wfn.org | Everyone has a ministry at Ground Zero

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2001-284

Everyone has a ministry at Ground Zero

by Don Thompson

     The music welled up as I entered St. Paul's Chapel September 27.  "Shall We 
Gather by the River, Where bright angel feet have trod?" was being played on the 
piano, heavy on the pedals, so that the bass chords rolled out solid affirmation 
to the gospel hope.  

     That is how the chapel felt.  

     People milling in and out, New York Police Department, the National Guard, 
the FBI, hoards of volunteers, machine operators, and then the tired and 
overworked New York Fire Department,  who continue to bear the toughest work of 
the rescue operation.  

     They came to St. Paul's for food, for prayer, for quiet, and for supplies.  

     The church was stocked like a supermarket, with supplies coming in as 
constantly as they went out.  

     Here everyone is a volunteer.  As soon as the supplies came in, the firemen 
and police put down their food and quickly formed a supply line, tossing cartons 
of food, water, into their place on the porch of St. Paul's. Everyone pitches in 
here, without ever being asked.

     Hot food, prepared in New York restaurants, is there 24 hours a  day.  
MacDonald's has a trailer store nearby, but the word is out on the street;- the 
best  food is at St. Paul's!

     There is a foot clinic, a chiropractic clinic, and even free construction 
boots - top quality. 

     The firemen are the most exhausted; most of them had been there since the 
first day or so.  The NYPD are often the ones at prayer; several I talked to had 
lost one or two close friends, especially if they usually worked this or a 
neighboring precinct. 

     There were firefighters and rescue units from New Jersey and  Massachusetts, 
as well as the rest of New York State.  

     Some were clearly entering the church for the first time, looking at it 
curiously.  They asked what kind of church it was, and what kind of services were 
held here?.

     There was amazement that the church had survived without so much as a window 
broken, but one block from ground zero. They all knew about the adjoining 
cemetery; it was untouched since the buildings collapsed, and also the ash 
covering everything included incinerated human remains.

     Ground zero identifies itself first of all by its smell; an acrid smoke 
hangs over the whole area. Then there is the sound of generators on every corner, 
and banks of lights that blaze night or day.  

     The shell of one of the smaller buildings of the Trade Center is a 
blackened, burnt-out cage of metal.  Beside it is simply a pile of rubble and 
girders, but about two stories high. 

     Huge cranes tower overhead.  

     At times the firefighters clamber over the ruins, and at times they are 
called off as the cranes move girders and concrete. It is painstaking work.

     In the midst of all that carnage is this old chapel of St. Paul's, where 
George Washington once worshipped. 

     It is quieter than the street. It has only a  few low lights, powered by 
generators, but the altar is ablaze with candles. There is another bank of 
candles alongside the altar rail.  People come, light a candle, and kneel down to 
pray a while. 

     Then they go to the podiatrist for some supporting insoles, or even for new 
boots. And then get their supplies, from batteries  and flashlights, to snacks, 
to personal hygiene, to chocolate and candy.

     Outside on the porch the meals are served, but we encouraged folks to go 
back into the church to eat, where it is warmer, quieter, and more inviting.  
There were blankets on most pews, so some were sleeping, others were eating, some 
just sitting, and some praying. 

     A group of us would huddle in one corner and talk about the shift.  Most 
police and firemen were on fourteen hour shifts, such as 4 am to 6pm.

     But most volunteers matched those shifts, 8am to 8pm, to 8am again.  They 
came from other parts of the city, from Connecticut to New Jersey.  

     Amongst all the lay volunteers,  there are also clergy.   I was with a 
priest who had come up from a parish in Florida, just to help.  We had two 
"volunteer bishops" while we were there.  They would lead prayer and sometimes 
the laying on of hands. There were two perpetual Deacons, heading up different 
teams of volunteers.

     And then there were young and old overseeing all the supply tables, handing 
out coffee, and serving the food.  

     The only people who weren't there were the onlookers.  They were kept behind 
a police barricade, on the other side of the street.  Except they needed to see 
something of what had happened to their city, just as much as the workers needed 
to have some relief from seeing it.

     Everyone has a ministry in this place, and there was a sense of hope and 
help in everything.

     But most of all I was struck by a nun, a Sister of the Holy Spirit, who sat 
down and played the piano quietly in the background.  She played Bach, Beethoven,  
and Pacelbel. She extemporized with Amazing Grace, and Eternal Father Strong to 
Save.

     But every 45 minutes or so, she kept returning to "Shall we gather at the 
river," and I heard people humming the tune.  

     Why, I wondered?

     I looked up the words when I got home later that night, and I knew why music 
and words mixed so appropriately to that place that night: 

     Ere we reach the shining river

     Lay we every burden down

     Grace our spirits will deliver

     And provide a robe and crown

     Soon we'll reach the shining river

     Soon our pilgrimage will cease

     Soon our happy hearts will quiver

     With the melody of peace

     Yes, we will gather at the river

     The beautiful, the beautiful river

     Gather with the saints at the river

     That flows by the throne of God

--The Rev. Don Thompson is general secretary of the Colleges and Universities of 
the Anglican Communion.