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As I write this to you, more than six thousand men and women are presumed dead, buried under the rubble of two towers which once touched the sky. One hundred and thirty thousand men and women are suddenly without employment in the airline industry. The stock market has plummeted, having lost almost 1,400 points in five short days. American industry has lost billions of dollars. Thousands of young soldiers have been deployed for war, leaving family and loved ones behind. Suddenly, guns and gas masks are in high demand at military surplus stores across the country. Talk of chemical warfare has crowded out talk of the post-season playoffs.

My, how our world has changed in just a few short weeks. My, how our world changed in just a few short hours. Of course, such tragedy and terror is not new to the rest of the world. Consider Ireland and Sudan and Bosnia and Israel. Such loss is not new to the annals of history. But it is new to our world, the world of fortress America. These things were only supposed to happen once upon a time and in a land far away. Thee things were supposed to be hidden in obscure, little paragraphs of the New York Times. But on September 11th, these things happened here. They made the headlines. Nineteen terrorists hijacked American planes and made missiles of the American people, crashing jumbo jets into the steel of our nation.

The terrorists showed us the face of evil. They left us with haunting images of people covered with soot and ash running for survival; grisly pictures of people jumping to their death; stories of men and women maimed, dismembered and engulfed in flames. They left us traumatized at the sight of a whole squadron of rescue workers buried alive in a collapsing building. They left terrifying echoes in the concrete canyon of New York.

These images will be with us for a long, long time. The loss is great and the pain is real. But it would be a further tragedy to stay trapped in only these images. It would be an enormous failure of imagination to become blinded by badness.

Many years ago a young church faced a similar time as our own. These first-century Christians lived in days of massive social upheaval and wild unrest. The pastor of this young church (the author of the Book of Hebrews) looked out upon his congregation and could see fear in the people's faces. He knew how easily they could let up their hope (Hebrews 10:39) and throw away their confidence (10:35). He knew how easily they could become dominated by images of suffering and destruction. So what did he do? He told them stories. He filled their mind with heroes. He told of a man named Noah who learned to build boats in his old age, being warned by God of things not yet seen (11:7). He told of some daring, young newlyweds who packed up their belongings and made a new home in a new land. Abraham and Sarah had seen promise when things didn't seem too promising (11:13). He told of Moses who dared to dream of liberation. This man of faith endured the anger of the enemy by seeing Him who is unseen (11:27).

He told of still others who "by faith conquered kingdoms, performed acts of righteousness, obtained promises, shut the mouths of lions, quenched the power of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, from weakness were made strong, became mighty in war, put foreign armies to flight" (11:33-34).

The pastor who told these stories did something wonderful for his congregation. He rebuilt their faith amidst the rubble of a world gone mad. He healed their imaginations by bringing them in sight of the presence of God, who is always doing something unimaginably better (11:40).

How will you and I live at this time? I'm certain there are more stories to tell: stories of great courage, small kindnesses and continued trust in God. Let us, too, live in faith. Let us see Him who is unseen.