Early that Sunday morning, we discovered the quietest spot in what must be our nation’s loudest city.
In 2017, just after I retired as pastor of the First Baptist Church of Pensacola, we visited New York City to attend the U.S. Open.
Since our visit was on the weekend of the anniversary of September 11, Amanda and I made our way to Ground Zero. It was my first visit to the memorial. It was her second. Typically, on a Sunday morning, we are in church. But on our final day in New York, we found ourselves in a different kind of sanctuary, one built not of stained glass and pews, but of granite, water, and names.
We read the names, like so many others there, looking for the name of the one from our hometown, and we thought about his mother and his family. And we remembered how life changed on that fateful day for families from large cities and small towns all around our country.
In the news footage of September 11, 2001, alongside the horrifying images of collapsing towers, I vividly remember the masses of people moving away from that site, desperate to escape. On this quiet Sunday morning, sixteen years later, I watched masses of people moving toward that same site — not to escape anything, but to remember and reflect.
Where the Twin Towers once stood, One World Trade Center now rises, crowned with an observatory that seems to keep watch over the city below. At its base rests a reflective pool, water descending endlessly into what feels like the basement of memory itself. Standing there, in the solemnness of that unexpectedly quiet corner of Manhattan, I found myself observing several things I haven’t been able to shake since.
A Congregation of Every Kind of American
The crowd that had gathered represented the vast diversity of our country. Multiple races and ethnicities filled that plaza. I’m sure some were international visitors, taking in the memorial as part of a holiday itinerary. But the vast majority, it seemed, were Americans — Americans of different backgrounds, different religious traditions, and undoubtedly different political convictions. And yet, on that morning, in that place, we were simply Americans. No hyphens. No labels. Just people standing shoulder to shoulder in shared grief and shared gratitude.
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. preached, “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.”
Whatever darkness gathered over that site on September 11, what we witnessed on this Sunday morning was light — the light of ordinary people extending quiet dignity to one another as they remembered, reflected, prayed, and commemorated together.
Every Name, Equally Important
Every life lost that day was memorialized as equally important. From the firefighter, to the business executive, to the custodian, to the mother and child — the names inscribed around the reflective pools appear in the same font, the same size, with no suggested hierarchy of importance or privilege. No title before a name. No epitaph elevating one story above another.
There is something profoundly spiritual about that. It reminded me that in the eyes of God, every life bears equal worth — not measured by title, income, or accomplishment, but by the simple fact of being made in God’s image. Ground Zero, without necessarily intending to, underscores that truth in granite.
A Living Memorial
At the reflective pools, memories seemed to move in two directions at once — water descending into the depths, and grief, somehow, rising back up to meet the light. It’s an odd sensation to describe, but standing there, I felt as though the memorial itself understood something about grief that we often miss: that mourning is never a one-way street. What descends into sorrow can still rise again into hope.
I was struck, too, by how many families had brought young children with them — children born well after 2001, hearing this story perhaps for the very first time from a parent’s own lips. I watched mothers and fathers kneel beside sons and daughters, pointing to a name on the wall, offering a brief and tender history lesson right there on sacred ground. It gave new perspective to a phrase we often hear associated with 9/11: “Remember, and never, ever forget.”
But standing there, I realized that remembering is not meant to be a motif for vengeance. It is meant to be a motivating force for building a better world. Elie Wiesel, who knew more about memory and atrocity than perhaps anyone of his generation, put it this way: “To forget the dead would be akin to killing them a second time.”
Every parent kneeling beside a child at that wall was passing along not just a historical fact, but a sacred responsibility — to remember well, so that memory might do some good in the world.
Hope Rising Out of Rubble
Perhaps what moved me most was simply looking up. Where wreckage and ash once filled the skyline, a tower now stands — not identical to what was lost, but new, resilient, and unmistakably reaching toward the sky. The construction of that tower, and the entire redevelopment around it, testifies to something stubborn and beautiful in the human spirit: our capacity to hope for the future even in the shadow of unimaginable loss.
I couldn’t help but think of Fred Rogers, who famously recalled his mother’s advice for facing frightening news: look for the helpers. On this ground, I didn’t have to look far. I saw them in the volunteers guiding visitors. I saw them in the security personnel greeting people with quiet patience. I saw them in the parents becoming, for a moment, historians and pastors to their own children.
And I thought of President George W. Bush’s words spoken in the rubble of that very site, not long after the towers fell: “I can hear you. The rest of the world hears you. And the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon.”
Sixteen years later, what I heard on that plaza wasn’t defiance. It was something quieter and, in some ways, more powerful: resolve. The resolve to remember rightly. The resolve to grieve honestly. And the resolve to keep building — towers, yes, but also communities, families, and a nation still capable of standing shoulder to shoulder as one people.
Chimes in the Silence
Our time at Ground Zero passed far too quickly. As we made our way to catch the bus back to our hotel, the silence of the morning was broken by the resonating chimes of a nearby church. It felt like a benediction — as if that quietest spot in the loudest city was being gently released back into the noise and rhythm of ordinary life, but not without first leaving something behind in us.
I have preached in a lot of sanctuaries over the years. But that memorial plaza in lower Manhattan is uniquely inspiring — a sanctuary built out of tragedy, sustained by memory, and quietly insistent that even our deepest grief can become fertile soil for hope.
As the poet and civil rights icon Maya Angelou wrote: “History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again.”
May we keep facing it with courage. May we keep remembering well. And may we keep building — towers, friendships, communities, and a world — worthy of the names etched in that granite.
(Barry Howard is a retired pastor who now serves as leadership coach and consultant with the Center for Healthy Churches. He and his wife, Amanda, live on Cove Lake in Northeast Alabama.)
Cove Creek Reflections 