On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was the rabbi of a small shul in Portland, Oregon. That year, we were saying Selichos in the home of a congregant who was sitting shivah — in a small community, the entire minyan moves to the mourner’s home. We had just gathered in his living room and were about to begin when one of our members rushed in, visibly agitated. “Stop! Turn on the television!”