Richard Maxwell

A few months ago I saw a review of a book written by someone I was acquainted with while I was in seminary, a woman named Courtney Cowart. It seems that Courtney was working at Trinity Church on Wall Street when 9/11 occurred, and she was evacuated from the site as the north building fell. She returned as soon as possible and began ministering to both survivors and rescue workers. The book being reviewed was one she wrote about this experience. Reading the book review, I was struck by something that she was quoted as saying.

As she worked in the midst of the destruction and devastation, surrounded by an atmosphere of grief and fear and anger, she found herself repeating something over and over to herself. She kept saying, “Only the people matter. Only the people matter. Only the people matter.”

As many of you know, Paul and I were living in Manhattan on 9/11. Paul was working on Wall Street, and was in his office on the 27^th floor of his building when the planes hit the World Trade Towers. Obviously, he escaped . . . but he saw the second building fall as he fled and was covered in ash. I was working in my church in Murray Hill, one block away from the Empire State Building. I spent the day worrying about Paul – telephone service had stopped – and talking and praying with the people who began to fill the church. The Empire State Building was evacuated and Grand Central Station, which was also nearby, was closed because of rumors that they were being targeted next. The city was in a state of shock and the air was filled with uncertainty and fear, as all sorts of rumors flew about.

I remember one young, pregnant woman I talked with, sitting in a pew. I went over to her when I saw her break into sobs. She and her husband were best friends with another couple, John and Alice, who were also expecting a baby. John worked at the World Trade Towers and this young woman was certain that he had died. She was overwhelmed by an onslaught of emotions and thoughts . . . grief for the loss of her friend John, sorrow and pity for Alice who was now a widow and would be raising her child alone, relief that her own husband was safe. . . .

Courtney was right, and she wasn’t the only one thinking, “Only the people matter” . . . not the destruction and devastation . . . not the fear and horror . . . not even the anger. Only the people matter. Only the people matter.

I realize that the disaster of 9/11 probably seems like a strange thing to bring up today, the feast of Christ the King. But it’s occurred to me that Jesus’ message today is rather similar to the thought that was running through Courtney’s head . . . and mine . . . and probably countless others’ on 9/11 and during the days and weeks immediately following: Only the people matter.

The story we heard this morning from the Gospel of Matthew is the last parable Jesus tells his disciples. Sitting with his friends on the Mount of Olives, looking out on the city of Jerusalem, Jesus seems to know that soon he’ll be arrested . . . and beaten . . . and put to a horrible death. He is facing his own personal destruction . . . his own devastation. But in this last parable there’s no indication of this . . . no sense that he is going to die . . . no sense that he is despairing or angry or afraid of the future. Instead, he puts before his friends the greatest calling and challenge that they – and the future followers of Jesus, the church – will ever face: Only the people matter.

“I was hungry, I was thirsty, I was a stranger. I was naked, sick, a prisoner. And you cared for me.” His friends object, of course. When was Jesus ever ANY of those things? His response could not be clearer: “Truly I tell you, anything you did for one of my brothers or sisters here, however insignificant, you did for me.” It couldn’t be clearer, could it? Only the people matter.

Oh, I know, I know . . . of course this is true . . . but . . . but . . . we have so many things to do . . . so many tasks, and chores, and obligations . . . so many really GOOD things that really MUST be done. There isn’t time for everything we’d like to do. OF COURSE people matter . . . but sometimes, well sometimes I just have to move on and get things DONE. I know. On any Sunday morning, right here at Grace, there are so many things to do . . . there’s choir practice, and Sunday School, and the various preparations for mass . . . vestments and prayer cards to be laid out, choreography to be rehearsed, candles and coals to be lighted. And then there’s all the clean up . . . the candles to be changed, the vessels to be washed, the vestments to be put away. And don’t forget coffee hour! So much to do . . . all of it good and important. And yet . . . and yet . . . remember, in the end, only the people matter.

As you all know, we’re in the midst of our annual stewardship campaign. You’ve all received letters and pledge cards, and for the last two weeks you’ve heard parishioners share their perspectives on stewardship with you. I’d like to add another thought. Maybe real stewardship begins with opening our eyes to the needs around us . . . not just monetary and building needs . . . but the needs of the PEOPLE around us. The people sitting right here in the pews with us . . . and again, I’m not just talking about monetary or physical needs. There’s real need for CONNECTION, and UNDERSTANDING, and FRIENDSHIP right here at Grace Church. Look around you with Jesus’ eyes . . . and with his calling and challenge to us ringing in your ears: Anything you do for one of my brothers or sisters here, however insignificant, you do for me. Only the people matter.

The writer Anne Lamott learned this well. She came to the church as an adult, and began attending St. Andrews Presbyterian Church in Marin County, California when her life was in TOTAL disarray. In time, with God’s grace . . . and the love and care of the people in that church . . . she began to change. In fact, the love and care of those good people was so important to her that she dedicated two of her books to them . . . to the congregation that helped her find the way. In her book Tender Mercies she tells a story about one of the events that helped to open her eyes and turn her inside out.

Lamott writes that one of the newest members of the church was a man named Ken who was dying of AIDS. Shortly after he started coming to church Ken’s partner died of the disease. Nevertheless, Ken kept coming back week after week. The people in the church could see that he, like his partner, was slowly dying. Lamott writes that there was a large and jovial black woman in the choir named Ranola who was as devout as you could be. She kept looking at Ken out of the corners of her eyes and was more than a little standoffish. You see, she had been raised in the south by Baptists who had taught her that Ken’s way of life was an abomination. And so it was hard for her to really see Ken as he was.

Lamott writes that she thought that Ranola and several other members were afraid that they might catch what Ken had, so they stood at a distance. But Ken kept coming and won over most of the members of the church. During prayer time he would share that even in his decline he felt the grace and redemption of God.

On one particular morning, the congregation began singing, “His Eye is on the Sparrow.” The whole church stood, except for Ken who was too weak to stand. And the church began to sing: “Why should I feel discouraged? Why do the shadows fall?’ Ranola, from the choir, kept watching Ken . . . and then suddenly her face began to crumple and tears came to her eyes and she left the choir, moved toward Ken, bent down and picked him up, lifting him like he was a white rag doll. Lamott says that Ranola held him next to her, as if he were her own child as they all sang together: “His eye is on the sparrow and I know he cares for me.”

Only the people matter . . . not the building, not the music, not the liturgy . . . as much as we love them. Here at least is one place where our tasks, and obligations, and chores should take second place . . . where our fear, and anxiety, and anger should be set aside. Only the people matter, for it is in each other that we will find the Kingdom of God . . . it is in each other that we will meet Christ our King.

[1] This sermon is based on and draws heavily from “Where’s Jesus?” by Roger Lovette in Pulpit Resource, Vol. 36, No. 4, edited by William Willimon and published by Logos Publications, pp. 33-6.