering those who were lost.
I was serving someone who needed help.
I was reminded that life is fragile and that we are called to love one another.
I encountered a believer whose kindness and faith brought light into my life.
Where Were You?
September 11 should remind us not only of what happened when darkness entered our nation’s history, but also of the responsibility we have to bring light into the world.
I hope that when future generations ask, “where were you on the anniversary of 9/11?” the answer will not simply be that we remembered.
I hope we can say that we prayed, served, loved, helped, and brought light into the darkness.
That would be a legacy to party for.
That would be a legacy worth leaving.
