how much does one person really matter?

Lately I've been hearing a lot about how one person can change the world: help end AIDS in Africa, rid the world of poverty, you name it. A popular movement with this focus is so aptly named ONE. As is usual on the third Tuesday of the month, the earth shifts and suddenly something I thought was so earnestly good and meaningful, I don't like it anymore.

I'm not opposed to people doing good, of course. I love to do good. I love to feel like I'm making a difference in the world. But why is the focus of changing the world so often on the one doing the supposed changing? Give some money, make some calls, contribute your voice and YOU can be the difference between a world of hungry homeless people and some unspoken utopia. You see, tonight I met Judy and suddenly I realized that being The One has nothing to with being part of a select group of do-gooders. We are all The One.

I've seen Judy at our Third Tuesday Suppers before. She is thin and tired looking. Some of her bottom teeth are missing and she often wears sweats. I'd guess maybe homeless, or maybe sick. Usually she seems kind of nervous. But she is always gracious, always so appreciative.

Tonight Judy was sitting at a table by herself. I was looking for plates to clear when I walked by and, not knowing what possessed me, I slid into the chair across from her and said hi. I asked her how her meal was and tried to figure out how to start more of a conversation. She looked kind of uncomfortable, but not necessarily opposed to the fact that I had sat down. So I asked her where she grew up and the talking just happened. She grew up with horses but has always been afraid of them. She moved to Manhattan in her twenties and managed a ballet troupe. She lived in a high rise with a doorman. She had wonderful friends. She met famous people. She visited Paris.

Although we chatted for nearly half an hour, we didn't talk about her life now. I still suspect she's been through some seriously rough times. But I saw this beautiful lady light up as she reached back to pull out her memories. I was stunned. Judy isn't the woman I thought she was.

As much as I think I look at people as being in the image of God, I am judgmental. I assume. I think I am The One, not them.

How many strangers do we really know? If one person matters so much that they can change the world, as the propaganda so winsomely feeds us (and our egos), what about that one person we might be changing? How much do they matter?

We are all so rich, all so incredibly layered and textured, troubled and glorious. Each one of us - despite our incredible unworthiness - matters. We all have something to give. We all have something to receive. Judy showed me. But I never would have seen her if I hadn't sat down and taken a break from being that one who's trying to make a difference in the world.