Twenty-five years ago, Americans watched things we assumed were secure collapse before our eyes.
The World Trade Center towers dominated the New York skyline. The Pentagon represented the military power of the United States. Commercial air travel had been an ordinary part of American life for decades.
On September 11, 2001, all of that suddenly looked fragile.
Nearly 3,000 innocent people were killed in the terrorist attacks that morning. Thousands of families lost someone they loved. First responders ran toward buildings others were desperately trying to escape. Passengers aboard United Airlines Flight 93 fought back against their hijackers, sacrificing their lives and likely preventing another attack in Washington.
Like millions of Americans, I remember where I was.
I was the Dean of Students at South Haven Christian School near Valparaiso, Indiana, teaching a high school Bible class when the first plane struck the World Trade Center. At first, we thought it might have been a terrible accident. When the second plane hit, there was no longer any doubt.
We gathered our students and staff for a special chapel service and prayed. At that point, we did not know how many planes had been hijacked or what might happen next.
I have written more about my experience that day.
What I remember most clearly, beyond the horrifying images, is the uncertainty. No one knew whether another attack was coming. No one knew how many people were trapped. No one knew how many more would die.
Twenty-five years later, Psalm 62 speaks directly into that uncertainty:
For God alone, O my soul, wait in silence,
for my hope is from him.
He only is my rock and my salvation,
my fortress; I shall not be shaken.
On God rests my salvation and my glory;
my mighty rock, my refuge is God.
Trust in him at all times, O people;
pour out your heart before him;
God is a refuge for us.— Psalm 62:5–8, ESV
David does not pretend that danger is imaginary. He does not tell himself that nothing bad can happen.
He tells his soul where to place its hope.
We naturally look for security in things we can see and control: strong institutions, military power, money, technology, physical safety. Those things have their place. Governments should protect their citizens. Buildings should be secure. Terrorists should be stopped.
But none of those things can bear the weight of our ultimate hope.
September 11 exposed that brutally.
The Bible never promises a life insulated from grief or violence. Jesus told his disciples plainly, “In the world you will have tribulation.” His next words, however, were not despair: “But take heart; I have overcome the world” (John 16:33, ESV).
Psalm 46 speaks in similar language: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.”
A refuge is needed precisely because trouble exists.
For Christians, hope is not confidence that tragedy will never come. It is confidence that tragedy does not have the final word.
That does not erase grief. Twenty-five years later, families still live with empty chairs and memories of phone calls that never came. Survivors and first responders still live with physical and emotional wounds from that day.
Scripture does not tell them—or us—to pretend otherwise.
“Pour out your heart before him,” David writes.
There is room in those words for grief, fear, anger and questions. God does not demand that we hide them before coming to Him. He invites us to bring them.
September 11 taught my generation how quickly the familiar can become uncertain.
Psalm 62 points beyond that uncertainty.
Our buildings can fall. Our sense of security can disappear in a morning. Our lives themselves are far more fragile than we like to admit.
But God is still a refuge.
Twenty-five years later, that is where I find hope.