Pearl Harbor was attacked twenty four years before I was born. Each year, when December 7 rolled around, I heard the many exhortations people made to never forget what happened on December 7, 1941. I learned about the attack in school. But It, along with all of WW II, seemed like distant history. Although I tried to be respectful and honor the memory of Pearl Harbor, it honestly didn’t affect me at all. I wasn’t moved at all by the shocking horror of the tragedy. As something that happened in what seemed to me to be the distant past, the events of December 7, 1941 didn’t move me any more than the collapse of the Roman Empire, the Hundred Years War, or the French Revolution.
This Spring, I had the opportunity to go to Normandy. The hardest movie I’ve ever watched is Saving Private Ryan, especially that opening scene of the D-Day landing on Omaha Beach. According to D-Day vets, that opening scene captures the horror they experienced better than any else they’ve ever seen. Standing on Omaha Beach, imagining D-Day with the images from the movie playing in my head, was overwhelming. I couldn’t process the enormity of all that took place there. The number of soldiers who died on that beach that day was too staggering, the sacrifices they made too enormous. I wanted to cry. But I couldn’t. It was too big to absorb.
Suddenly, however, Pearl Harbor—and all the events of WW II for that matter—wasn’t distant history. It came to life, affecting me profoundly
Every year since 9-11, I’ve made a point of watching different documentaries and film footage from that day during the week leading up to the anniversary. This year has been no different. The other night I came across a new video I hadn’t seen before. It was a compilation of the many Fire, EMS, and Police Units responding to the Trade Center. It included many closeups of the responders in their rigs. Many of them were hanging out of the windows of their apparatus, looking up at the towers burning, watching in horror as people leaped from them to their deaths, making final preparations putting on gear so they could jump out of those rigs and run into the buildings the second they made it down to the Trade Center.
Within hours of those videos, most of those responders would die.
I wanted to cry. But I couldn’t. The number of people who were about to die, the enormity of the sacrifice those responders were about to make, was too much to process. Even twenty-five years later.
The most vivid memory I have from that day was watching the live TV coverage as the first tower collapsed. Just moments later, my fire department received a call for a motor vehicle accident with possible extrication on the Highway. As I rushed up to the firehouse, I will never forget how surreal that moment felt. I knew I had just watched hundreds of firefighters and thousands of civilians die. Just a little while later, after clearing from the accident, I will also never forget sitting in the back of our rig as we returned to the firehouse, telling myself that I’m going to need time to process what I had seen before running out to the fire call. I will never forget how soberly I told myself that, in due time, I would. At some point, I convinced myself, I would be able to process it all.
Twenty five years later, I still haven’t reached that point. I still haven’t been able to process 9-11. It’s still too big to take in. It still seems surreal. I’ve heard a number of New York firefighters express similar sentiments. Twenty-five years later, they still haven’t been able to process what happened.
Visiting the America Cemetery at Normandy transports you. The massive number of tombstones, all perfectly lined up in rows that seem to go on forever, is staggering. You know you are standing on sacred ground. Standing at Omaha Beach, which is much more massive and far more beautiful than I imagined, leaves you in awe of what those troops did that day.
Our guide told the story of a D-Day Vet who was in another group she led years earlier. He hadn’t been back to Omaha beach in over sixty years. Now, an old man, he was standing on the beach where most of his buddies had perished before making it out of their teens. The same beach that, for all of them, was hell on earth. As this vet looked out on the beach this day, however, all he could see were people enjoying themselves, laughing and playing, without any memory of the enormous sacrifice he and his buddies made there. As he looked over the people on the beach, he broke down and began to cry. Our tour guide felt awful for him and tried to comfort him by telling him that there are many people in the area do still remember what they did. Through his sobs, he looked at her and said: “You don’t understand. I’m not sad. These are tears of joy. I couldn’t be happier. See, this is exactly what we fought for. This is what my buddies died for. This is what they would have wanted to see.”
The day we were at Omaha Beach, France was experiencing an unusual Spring heatwave, so the beach was packed with people enjoying themselves. Our group stopped to lay a wreath at the D-Day memorial which sits at the center of Omaha beach. There were seven combat veterans in the group and one of our guides called them forward to lay the wreath as he conducted a short service. These seven veterans selected one of their group who won the Silver Star Medal for his heroic actions in Viet Nam, to be the one to lay the wreath. After he placed it on the monument, our guide played the National Anthem on his iPhone. It was barely audible, but our group of thirty or so sang along as best we could. With the herds of people at the beach, we could barely be heard or noticed.
But as soon as we put our hands over our hearts, or, if veterans, saluted, and began singing, everyone walking by on the boardwalk stopped in their tracks, put their hands over their hearts or stood and saluted and joined in singing along. It didn’t matter if they were American or French. There was even a biker gang who had just parked their bikes and were passing the memorial who stopped and joined in. By the end of the song, more people had joined us than who were in our group!
They hadn’t forgotten. And there wasn’t a dry eye. Including the biker gang. Including me. Reflecting on what happened there was so awe-inspiring, we were all overwhelmed with emotion. The hellish horror of what took place on that beach so many years ago was overwhelmed by the beauty of the sacrifice so many had there. Remembering their sacrifice was an exquisitely powerful experience. You couldn’t walk away uninspired.
When people remember Adolf Hitler—or Osama bin Laden for that matter—they want to spit on his grave and curse his name. But when people remember the brave soldiers who fought and died on D-Day, who are buried in the American cemetery, they want to honor them and praise their names. What they did moves us so deeply, we never want to forget them or their sacrifice.
If you have never been to the 9-11 museum, you need to visit it. The museum itself is underneath the footprint where the towers once stood. The remnants of the slurry wall that had to be constructed to support the high-rise structures against the onslaught of the Hudson River is clearly visible—it forms two of the underground walls of the museum. It creates an eerie feeling, a vivid reminder of the buildings and all the life the teemed with over the years, including that day. As you walk through the museum and pass the partially crushed F.D.N.Y. Ladder 3, reading how the eleven members who jumped on this truck that day died not far from where you are standing, the hellish horror of that day punches you in the face. Probably the most heartbreaking exhibit is the phone recordings of messages left by those who perished that day to their loved ones, their last words.
As you walk through the museum, you can’t help but be overcome by the same sense of awe one has at Normandy. You can’t help but sense that you are standing on sacred ground. And, as with Normandy, it transports you. As you remember the many awesome sacrifices made that day, the enormity of the tragedy is swallowed up by the far greater enormity of heroic love so many displayed.
As many have pointed out before, on 9-11 we saw the worst that human beings can do. But we also saw the best. We witnessed both the demonic side of human nature. And we also beheld the divine. And nothing—nothing—is more beautiful or inspiring than the kind of heroic sacrifice that was on full display that day. It represents, far and away, what is best in the human spirit.
And that’s why we should never forget 9-11-01. As hard as it is to relive, as heartbreaking as the stories are to hear, as overwhelming as the loss of life, the pure evil encountered that day, the heroism, sacrifice, and sublime love shown that day is far greater still. Remembering that is awe-inspiring. Remembering that is transformative. Remembering that has the power to unleash the same dynamic of heroic, sacrificial love in us.
Those who lived through 9-11 can remember how, in the immediate wake of that tragedy, there was no time for pettiness—people focused on what really matters in life. Moreover, there was no room for divisiveness—we were united in a way most of have never experienced before or since. There was no room for polarization—we were one. We were kinder and more compassionate toward one another, willing to extend ourselves—in impressive and often sacrificial ways—for those who needed help.
As we approach 9-11-2026, we as a nation are tilting dangerously toward what is most demonic in the human spirit, toward division and hatred and violence. Our politics are toxic, even vile. Increasingly, violence against those we disagree with ideologically is being justified in baffling and alarming ways. True existential threats, like potential abuses of AI, are not being taken seriously, much the way there was a lack of imagination about the terrorist threat we faced in the run up to 9-11.
We need to remember: So we keep our focus on what matters most. So we regain our unity. So we never let another 9-11 ever happen again. And above all, so we tilt toward what most closely reflects the divine in our nature, what is most beautiful, awe-inspiring, and transformational—heroic love.
Not long after the towers collapsed and rescue workers frantically began to search through the burning pile of debris, two pieces of steel emerged that were in the form of a cross. For many, this “steel cross” was a sign from God. An awesome sign which assured them that, even here, in the midst of this hellish horror, God was with them—in an unmistakably unique and singular solidarity. The solidarity of being willing to make such a stunning sacrifice. The willingness, out of love, to suffer and die to try to save another.
As they tried to process the enormity of the tragedy unfolding before their very eyes, the steel cross gave many of those rescue workers tremendous comfort. Indeed, it gave them a comfort like nothing else could because it was a profound reminder that the heroic sacrifice so many of their brothers and sisters had just made is the same sacrifice God Himself made on the Cross for us. It was a profound reminder that the enormity of God’s love for us is unrivaled. It was a profound reminder that the unrivaled enormity of God’s love poured out on the Cross overwhelms everything else—even death itself.
Ultimately, this is why we should never forget 9-11-2001.
