A Little Child Shall Lead Them

This year, we all agreed to forgo the typical presents for our adult extended family members and instead choose gifts from the World Vision Gift Catalog. We'd given some similar "gifts" previously, but this year there was a special abandon to it, a desire to really make these "thoughtful" gifts for each receiver, a criteria very close to Janet's heart.

It's about time we did this--several donor friends had "made the switch" already and told me wonderful stories of how even their grandchildren "get into it" and draw pictures of the goats and ducks and school uniforms that are being given in Grandma and Grandpa's name. For young and old, these "gifts" can really bring to life our help for those in need, and at the same time they move our gift exchange focus off of ourselves. I read a quote by a woman this week who said that she gives her grandchildren only gifts from the Gift Catalog, as a way to change the theme of Christmas "from getting to giving." When I read this, I was convicted that we'd missed it a little, that we'd somewhat excluded our grandchildren from this new gift theme and thereby cheated them out of this shift in focus so as not to let them down in the "getting" department.

Everyone needs to negotiate these waters in their own way, and this actually isn't a commercial for World Vision's Gift Catalog, nor anyone else's.

It's a contrast between two events that happened for me last Monday, at the end of a lovely visit to Chico, CA where I stayed with my brother and his sweet young daughters as we celebrated our Mom's 75th birthday. We also celebrated Christmas early, and afterwards five-year-old Maya and I were in the kitchen, where I showed her the picture in the Gift Catalog of the ducks and chickens we bought her parents. Her dad asked her jokingly if they should keep the poultry in her bedroom, and I was trying without much success to explain to her who actually receives these animals. She was a good sport, but I'm not sure she really understood me. I think she'd rather have enjoyed keeping ducks in her bedroom.

We said goodbye a few hours later and were on the plane home that evening when I read the following email from a young couple who give to World Vision and whom I'd visited the prior week, along with their four-year-old, Lilly. The mom wrote: "On Friday, Lilly wanted to make believe we were in the desert. She then started to say, 'Look out for the mosquitoes; they'll bite you.' I told her sometimes mosquito bites make people sick. I asked her how we could help the pretend people not get bit. She thought about it and said, 'a cover?' I explained that, yes, they can use nets to cover themselves. I then told her that we could help real people, by buying them nets for Christmas. She asked where we could buy the nets, and I replied that we could buy them through World Vision. She sat for a second, then gasped and whispered 'Mr. Cory!' It was priceless... She is paying attention;-) I truly believe this will be a family affair in no time at all. So this year for the family we are buying mosquito nets, per Lilly's request."

The hero in this story without question is Lilly's mom. It's her worldview, her "world vision", which seamlessly transforms playtimes like this into teachable moments. In the process, Lilly is transformed in her own understanding. And somewhere along the line, a child's world becomes bigger, more inclusive, more expansive. "Neighbor" begins to mean to her something of what it means to God.

And in the transformation, another Christmas prophecy becomes real: A little child shall lead them.

Isaiah chapter 11 prophecies of the "shoot of Jesse", one coming from David's lineage. And the Spirit of the Lord will rest upon him. With justice he will give decisions for the poor of the earth. (There it is again--God's special concern for the least and the last.)

The wolf will live with the lamb,
the leopard will lie down with the goat,
the calf and the lion and the yearling together;
and a little child will lead them.

The Peaceable Kingdom; led by a child. A very special Child. A child raised up in the way he should go. A child who grew in wisdom and stature, and in favor with God and men.

Christmas is about a Child. Children can be immensely self-centered. And children can put us to shame in their unabashed generosity. Which tendency will we feed?

This Christmas, may our children and our grandchildren grow in wisdom and stature, and may their world get a little bigger, like Lilly's did. I think the Child of Christmas would be pleased. And maybe they'll even lead us somewhere where treasure lies.

Christmas blessings,
Cory
Note: To be precise, we do make sure annually that one of the gifts given to each grandchild is a home-made “Gift Certificate” which they redeem by “shopping” in the Gift Catalog, and this has become a favorite tradition. It’s in addition to the other gifts they get, but it’s been a good place to start and something we all really enjoy.

Pilgrims Together on the Jesus Road

I’m so thankful this day that we are pilgrims together on the Jesus Road…

My Los Angeles counterpart phoned me to “check in” while he was in Ethiopia. It was 3:00 am there and he was having trouble sleeping while on a Vision Trip with a donor couple. Yet his bleary-eyed story brought into clear focus the challenge of our journey.

Jeff told me that earlier that day the group had visited a poor community where women and children had to walk several miles just to fetch polluted water. His small band of visitors made the pilgrimage to the water hole along with the community members, both the people and their donkeys. The journey ended at a three-foot-deep hole dug next to a dirty pool of standing water. Inside the hole was a forty-something woman squatting and scooping brown water by the quart as it sifted through the sandy soil and refilled a little divot… the centuries-old sand being their only filter from whatever maladies awaited them in the pond water (from which those donkeys stand in and drink, too).

A minute later, I asked Jeff about the travel journey over to Africa. He said they’d spent a transit night in Dubai, where the donor arranged for them all to enjoy a lovely dinner at the top of a hotel which is famous for offering the most expensive drink in the world—at $9000. (No, they didn't order one!) Then, just 48 hours after he’d been with people who sell a $9000 cocktail, Jeff spent the day with desperate people in an area where there isn’t even good water to drink… at any price.

The disparities in this world aren’t usually that stark, but the story points to a reality we all try to make sense of. This is our challenge as we journey through life, those of us who can move freely between the worlds of the least-haves and the most-haves. We’re surrounded hourly by temptations and luxuries, hearing the constant messages that we deserve more; messages which almost drown out the distant realities and feeble petitions from the ‘rest of these, our brethren.’

So what a blessing it is to have each other’s company on the journey. For we too are pilgrims, attempting to travel the Jesus Road. As those with the audacity to attempt to hear and obey Jesus’ voice—his radical call, we are called to make pilgrimages, to take strange roads to distant lands. Yet in the back of our minds we wonder sometimes if we’re really walking His road or traveling another path somewhere.

The journey is arduous. Let’s face it: opening one’s eyes and heart to the poor is ultimately a voluntary exercise for those of us who aren’t forced to live that reality. Yet, though it’s a far more taxing exercise than physical exertion, we have this sense that the road will lead us to the Promised Land, a place of deep satisfaction and true freedom.

And even along the way, we are refreshed: when we follow Jesus’ example of active compassion for the poor and dispossessed, we find the experience is holy, slaking a great thirst in us as well as in them. Holy, like pure water seeping in, into the divot, waiting to be scooped and drunk deeply by all.

I love the pilgrimage. And I love being on it together with you.

With thanksgiving for your partnership on the journey,

Cory

PS: You can see a 2-minute raw-footage video from Jeff's encounter at the water hole at...

www.youtube.com/watch?v=UdV4V2fb1Mg (Dirty Water Source in Rural Ethiopia)

Or for a really lovely 5-minute report by author Max Lucado during his own visit to the same area this year, see… www.youtube.com/watch?v=eDrX0PHcPFk&NR=1 (Max Lucado World Vision Trip to Ethiopia)

Bump on the Road

A couple Saturdays ago I was lamenting my current lack of hands-on ministry involvement. So when a musical friend emailed a couple hours later, asking if Janet and I would help him lead worship at a streetside memorial service for a homeless man in Santa Ana the following morning, it was hard to take seriously my usual excuses… why the idea is nice but the timing is bad, blah, blah. I'm so glad I fought them off and said yes. Because what I experienced was a window not only into the reality of the street but into the heart of the late Jeff Bump.

My friend received conflicting information about the gathering, whether it was a memorial or a normal outreach service put together by people from his suburban church. And when we arrived, there seemed to be as many volunteers ready to serve the free breakfast as there were partakers. This kind of drive-in program, seemingly not tied to some indigenous ongoing ministry, never excites me much.

And because of the conflicting information on the focus of the gathering, my friend decided to choose safe, contemporary worship songs from the suburban white church, many of which are lovely but not known to those attending.

So I admit I didn't have a very good attitude when we arrived half an hour in advance to go through the songs together once... or so we thought. Turns out we had the wrong time and they needed us to start immediately! So we rushed to set up and jumped right in with barely a "Hail Mary" prayer for God’s Spirit. The small U-shaped asphalt patch where we met, accidently created by the windowless walls of three unfriendly buildings, opened onto a noisy street that competed effectively with our humble sound system.

We seemed more like a distraction than anything; most people simply stared or kept eating their breakfast. I felt about as relevant as a singing duck; a curiosity to be watched, not joined. Mercifully, the singing time ended and we could sit down. Personally, I was deflated and regretting that my excuses hadn't won the argument the day before.

Then a Hispanic preacher got up and put his open Bible on the pulpit—an old pizza box which was duct-taped to a folding stand. He stood next to a dumpster protected by a chain-link fence and welcomed everyone. He read from his Bible and spoke for only a few minutes about his deceased friend Jeff Bump, and then invited those who knew Jeff to come and speak.

That's when we had church.

One after another they came up to pay respects to a fellow resident of the streets. Jeff's photo and a small American flag were taped to the bare wall behind us, the latter to acknowledge that Jeff was a veteran during the Vietnam conflict. He was only a few years older than me, though with his full white flowing beard framing kind but weary grey eyes, he could pass for my father.

A young woman stood to tell how Jeff would share anything he had. She told us Jeff would see her taking drugs with her boyfriend and encourage them to stop. But, she said after seriously losing her composure, he always added, "Even if you keep doing the drugs, I will always be your friend." My heart fixed on her and I wondered: Would an ounce of that unconditional love years earlier from someone have changed her life's trajectory?

An older man who was missing one arm said, "Jeff was no saint, but he was a good partner. On the streets, you gotta have a partner. He shared everything. He'd give you his last dime. I'd see him in the mornings having his favorite “wake-up”—vodka, and he even shared his wake-up. If you never been on the streets, you got no idea how generous that is. He was no saint, but he was generous; he even shared his wake-up."

A toothless woman told us with tears that "Amazing Grace" was Jeff's favorite song. She brought her oversized boom-box so she could play us the worst instrumental recording of the song I've ever heard. And while it played on, she shamelessly waved her raised hands in praise to the Lord who generously bestows grace on his children, not only to the broken but also to the cynical; praised be His name.

Then a guy introduced himself as Jeff's best friend. He was the first "cleaned up" speaker we'd seen. He told us he'd lived with Jeff for two years on the streets, but Jeff was always telling him to quit drinking, even while Jeff continued to. Jeff always believed in me and in my future, he said. The man announced, "Well, I decided to believe Jeff. I've been sober 7 months now, and I'm gonna keep going to honor Jeff."

He talked on about the hope Jeff had, how he brought out the best in others, how they would bed down together behind houses and drink and then talk about the Bible together for hours. How Jeff staked out a street location near a payphone, where he would see prostitutes and drug dealers all the time. And then he'd urge them "Don't do it!", probably at serious risk to himself. Maybe Janis Joplin knew someone like Jeff Bump when she sang the profound truth in "Me & Bobby McGee": "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." When there’s nothing you’re afraid to lose, you are thrillingly unshackled to do good. Jeff often used the little money and influence he had to make friends, to help others who needed it more than he did. Freedom.

Jeff's best friend wasn't done. He told us how their talks had transformed him, how Jeff had countered his friend’s spiritual procrastination with his own gritty faith, holding onto Jesus with his dirty nails dug in. He told the rest of us that he hopes he makes it into heaven, and he hopes he sees Jeff there. I guess after you've experienced the vulnerability of the streets, it's easy to remember that even your eternal destiny is ultimately in God's hands alone, not some Reformation theologian's.

"Maybe you've been giving excuses and procrastinating too," he continued in his humble storytelling style. "Well, Jeff would say ‘Don’t wait’, he wouldn't want you to wait." This speaker’s invitation to the Jesus Road, an invitation to those others already in the roads and on the streets, was one of most authentic evangelistic testimonies I've ever heard in my life. Here was brokenness speaking to brokenness, a beggar telling other beggars where he found bread. No one issuing guaranteed tickets to the Pearly Gates, but a humble invitation to walk a new Road that, God willing, might take you there.

When the sharing was over, our music team had the sense to get up and lead everyone in singing “Amazing Grace” together. Grace seemed even more amazing this day.

But lovely as those lyrics are, we might instead have sung words even more confessional, more street-wise, more reflective of Jeff, from Janis Joplin’s contemporary Kris Kristofferson:

Why Me Lord? -

What have I ever done to deserve even one of the pleasures I've known

Tell me Lord, what did I ever do to deserve loving you and the kindness you've shown

Lord help me Jesus I've wasted it so; Help me Jesus I know what I am

Now that I know that I needed you so; Help me Jesus, my soul's in your hands

Try me Lord -

If you think there's a way I can try to repay all I've taken from you

Maybe Lord I can show someone else what I've been through myself on my way back to you

Lord help me Jesus I've wasted it so; Help me Jesus I know what I am

Now that I know that I needed you so; Help me Jesus, my soul's in your hands

Jesus my soul's in your hands

Last evening at a church harvest party, I sang that song… and I dedicated it to Jeff Bump.

Making All Things New

I slumped onto the pew kneeler at one of my favorite "sanctuaries", old Serra Chapel at Mission San Juan Capistrano. With my heart heavy from family issues, disappointment that swine flu caused me to cancel a trip this week to Palestine, and gnawing memories from a recent trip to Tijuana, I gazed above me at the giant dark painting of Christ on the cross, Mary at his side, the figurative sword literally piercing her heart as she too gazes at him, her dreams shattered.

My mind jumped to the scene in Mel Gibson's "The Passion" where an exhausted Jesus, pinned yet again under the fallen cross on the Via Dolorosa, turns to his mother and, with utter pathos, through blood-stained teeth exclaims, "Look, Mother. I make all things new!" It is truly a pathetic scene.

I pondered the old painting: What is it about this Jesus hanging on a cross, completely humiliated and defeated, that evokes any sense of victory or hope? Why is it this act of total capitulation still stirs me?

My mind turned finally to my own reason for being there: to seek through some spiritual work an understanding of the angst inside me from my Tijuana experience. Why was it so haunting to me, so paralyzing? Objectively speaking, I would have to consider it a fabulous trip, one of my best ever to see World Vision's work among the poorest communities there. We met hard-working, inspiring people, fighting their way to a better life despite the odds stacked against them. Frankly, I should have been delighted! And in the past, I would have been.

But the morning after the visit, a Saturday, I awoke and leisurely laid in bed, and my mind quickly remembered dear Lourdes. Lourdes is about my age; she's a single grandmother who owns a convenience store in a shabby squatter area. And Lourdes has diabetes, though thanks to her business, she is able to pay for her treatments and monthly check-ups. I first met her a year ago, and now Lourdes looks decidedly better than she did then. Though her eyes still look tired, she has an infectious smile.

Not only has she made these gains, in the intervening year Lourdes had also built a sturdy new house, made of cinderblock, right on top of her store! Last year, we walked through her then-home constructed of recycled American garage doors, with large, inexpensive but treasured paintings of Jesus and Mary hanging from the crossframes. Her new house sits like a beacon, a visible declaration of the progress her business is bringing, not only to her extended family, but to herself.

Despite her diabetes, Lourdes works seven days a week. So do her daughters, who sell her tamales to the workers in the maquiladora factories which also operate seven days a week. Truly, Lourdes is an inspiration.

I was remembering my fellow grandparent Lourdes and her reality as I lay lingering in my bed that Saturday, knowing that I'd catch up on emails and do some related work that day. But I'd do it when I felt like it—if I felt like it, and I knew I had two days ahead of me which were pretty much "my own". I have time enough to go to church on Sundays.

Living comfortably a mere 90 miles from Lourdes' house, I have health insurance. When I'm sick, the doctors and medicines are covered but for my modest co-pay. And I have sick days available, so that I still get paid even when I'm ill.

All the realities of the unequal opportunities which life has presented to me and to my border neighbor Lourdes came cascading into my mind, and they flooded out my normal feelings of joy and inspiration which I should have experienced at what she has managed to do in life despite those inequalities. Worse yet, I began to wonder secretly if what I do for people like her through World Vision is merely like wallpapering a moldy wall: the room looks fresh and cheerful, but the underlying structures are scandalously unsound.

So today, I decided to go through a spiritual exercise to "find the invitation" hidden inside my uncomfortable feelings. As I allowed the feelings to come and didn't deny them, I sensed not only disappointment but also shame—shame for being a part of our world's unequal opportunities and personally benefiting from that inequality. And shame if I've been detached and disaffected, like the gentlemen solicitors in "A Christmas Carol" who try to pry an insignificant donation from old Ebenezer Scrooge, all dressed in their proper finery. "Tis usual this time of year to make more than a little provision for the poor. For what shall we put you down, Mr. Scrooge?" Privilege speaking thus to privilege about the under-privileged does not seem in keeping with Jesus' example of identification with the poor. Am I but a Dickens caricature?

Yet, moving now to the mission quad garden, surrounded by its beauty and the warmth of the afternoon sun, I felt the comfort of the Lord telling me, "I am the God who sees everything, Cory, forgiving much and correcting but a little. Why do you fear that I stand over you to correct you? I said a cup of cold water in my name will not go unrewarded. Don't you believe me? You fear you will look over your shoulder and see me scowling, shaking a finger. Yet you will see me full of compassion, slow to anger. I know how limited your mind is, your view, your understanding. You don't see a fraction of what I see in your actions and inactions and their impact. But I am the God who looks for good, for obedience, who will not break a bruised reed. This is the God you will see. Turn around! See me! Feel my warm touch on your shoulder, my beauty caressing you through the sun and flowers and birds and water around you."

Somehow, this was the breakthrough word I needed, a sense that God is inviting me to look deeper, but not in order to find fault. Instead, he gave me a renewed paradigm, one that gains energy from those who beat the odds stacked against them and thereby becomes motivated to do more to change the uneven playing field as a result, not be paralyzed by it. New eyes that can see everything and then say, "Lourdes, you inspire me. You make me want to work harder for a more just world. Why? Because you are not waiting for life to be fair. You are working as hard as you can. You are not complaining; you don't have the time. But your hard work for your family makes me want to pitch in with you, and help you throw off the yoke of injustice. To create a world where your grandchildren have the same advantages as my grandchildren. Where you have the same access to healthcare and insurance that I have. That you can have vacation days like I have. Don't stop! Progress is slow and uneven, but it happens. My grandfather had a life not unlike yours. May your grandchildren have a life not unlike mine. And, one day, the lion will lie down with the lamb. The hummingbirds will land in your garden, a place of beauty, a place of peace, and joy."

I see it as I sit here in the old mission grounds: new beauty sprouts and blooms even from the ruins. Make that my work, Lord, as it is your work.

"Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need." (Heb 4:16) And this is the invitation and the grace I've received today: an invitation to see and to bless signs of a coming Kingdom, an invitation to hope, of again embracing optimism at progress... of having eyes of faith in a God who is making all things new.

Cory

October 15, 2009

O, For a Brand New Tongue to Sing

It was our second day in northern Tanzania, last month. We rumbled down the rural road and pulled off next to a small building in a small nondescript outcropping of civilization. Outside stood a dozen Maasai women waiting for our meeting to start and for the others to arrive. They seemed very energetic and confident, so I engaged them in an informal video interview, our translator busily working beside me.

In the meantime, another 20 or so people showed up, so we all moved into the building and onto low benches. At first I sat with the ladies, instead of on the front row across the aisle - where the guests were supposed to sit. But soon it became clear this was problematic for our translator, so I moved over. Some formalities have utility, as well.

This was an interesting group: they comprised the Community Care Coalition for this district. World Vision organizes these groups of local volunteers, simple community members plus some religious and government leaders, who band together to respond to HIV and AIDS in their midst. They care for orphans and vulnerable children living around them, near them, with them, and care for people living - and dying - with the virus. AIDS has shredded the renowned African social fabric in many places, and the CCCs are the front line of personal care and the proving ground for new community coping mechanisms.

World Vision's long-term goal, and the focus for our trip, is to see these CCCs equipped to ultimately stand on their own and act as full-fledged local nonprofits, capable of running programs, managing budgets, receiving grants... and extending the reach of NGOs and government agencies into remote hamlets and hidden family shames.

In fact, after meeting with this group, we saw those very things as we went offroading to visit a "family" of 4 sisters, age 10 to 16, who fend for themselves. They were ashamed to actually say they are orphans, but both parents died 4 years ago and they have lived alone ever since. Well, almost alone. Evelyn is the faithful CCC volunteer who looks after them. They told us "We love it when Evelyn comes. She is the only person who visits us."

These "home visitor" volunteers each look after 10 so-called Child-Headed Households. They check in weekly, they see if the children have some food, they encourage them to somehow stay in school, they pray, they distribute help that comes through the CCC (such as 10 chickens and a coop)... They serve as extended families and aunties to children who have none.

And make no mistake: these are mostly moms, indignant women who think it's shameful that anyone’s kids would live like this. And like women around the world, they are eager to find some way to turn their indignation into action.

On the way to this home, we stopped at a surprisingly large (relatively) farmhouse. Turns out, Evelyn had advocated on behalf of a mentally-challenged girl from a different child-headed household after the girl had broken her leg. The girl didn't understand that she shouldn't move her leg, and she needed someone to watch her for 6 weeks so her siblings could continue to work the fields and go to school. So Evelyn went to the farmer's wife and, woman to woman, showed her a tangible way she could help this child by letting her live with them. For six weeks. Simple, cost-free, yet tangible.

Here's something you can do

A plow to put your hand to

It's not forever nor too much

But you can be God's loving touch

The lady said yes, the child was resting peacefully -- at least until our entourage of mzungu white strangers lumbered into the dimly lit room and petrified her.

But back to earlier in the day, when we were just getting to know these soldiers of passion and healing. As we each introduced ourselves, one volunteer started by saying "Bwana asifewe!" Our translator explained that, although the group isn't confined to Christians, most members are, and a common greeting among believers is "Praise the Lord" - or in Swahili, Bwana asifewe.

"Asifewe"... I scanned my mind's hard drive: I know that word. Yes! It's in a Swahili worship song I often taught to American churches or other groups years ago as I led worship. I hadn't sung it in maybe five years, but as the introductions continued around the room, the tune and words came in a flood. "Yesu u hai leo, asifewe!"

As it turned out, I was the very last person on the very last row to introduce myself. I did so and then said "I think I know a Swahili worship song" and mentioned it. Oh, many of us know it, the translator exclaimed, and you must sing it for us! No, no, but please you sing it and I'll listen. No Cory, you must sing it -- and we will join in.

Of course, you know that I sang it. Actually, we sang it, arms swinging over our heads, round and round 'til I even added the descant on the (literally) hallelujah chorus.

That's when I remembered my vocal cord surgery of two weeks earlier, and that I hadn't sung but a few odd notes since then! I quickly slipped outside my own body and thought, "I'm singing! God gave me my voice back, just in time to sing his praises."

OK, I didn't go full-tilt, but just about. We finished, they started the meeting, and half an hour later the group asked if we could sing it again. And this time, a colorful rail-thin Maasai woman came over mid-song and hung a big white handmade cross around my neck, which was my prized possession from the trip.

Amazing how, when God works things together for good, it's to His glory.

Cory

September 2009

In Good Company

Last Wednesday I had surgery to remove a cyst on my vocal cord. Surgery went well, but afterwards I discovered my tongue wasn't working properly. The doctor believes I have a "stunned nerve". No one knows how long it will last, and he says my body will simply fix itself when (if?) it's good and ready--that meantime there's nothing to be done about it.

The day after surgery I needed to work off some agitation and energy with a good, hard swim. I was really frustrated at what a chore it was (and still is) to chew, to swallow, to speak. Funny how a thing like that can affect my whole attitude, my peace, patience, self-control... All the fruits of the Spirit go rotten overnight. I'm such a baby! Could this be the worst malady I've ever had to deal with? It's no fun, for sure. I'm biting my tongue daily, and when I talk my words are slurred and have to be very deliberate. As I labor to articulate, I self-consciously wonder if people think I'm just mentally "slow".

As I started my swim, I also discovered that it's quite tough to sweep water from my mouth, especially in a flip-turn. But as I stayed the course and concentrated, I choked less and less on the water and was able to have an almost-normal swim.

So, even though it added fodder to the frustration I was trying to burn off, it was good to swim. But on this summer Saturday the city pool was quite full, and I had to share the only lap lane with a young woman. She had a toned physique, wearing a one-piece swimmer's suit, but she was surprisingly slow. When I'd pass her, as I learned to harness my errant tongue and quit choking, I began to notice that her breaststroke was maybe the worst I'd ever seen. There were no propulsive sweeping arms and frog kicks. Rather a goofy curling up, almost into a face-down fetal position, then stretching out. She was really lousy, though she had an athlete's physique. Maybe she's a runner or aspiring triathlete who doesn't know the first thing about swimming, I thought.

Yet she kept swimming next to me for a good half hour. I took off my training gloves near the end of my swim, and she was standing at the wall also, so I turned to communicate... but I wasn't supposed to be talking yet and was dealing with this tongue issue. So instead, I lifted one hand, spread my fingers and quietly mouthed, "Fah moe!" and pointed down the lap lane to signal my final five laps. As I swam, I thought about whether I could find a nonverbal way to give her just one or two tips on swimming when I was done, but when I stopped she'd already crossed under the lane line and was on the other side of the pool.

As I stood against the wall, packing my gear, a woman in a lounge chair smiled lingeringly at me. At first I wanted to be flattered; I'd fought my way through a tough post-surgery swim, I was feeling good about it, maybe I was looking good too! Then I wondered if maybe she'd heard my neighborly but pathetic attempt to speak to my lane partner.

Just then, a bouncy female voice said, "Thanks for swimming with me!", and my wannabee swim partner walks past, big smile on her face, ambling on something like her toes, arms flailing limp below the elbows and knees all akimbo, teetering toward the restroom.

After a quick elbow-jab to myself "You idiot!", another set of lights in my head went on: I was being branded. Both the swimmer and the spectator saw me as disabled too. The lounge chair smile had that friendly yet condescending pat-on-the-head kind of quality to it. I've employed that smile many times. And it left me frankly feeling demeaned to be smiled at from above like that... to be on the other side of that transaction for a change and remember my feelings from her side of it. She wasn't purposely demeaning me, but neither was I her equal.

My swimmer friend on the other hand seemed genuinely appreciative of me, a fellow-struggler, doing our best together, getting good physical activity and not judging one another. OK, maybe I judged her a bit, but only as a coach judges a student. We formed a fellowship of the uphill strugglers. She heard my stammerings and awarded me immediate membership in a society I didn't ever want to be in--but was also somehow proud to be in.

She and I saw each other one more time as we walked out of the gates a few feet behind one another. I was tempted to strike up a conversation but quickly remembered I couldn't talk. And I thought better of it anyway... I had a sense God was showing me something here I didn't want to miss, a first-hand experience of the condescended-upon. And also this alternate universe where less than "perfect" people draw strength from one another. And I had a sense that the timing of the experience was exquisite, that God wasn't frustrated about my tongue problem or panicked by it. Rather that maybe this was the next chapter in my story, like it or not: the Author decides that, not me. And in that moment, something began to shift for me, a releasing of anxiety, something that said this isn't an out-of-control crisis but a journey, a path downward from the Rim of the World Highway of my privilege, power, position and relative "perfection". A path of unknowing, of frustration, of humility... and humiliation. A path that will require trust, and maybe some courage, to turn the page.

Cory

Aug 5, 2009

I Live in a Gated Community

Janet and I took a lovely trip to Richmond, VA last week, mainly to celebrate her "victory lap" in her crisis pregnancy work and to then see the area a bit.

On Friday we visited Monticello, Thomas Jefferson's large plantation estate. Jefferson owned 140 slaves, which he inherited and kept. He said that slavery was abhorrent but never could see how to unwind it… meaning no doubt that he couldn't see how the southern states—or his own indebted plantation—could survive economically without cheap Black labor. How difficult it always is, I sighed, for those who benefit from inequality to envision a more just solution…because it would be costly to their own interests.

Afterwards we ducked into a nearby hilltop apple farm and winery just before it closed. The only other customers remaining in the tasting room were an Anglo couple our age just down from New York to start their holiday weekend adventure in the area.

After a moment of pleasantries shuffleboarded up and down the bar-top like so many mugs of beer in an old Western movie, the man asked us with curious empathy, "So how is it, living in California?" When I took a deep breath and blinked as though my brain just turned on its warning flashers, he explained further, "I mean… with all the immigration problems you have there and everything?"

I think he was bracing himself for woe begotten tales of swarming masses of dark-skinned, dark-eyed invaders, breaking down barricades, rushing up from the border, ravaging the womenfolk and looting and pillaging what rightfully belongs to us white settlers, by God.

When I didn't give him quite what he was looking for, an answer on which he could pour out Conservative compassion or at least East Coast condescension, he tried again. "The entire drive down from New York, all we heard on the radio was about the defeated California ballot initiatives and your immigration problems; which of course we ALL face."

I suppose I should have thanked him for giving me a chance to correct my initial reply, but I guess that didn't come to mind. "Get a life—or at least a CD player" was about all I could think of, and that didn't seem helpful.

I did tell him that the California economy has become largely dependent on hard-working immigrant laborers; and then I quickly commented on the lovely mountains outside and went out on the patio.

Here we were, probably still on Thomas Jefferson's 5000 acres, he a man who said slavery was abhorrent but never could figure how to end it. And there I was, espousing appreciation of Latino immigrants. With what praiseworthy attribute? That they provide cheap labor to keep our economy going.

Once outside, I wanted simultaneously to forget about the dialog inside, simply enjoying the fading light on the smoky mountains distant, and at the same time to be frustrated about the encounter. This guy’s comments smelled of the same scent of historic classism that surrounded us on our trip, which ran through the beginnings of the New World (a Williamsburg epitaph: "She was a woman admired by all the classes") through America’s Founding Fathers (many of whom were slave owners and guaranteed that "right" in the Constitution), to the silky-slick KKK robe and head-shroud ominously confronting me at the Richmond Museum a block from the Confederate White House.

Let's face it, this is always about protecting our way of life, protecting our privilege from those who do not share in it. Because it is undeniable that others cannot share our privilege without it costing us something. Jefferson couldn't get past the economic cost of abolishing what he called a heinous institution, though of course the cost actually paid to abolish slavery by force was astronomically higher for everyone involved.

Most people would be in favor of equality, of justice, if there were no reciprocal cost on those who have gained from the inequality, from the injustice. And that would be me. Frankly, I’m certain this is at least part of the reason I cringe inside when I hear the word “justice”.

On Jefferson's wall hung a then-current map showing Mexico’s border extending all the way north to Canada. Today that same land, with all the resources it possesses, "belong" to the USA.

So I passively participate in this geographic game of "winners and losers", and as the current victors we must protect our interests from the vanquished, and from all other huddled masses.

Therefore I live in a gated community, as do all my fellow Americans. It's called the US-Mexico border, and the gates are currently being made stronger, the walls higher, the urgency heightened. The same is done to dams when the inequality between water levels grows greater and threatens to break the barriers. Or in prisons when deplorable conditions cause the inmates to rise up. Rather than relieve the pressure, we strengthen the barricades.

So yes, it is difficult living in southern California, being this close to the dam, seeing the leaks in it, the pressure points in the system of separate-and-unequal we continue to perpetuate and benefit from, to accept it like our forefathers as an unfortunate but unsolvable “given”.

Meantime, I sit here on comparative Easy Street, a mere cipher of Jefferson, and like the great man I honestly can't imagine how we could unwind the inequality that exists in my own day, in my own town, while it's still in our power to do so peacefully…possibly because all the options seem to involve too much sacrifice on my part. May others lead us where we do not want to go yet history shows us we must. Before it's too late.

And until that happens—maybe even to speed its coming and diminish own my fear—I’m committed to easing that pressure against the dam, reaching over the wall, maybe even dislodging a brick or two in the process. The less pressure there is, the less threatening it all seems, and the more creative we might yet become. I’ve heard it said that “God is not a God of charity, but of justice.”* If that’s true, and I think Scripture bears that out, I want to open my mind and heart to God’s agenda, as difficult and scary as that might seem from my privileged perch.