Early in 2010, my focus shifted somewhat toward compiling meditations for a book (Reflections from Afar--info on ordering it is below).
Because of this, I quit or forgot to post the subsequent meditations on this blogsite for well over a year. Some of them are in "Reflections", but the best of the other ones were missing. So I've belatedly posted them below. Generally, I date these so you'll be able to tell when they were originally written (if it matters).
If you'd like to order my book, you can do so here. And, if you put in the discount code "Cory", you'll get 20% off. Consider it my penance for the oversight in blogging... http://www.worldvisionresources.com/reflections-from-afar-p-509.html
About Me
- Cory Trenda
- I've spent over 30 years with one foot firmly planted among the world’s poorest and the other firmly planted among the world’s richest. I chronicle some of my struggles to live as a Jesus-follower, integrating my global experiences into my understanding of Jesus’ example and teaching. This site is an ongoing extension of the book "Reflections From Afar", "an invitation to glimpse the world through the eyes of the poor and oppressed, and to incorporate those perspectives into our daily lives…"
Monday, August 29, 2011
A Million Little Judgments
My pastor, Fr. John Taylor, was our speaker for the church men’s breakfast this month. He talked about his prior career serving then-disgraced former president, Richard Nixon, and discussed the recent public release of more Watergate tapes showing once again Nixon's latent, and sometimes blatant, racism... but also showing perhaps how Nixon was an adherent to "scientific racism", the idea that different races are uniquely (and categorically) gifted and limited, and thus easily classified and compartmentalized. It was a popular 20th Century belief, a thread easily seen weaving through figures from Adolf Hitler to Howard Cosell.
John, who spent thousands of hours in Nixon's presence, mentioned that Nixon would say “the black man is simply not ready" for this or that responsibility (and freedom). Possibly he even said it kindly, intending the spirit of a father about his children.
And I immediately thought of the amazing week of events in Egypt and the demise of President Mubarak only the day before this breakfast. A mere 24 hours before his own abdication, Mubarak had espoused again his "simply not ready" judgment regarding the Egyptian people and their cry for democracy. "I speak to you as a father to his children", he pathetically tried -- and failed.
But the truth strikes closer to home. I’m a white, American male. To possess all three of those adjectives means you are near the top of the world's food chain. To possess even one puts you in an elite, and dangerously elitist, position. Just like Nixon, just like Mubarak, in our own little fiefdoms we are lords of the manor. And just like them, it becomes very easy for us to pass judgments from on high.
As a minor example of the insidious potential for this, an odd thought passed my mind earlier in the week: that of all the classical music written during the Renaissance almost until today, I could not think of a single female composer. “Perhaps women don't have the wiring to compose classical music” was my first unguarded thought, I admit. Why not? The issue doesn't affect me personally, and this explanation allows me to quickly dismiss such an obscure topic. It's an easy and fast categorization to construct; one which countless men have constructed with the speed of lean-to's being erected in a makeshift relief camp.
But my better nature wouldn't allow such an easy dismissal of the inequity. No women had that wiring? Not one? Is there no other explanation, no more precise delimiter than male- or female-wiring? Nothing about whether a gifted woman was even allowed to be trained, about cultural mores and societal expectations which backhandedly disqualified females?
Decades ago I read a haunting quote, that atheism is a million little truths in defense of a great lie, while Christianity is a million little lies in defense of a great truth. It's a quote that doesn't sit well at first reading, but one that I’ve never forgotten. That quote came to my mind while hearing about Richard Nixon and thinking about Hosni Mubarak in our roomful of top-of-the-heap sitters. It's so easy to declare our own million little “truths” and judgments which justify our pole position. We dip each one like strips of newsprint in the gluey soup of our sloppy thinking—the sloppiness we can exercise because we are the ones with the power, the resources, the influence—and construct our hollow paper mache landscapes which explain the world in lovely contours and scenes which justify our overlording of it.
That is, until the winds of history sweep us into the Red Sea of exile, too.
Jesus called each of us to live by the Golden Rule. And those of us who have more—more power, more influence, more resources—would do well to recognize our own easy tendency to highjack Christ’s beautiful paradigm of mutuality and equality into a cold, careless calculation that justifies our own position in the world. As they say, he who has the gold makes the rules.
Cory
February, 2011
John, who spent thousands of hours in Nixon's presence, mentioned that Nixon would say “the black man is simply not ready" for this or that responsibility (and freedom). Possibly he even said it kindly, intending the spirit of a father about his children.
And I immediately thought of the amazing week of events in Egypt and the demise of President Mubarak only the day before this breakfast. A mere 24 hours before his own abdication, Mubarak had espoused again his "simply not ready" judgment regarding the Egyptian people and their cry for democracy. "I speak to you as a father to his children", he pathetically tried -- and failed.
But the truth strikes closer to home. I’m a white, American male. To possess all three of those adjectives means you are near the top of the world's food chain. To possess even one puts you in an elite, and dangerously elitist, position. Just like Nixon, just like Mubarak, in our own little fiefdoms we are lords of the manor. And just like them, it becomes very easy for us to pass judgments from on high.
As a minor example of the insidious potential for this, an odd thought passed my mind earlier in the week: that of all the classical music written during the Renaissance almost until today, I could not think of a single female composer. “Perhaps women don't have the wiring to compose classical music” was my first unguarded thought, I admit. Why not? The issue doesn't affect me personally, and this explanation allows me to quickly dismiss such an obscure topic. It's an easy and fast categorization to construct; one which countless men have constructed with the speed of lean-to's being erected in a makeshift relief camp.
But my better nature wouldn't allow such an easy dismissal of the inequity. No women had that wiring? Not one? Is there no other explanation, no more precise delimiter than male- or female-wiring? Nothing about whether a gifted woman was even allowed to be trained, about cultural mores and societal expectations which backhandedly disqualified females?
Decades ago I read a haunting quote, that atheism is a million little truths in defense of a great lie, while Christianity is a million little lies in defense of a great truth. It's a quote that doesn't sit well at first reading, but one that I’ve never forgotten. That quote came to my mind while hearing about Richard Nixon and thinking about Hosni Mubarak in our roomful of top-of-the-heap sitters. It's so easy to declare our own million little “truths” and judgments which justify our pole position. We dip each one like strips of newsprint in the gluey soup of our sloppy thinking—the sloppiness we can exercise because we are the ones with the power, the resources, the influence—and construct our hollow paper mache landscapes which explain the world in lovely contours and scenes which justify our overlording of it.
That is, until the winds of history sweep us into the Red Sea of exile, too.
Jesus called each of us to live by the Golden Rule. And those of us who have more—more power, more influence, more resources—would do well to recognize our own easy tendency to highjack Christ’s beautiful paradigm of mutuality and equality into a cold, careless calculation that justifies our own position in the world. As they say, he who has the gold makes the rules.
Cory
February, 2011
Of Butterflies and Caterpillars
Cosmos. It's the cheery flower that Janet loves but could never grow. It's been a running joke in our home for 20 years. Each Spring, she'd muster her courage and buy it again, plant it next to all the other flowers and shrubs that were healthy and growing, and the cosmos would shrivel and die. "She loves to kill cosmos", I'd joke, rather unkindly.
Though Janet had finally given up even trying several years ago, I stumbled upon a cheap sale on cosmos and bought her some as a surprise to pot on our patio. She was delighted and created a big pot for a very conspicuous spot near the back door. I promised I wouldn't mock her but instead be her cheerleader. And amazingly, the pot has been showing off lovely flowers for months now. Janet has been very proud of herself, and we are ready to announce that the curse has been broken!
Yet today, mid-season, the plant suddenly looks like it hangs between life and death. The leaves are shriveled, half the flowers are gone or looking terribly arthritic, and there are limp, brown patches.
And a plump green caterpillar is lounging nearby.
In the past, Janet would feel robbed by these pillaging creatures. We'd dutifully bring out the caterpillar spray and douse the plant with a vengeance.
But last year we experienced a butterfly aviary. Thousands of multi-colored butterflies of numerous exotic designs flitted about, landing on us, showing off and otherwise fascinating everyone there. Janet was filled with wonder, and the entire scene was a delight to behold.
The butterflies often rested on plants as well, plants which the docent told us are favorite foods for caterpillars.
We looked at each other. All these caterpillars we'd killed to protect lovely flowers meant we were snuffing out the opportunity to have beautiful butterflies on our patio. So this year, our Million Bells doesn't look as nice, but we both feel good about that, and the caterpillar spray stays in the garage.
So today, looking at the plump green caterpillar and then at her beloved, wilting cosmos, Janet said, "Well, if it turns out that cosmos is a favorite food of butterflies, we'll have to move the plant off into the corner for them to eat."
Did you catch it—“favorite food of butterflies”? If you get a caterpillar on your arm, the tendency is to quickly brush it off, with a bit of a start. But when a butterfly lands on you, it's a fascination and a blessing.
Janet’s comment blessed me… not only that she was willing to even abandon her decades-long dream to successfully grow and enjoy cosmos in exchange for some greater good, but also that she was able to see into the future, to see the potential of these green things that eat our flowers and to instead call them by what they will become. There were no butterflies on our plants, yet Janet "saw" future butterflies in their rather disgusting precedents.
How often do I only see what's presently in front of me? The street urchin, the dilapidated housing, the impoverished community. I often see bellies in the dirt instead of future beauties in the heavens.
My mind jumped to the before-and-after photos in the paperback edition of Rich Stearns "The Hole in Our Gospel", which I thumbed through last evening. In the first photo, Rich kneels next to a little girl with brown skin, dressed in brown rags. Four years later, Rich is shown visiting her again, this time a proud student in her bright school uniform. What a privilege it is to have an experience like Rich had there.
Yet how much better to be able to "see" it without photos, to picture the potential in the mind's eye, as Janet did. To have her eyes fixed on the caterpillar and yet her mind, her imagination, fixed on a butterfly. To recognize that "better nature" and respond to it, not to the "presenting symptom".
Jesus told him [Thomas], "You believe because you have seen me. Blessed are those who believe without seeing." (John 20:29)
I guess believing without seeing is always an act of faith… and, according to Jesus, a cause of blessing.
Cory
7/24/10
Though Janet had finally given up even trying several years ago, I stumbled upon a cheap sale on cosmos and bought her some as a surprise to pot on our patio. She was delighted and created a big pot for a very conspicuous spot near the back door. I promised I wouldn't mock her but instead be her cheerleader. And amazingly, the pot has been showing off lovely flowers for months now. Janet has been very proud of herself, and we are ready to announce that the curse has been broken!
Yet today, mid-season, the plant suddenly looks like it hangs between life and death. The leaves are shriveled, half the flowers are gone or looking terribly arthritic, and there are limp, brown patches.
And a plump green caterpillar is lounging nearby.
In the past, Janet would feel robbed by these pillaging creatures. We'd dutifully bring out the caterpillar spray and douse the plant with a vengeance.
But last year we experienced a butterfly aviary. Thousands of multi-colored butterflies of numerous exotic designs flitted about, landing on us, showing off and otherwise fascinating everyone there. Janet was filled with wonder, and the entire scene was a delight to behold.
The butterflies often rested on plants as well, plants which the docent told us are favorite foods for caterpillars.
We looked at each other. All these caterpillars we'd killed to protect lovely flowers meant we were snuffing out the opportunity to have beautiful butterflies on our patio. So this year, our Million Bells doesn't look as nice, but we both feel good about that, and the caterpillar spray stays in the garage.
So today, looking at the plump green caterpillar and then at her beloved, wilting cosmos, Janet said, "Well, if it turns out that cosmos is a favorite food of butterflies, we'll have to move the plant off into the corner for them to eat."
Did you catch it—“favorite food of butterflies”? If you get a caterpillar on your arm, the tendency is to quickly brush it off, with a bit of a start. But when a butterfly lands on you, it's a fascination and a blessing.
Janet’s comment blessed me… not only that she was willing to even abandon her decades-long dream to successfully grow and enjoy cosmos in exchange for some greater good, but also that she was able to see into the future, to see the potential of these green things that eat our flowers and to instead call them by what they will become. There were no butterflies on our plants, yet Janet "saw" future butterflies in their rather disgusting precedents.
How often do I only see what's presently in front of me? The street urchin, the dilapidated housing, the impoverished community. I often see bellies in the dirt instead of future beauties in the heavens.
My mind jumped to the before-and-after photos in the paperback edition of Rich Stearns "The Hole in Our Gospel", which I thumbed through last evening. In the first photo, Rich kneels next to a little girl with brown skin, dressed in brown rags. Four years later, Rich is shown visiting her again, this time a proud student in her bright school uniform. What a privilege it is to have an experience like Rich had there.
Yet how much better to be able to "see" it without photos, to picture the potential in the mind's eye, as Janet did. To have her eyes fixed on the caterpillar and yet her mind, her imagination, fixed on a butterfly. To recognize that "better nature" and respond to it, not to the "presenting symptom".
Jesus told him [Thomas], "You believe because you have seen me. Blessed are those who believe without seeing." (John 20:29)
I guess believing without seeing is always an act of faith… and, according to Jesus, a cause of blessing.
Cory
7/24/10
Who’s Wicked
For decades, my brother Tomaj positioned himself as something of the black sheep in our family, the third of us four boys, and the wildest among us. We stayed overnight in his Bay Area home on our way to Oregon, where I hope to write some final entries for a book of reflections. Somewhere during the evening he understated, “I haven’t exactly led a sheltered life.”
But the last time I stayed with Tomaj, he had introduced me to some fabulous Leonard Cohen songs, including “If It Be Your Will” and “Another Hallelujah”. Both songs feature the angst of a man who knows there is a God in heaven who is worthy of praise but who also isn’t certain how completely we humans can really understand that God. The older I get, the more I see such sentiment as intimately honest, a recognition that God is the ultimate Other, that even the seeker who finds God can’t control God. We played and sang the songs together, at the top of our lungs, both visits.
Tomaj mentioned that he’d just seen the musical Wicked in San Francisco last week. It’s the theatre production that vamps off The Wizard of Oz tale, except that in this “rest of the story” version we learn about the woundedness and good-hearted nature of the Wicked Witch and the general meanness and silver-spoon shallowness of the Good Witch. Bad is good and good is bad. Sounds like just the kind of thing we God-fearing people should reject out of hand, boycott as a matter of principle… and in the process miss out on some truths that will challenge our certainties on quickly judging things by the way they appear.
Because we had much to talk about in a few hours together, we simply agreed that we’d both loved Wicked when we saw it, and we went on to some other topic. But now I’m sorry I didn’t talk to him more about it, and then in the process told him about an experience I’d had earlier this month that he would have appreciated…
I attended a training conference in Denver along with a few other colleagues. As I walked down the hallway of the conference hotel, I walked past someone whose passing caught my eye. When I turned my head around, I discovered that he wore a tail. A big, fuzzy 3-4 foot long tail bobbed up and down behind him. Then another person walked past on his way somewhere, with a striped tail. Then a person fully dressed as a chipmunk went by, eyes straight ahead almost as though she were late, late, for a very important date. Later, a group of five or six people dressed as various animals stood in a circle, all hugging each other and gesturing mutely.
I asked the “normal” looking person standing next to them what was happening, and he said it was a sort of “mascot convention.” His explanation didn’t make much sense though, so I asked at the front desk and learned that this was FurCon, a Furries Convention. They are people who like to dress up like animals. The national Furries conference has 4000 attendees, and this Mountain States chapter conference would have 400-500 participants. I learned later that it’s known—to them anyway—as anthropomorphic art: portraying animals with human characteristics.
Over the next couple of days, each time they’d walk past us, my colleagues and I would steal a furtive glance at each other, sharing an unspoken humor. Perhaps the strangest glance came after I watched a guy dressed like a typical techie nerd go through the breakfast buffet while a raccoon tail protruded from his backside.
I noticed that these people acted very kindly toward each other. A few were dressed in black with spiked hair, but generally they had the gentle nature of characters from Disneyland or Chuck E. Cheese. Mostly they kept to themselves and to their end of the hotel, though a few seemed to engage with the children of other guests.
We’d walk past their conference rooms and chuckle, wondering in whispered tones: what do they possibly talk about in their breakout sessions? I was interested, so I looked for the opportunity to get some answers from a participant.
But the answers I needed came from an unexpected source. The evening that our course ended, a few of us were invited to dinner in a small banquet room down the hallway with the course leader. We talked about many things, including how his training business had grown, thanks in no small part to an invaluable colleague who was not able to be with us. He told us that she is unusually transparent and joyful, and if she were here she’d be the first to tell you her story… of how she’d been molested by all the males in her family since age five, of having grown up with suicidal tendencies and no self-esteem.
Later she was introduced to community theatre and discovered that she could come alive by portraying other people. Over time she began to admire the personality traits of some of the characters she was playing and discovered that she could retain their strengths into herself to fill in some of her own deficits. She started to seek out characters with the strengths she wanted to have in her own life, and in the studying and portraying of those characters onstage, she learned that she could choose to redefine and strengthen herself offstage, beyond her abuse, beyond her victimhood.
Just as our host was saying “She would tell you that playing those characters saved her life,” it hit me, because right outside our room the Furries were walking to their evening sessions. I blurted out, “And God is showing us this right now because I think that’s precisely the understanding he wants us to have toward those people in costumes out there. We don’t know their stories and the meaning this event has for them.” No one felt more convicted than me, and the next morning is when I sought out and learned most of the above information from attendees.
Everybody has a story. It may not be a story of tragedy, though every story includes some mixture of pain as well as joy. But that evening, like my evening seeing Wicked, and my evening with my brother, was a reminder that it’s almost always too early to judge who is “good or “bad”, or who lives inside the black sheep’s costume.
Cory
August, 2010
But the last time I stayed with Tomaj, he had introduced me to some fabulous Leonard Cohen songs, including “If It Be Your Will” and “Another Hallelujah”. Both songs feature the angst of a man who knows there is a God in heaven who is worthy of praise but who also isn’t certain how completely we humans can really understand that God. The older I get, the more I see such sentiment as intimately honest, a recognition that God is the ultimate Other, that even the seeker who finds God can’t control God. We played and sang the songs together, at the top of our lungs, both visits.
Tomaj mentioned that he’d just seen the musical Wicked in San Francisco last week. It’s the theatre production that vamps off The Wizard of Oz tale, except that in this “rest of the story” version we learn about the woundedness and good-hearted nature of the Wicked Witch and the general meanness and silver-spoon shallowness of the Good Witch. Bad is good and good is bad. Sounds like just the kind of thing we God-fearing people should reject out of hand, boycott as a matter of principle… and in the process miss out on some truths that will challenge our certainties on quickly judging things by the way they appear.
Because we had much to talk about in a few hours together, we simply agreed that we’d both loved Wicked when we saw it, and we went on to some other topic. But now I’m sorry I didn’t talk to him more about it, and then in the process told him about an experience I’d had earlier this month that he would have appreciated…
I attended a training conference in Denver along with a few other colleagues. As I walked down the hallway of the conference hotel, I walked past someone whose passing caught my eye. When I turned my head around, I discovered that he wore a tail. A big, fuzzy 3-4 foot long tail bobbed up and down behind him. Then another person walked past on his way somewhere, with a striped tail. Then a person fully dressed as a chipmunk went by, eyes straight ahead almost as though she were late, late, for a very important date. Later, a group of five or six people dressed as various animals stood in a circle, all hugging each other and gesturing mutely.
I asked the “normal” looking person standing next to them what was happening, and he said it was a sort of “mascot convention.” His explanation didn’t make much sense though, so I asked at the front desk and learned that this was FurCon, a Furries Convention. They are people who like to dress up like animals. The national Furries conference has 4000 attendees, and this Mountain States chapter conference would have 400-500 participants. I learned later that it’s known—to them anyway—as anthropomorphic art: portraying animals with human characteristics.
Over the next couple of days, each time they’d walk past us, my colleagues and I would steal a furtive glance at each other, sharing an unspoken humor. Perhaps the strangest glance came after I watched a guy dressed like a typical techie nerd go through the breakfast buffet while a raccoon tail protruded from his backside.
I noticed that these people acted very kindly toward each other. A few were dressed in black with spiked hair, but generally they had the gentle nature of characters from Disneyland or Chuck E. Cheese. Mostly they kept to themselves and to their end of the hotel, though a few seemed to engage with the children of other guests.
We’d walk past their conference rooms and chuckle, wondering in whispered tones: what do they possibly talk about in their breakout sessions? I was interested, so I looked for the opportunity to get some answers from a participant.
But the answers I needed came from an unexpected source. The evening that our course ended, a few of us were invited to dinner in a small banquet room down the hallway with the course leader. We talked about many things, including how his training business had grown, thanks in no small part to an invaluable colleague who was not able to be with us. He told us that she is unusually transparent and joyful, and if she were here she’d be the first to tell you her story… of how she’d been molested by all the males in her family since age five, of having grown up with suicidal tendencies and no self-esteem.
Later she was introduced to community theatre and discovered that she could come alive by portraying other people. Over time she began to admire the personality traits of some of the characters she was playing and discovered that she could retain their strengths into herself to fill in some of her own deficits. She started to seek out characters with the strengths she wanted to have in her own life, and in the studying and portraying of those characters onstage, she learned that she could choose to redefine and strengthen herself offstage, beyond her abuse, beyond her victimhood.
Just as our host was saying “She would tell you that playing those characters saved her life,” it hit me, because right outside our room the Furries were walking to their evening sessions. I blurted out, “And God is showing us this right now because I think that’s precisely the understanding he wants us to have toward those people in costumes out there. We don’t know their stories and the meaning this event has for them.” No one felt more convicted than me, and the next morning is when I sought out and learned most of the above information from attendees.
Everybody has a story. It may not be a story of tragedy, though every story includes some mixture of pain as well as joy. But that evening, like my evening seeing Wicked, and my evening with my brother, was a reminder that it’s almost always too early to judge who is “good or “bad”, or who lives inside the black sheep’s costume.
Cory
August, 2010
Eyes of Understanding
Two days ago, we spent a night at one of the humbler rural lodges in which I've ever stayed. The small town in southeastern Kenya where it's located has no electricity after midnight, so when jetlag woke me at about 4am, I had plenty of time to lay in the dark, and my mind quickly reflected back on a moving encounter from the previous day. Then, when I remembered I could read my daily devotions on my backlit Blackberry, the pieces all came to light with the dawn.
The day before, we'd had several wonderful encounters with the poor. Bouncing for miles down dirt roads, we came to the end of the trail, to a village named "California!" Ladies in colorful dresses danced and sang for us, and I joined the dance with them as the comic relief. When the festivities gave way to speeches, we of course told them that we'd come from the “other” California and asked how they'd chosen the name. They explained they'd changed the village name a few years ago to "California" because that name represents the furthest place on earth for them (our equivalent is "Timbuktu"!), and they feel far away from anyone caring or paying attention to them. So our visit was a special grace to them, and they told as much to God when they prayed to start and end our brief visit, as so often happens here.
The new pride of their remote hamlet was a hand-pump well which they proudly displayed. Thanks to the well, girls can now attend school instead of fetching water all morning, women can be more productive, and children get sick --and die-- less frequently. When the village elder greeted us, he said that thanks to the well they now feel that they are legitimately "part of the world."
Our group tried out the handpump and then we all adjourned for warm soda under a tree, where they told us more about the impact which the well has had. That's when things got personal.
One woman reported happily that now her children are clean, because she has enough water to bathe them. My mind flashed to a recent recounting of a woman who said that her top personal “dream” is to be able to take a bath at home.
Just then, a very brave women chimed in, and we heard the translation amid muffled snickers and giggles from others in the crowd. "Before the well, when a man and a woman would come together as a couple, they were not able to wash afterwards."
Her words were shocking in their obvious meaning and profoundly human practicality, yet without any salacious subtext. I felt extremely honored that she would make such an intimate comment to seeming strangers... though World Vision is no stranger here, of course.
After more praying, singing and dancing we bounced off to our next stop. But that night over dinner we each spoke of our most powerful image or memory from the day, and I found myself bringing up this woman's comment. Lucy, a Kenyan woman on our staff who'd also grown up "in the bush", commented, "Yes, it was very brave of her to speak so frankly. But what she didn’t say, yet was really implying behind the words, was that if the woman can't be clean, then her husband is likely to lose interest and go into town to find 'girls'."
My heart sank. I began to think of the helplessness these women must have felt. A woman is very conscious of personal hygiene anyway and would be the first to sense any personal unclean-ness. Then for her husband to go consort with prostitutes would only compound her own inner condemnations and feelings of shame and worthlessness. The women there looked old and weathered before their years anyway, and then to feel unclean, and to be rejected as unclean, must have led to great despair.
I remember a trip somewhere where we visited a girls' latrine at a school and learned that once they reached puberty, perhaps three-fourths of the girls had previously been dropping out of school because of their personal hygiene needs and the lack of gender-specific school toilets, a luxury previously beyond their means. This ridiculously simple girls’ latrine had hugely increased female enrollment and reduced dropouts. It was one of those moments where a dumb male like me can very tangibly understand the vulnerability and sensitivity of females.
Another moment for me recently was reading the fabulous book, "Half the Sky" by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn. The book is a compendium of riveting women's challenges and inspirational stories of modern heroines who are overcoming their barriers and the sins visited against them by men (and at times by other women, whether those who perform genital cutting or those who hold them down so the male soldiers can gang rape them). When I closed the book, I declared myself a feminist before God.
Now enter the shamelessly honest woman from "California" as my latest ah-ha.
I was again contemplating her with increasing empathy in the pre-dawn dark of the next morning when I grabbed my Blackberry to read my daily email devotion. (Ah, the marvels of technology!) I read that two mystics from the 1100's (Hugh of St. Victor and Richard of St. Victor) wrote that God gave humanity three sets of eyes, each building on the previous one. The first are the eyes of the body, the second are the eyes of mind, and the third, the eyes of true understanding and compassion, perhaps the eyes of the heart...
Suddenly it became clear that God has indeed given me three sets of eyes. My physical eyes saw the water well, even saw the dancing and singing. The eyes of my mind saw the brave woman explain an intimate aspect of the blessings of clean, sufficient water which I might not have considered. And finally, thanks to my colleague Lucy, the eyes of my heart broke with compassion as she explained the painful, unfair truth behind the woman’s words... unfair because women once more have the disadvantage, have special needs, have less power in relationships, and yet are the most self-aware in issues such as personal hygiene. Those who already judge themselves are further judged by their husbands’ spurning, further confirmed in their self-deprecating personal appraisal.
I told our group that morning about my devotional, about our three sets of eyes and how it perfectly fit our prior day’s experience. Because ultimately, these trips are exactly about moving from seeing to knowing to feeling. It is God’s invitation in every one of these visits with the poor.
Why? Because from the eyes of the heart comes not only heart-rending compassion but compassion-fired motivation; motivation to be the change which might just change the world, might change it into something that could be recognizable as the Kingdom of God.
Open the eyes of my heart, Lord. Open the eyes of my heart.
Cory
October 28, 2010
Lukenya, Kenya
The day before, we'd had several wonderful encounters with the poor. Bouncing for miles down dirt roads, we came to the end of the trail, to a village named "California!" Ladies in colorful dresses danced and sang for us, and I joined the dance with them as the comic relief. When the festivities gave way to speeches, we of course told them that we'd come from the “other” California and asked how they'd chosen the name. They explained they'd changed the village name a few years ago to "California" because that name represents the furthest place on earth for them (our equivalent is "Timbuktu"!), and they feel far away from anyone caring or paying attention to them. So our visit was a special grace to them, and they told as much to God when they prayed to start and end our brief visit, as so often happens here.
The new pride of their remote hamlet was a hand-pump well which they proudly displayed. Thanks to the well, girls can now attend school instead of fetching water all morning, women can be more productive, and children get sick --and die-- less frequently. When the village elder greeted us, he said that thanks to the well they now feel that they are legitimately "part of the world."
Our group tried out the handpump and then we all adjourned for warm soda under a tree, where they told us more about the impact which the well has had. That's when things got personal.
One woman reported happily that now her children are clean, because she has enough water to bathe them. My mind flashed to a recent recounting of a woman who said that her top personal “dream” is to be able to take a bath at home.
Just then, a very brave women chimed in, and we heard the translation amid muffled snickers and giggles from others in the crowd. "Before the well, when a man and a woman would come together as a couple, they were not able to wash afterwards."
Her words were shocking in their obvious meaning and profoundly human practicality, yet without any salacious subtext. I felt extremely honored that she would make such an intimate comment to seeming strangers... though World Vision is no stranger here, of course.
After more praying, singing and dancing we bounced off to our next stop. But that night over dinner we each spoke of our most powerful image or memory from the day, and I found myself bringing up this woman's comment. Lucy, a Kenyan woman on our staff who'd also grown up "in the bush", commented, "Yes, it was very brave of her to speak so frankly. But what she didn’t say, yet was really implying behind the words, was that if the woman can't be clean, then her husband is likely to lose interest and go into town to find 'girls'."
My heart sank. I began to think of the helplessness these women must have felt. A woman is very conscious of personal hygiene anyway and would be the first to sense any personal unclean-ness. Then for her husband to go consort with prostitutes would only compound her own inner condemnations and feelings of shame and worthlessness. The women there looked old and weathered before their years anyway, and then to feel unclean, and to be rejected as unclean, must have led to great despair.
I remember a trip somewhere where we visited a girls' latrine at a school and learned that once they reached puberty, perhaps three-fourths of the girls had previously been dropping out of school because of their personal hygiene needs and the lack of gender-specific school toilets, a luxury previously beyond their means. This ridiculously simple girls’ latrine had hugely increased female enrollment and reduced dropouts. It was one of those moments where a dumb male like me can very tangibly understand the vulnerability and sensitivity of females.
Another moment for me recently was reading the fabulous book, "Half the Sky" by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn. The book is a compendium of riveting women's challenges and inspirational stories of modern heroines who are overcoming their barriers and the sins visited against them by men (and at times by other women, whether those who perform genital cutting or those who hold them down so the male soldiers can gang rape them). When I closed the book, I declared myself a feminist before God.
Now enter the shamelessly honest woman from "California" as my latest ah-ha.
I was again contemplating her with increasing empathy in the pre-dawn dark of the next morning when I grabbed my Blackberry to read my daily email devotion. (Ah, the marvels of technology!) I read that two mystics from the 1100's (Hugh of St. Victor and Richard of St. Victor) wrote that God gave humanity three sets of eyes, each building on the previous one. The first are the eyes of the body, the second are the eyes of mind, and the third, the eyes of true understanding and compassion, perhaps the eyes of the heart...
Suddenly it became clear that God has indeed given me three sets of eyes. My physical eyes saw the water well, even saw the dancing and singing. The eyes of my mind saw the brave woman explain an intimate aspect of the blessings of clean, sufficient water which I might not have considered. And finally, thanks to my colleague Lucy, the eyes of my heart broke with compassion as she explained the painful, unfair truth behind the woman’s words... unfair because women once more have the disadvantage, have special needs, have less power in relationships, and yet are the most self-aware in issues such as personal hygiene. Those who already judge themselves are further judged by their husbands’ spurning, further confirmed in their self-deprecating personal appraisal.
I told our group that morning about my devotional, about our three sets of eyes and how it perfectly fit our prior day’s experience. Because ultimately, these trips are exactly about moving from seeing to knowing to feeling. It is God’s invitation in every one of these visits with the poor.
Why? Because from the eyes of the heart comes not only heart-rending compassion but compassion-fired motivation; motivation to be the change which might just change the world, might change it into something that could be recognizable as the Kingdom of God.
Open the eyes of my heart, Lord. Open the eyes of my heart.
Cory
October 28, 2010
Lukenya, Kenya
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
So Long, John Stott
John Stott died last week, at age 90. When I read it, I almost felt like crying... http://www.nytimes.com/2011/07/28/world/europe/28stott.html?ref=sunday
John Stott was a spiritual grandfather figure for me in my faith journey. He was the first “light” for my understanding of Christian/evangelical social responsibility, and he put into words what was already stirring in my heart. I was a fairly new Jesus follower, and new to World Vision, when nearly 30 years ago someone recommended his books to me, especially his series on evangelical social responsibility published by InterVarsity Press. I led an adult Sunday School class through several volumes, stretching all of us and re-envisioning my own understanding of the day’s issues through this new lens of Jesus’ paradigm. What did it mean to follow Jesus footsteps in a world not just of economic disparity but also of nuclear weapons, of birth control, of the death penalty, and increasing divorce in the church? Stott gently unpacked each issue with non-judgmental understanding for differing opinions, yet with a consistent call to compassionately engage in a world in need. Thirty years later, the Protestant Church has moved, albeit fitfully and protestingly, toward where John was inviting us, following an engaged and compassionate Jesus.
It’s a very hard road, this stepping out of oneself, seeking to truly understand the other, and laying down the cultural assumptions which define so much of what we think of as Christianity. Patriotism/nationalism, party politics, upbringing… all these and more color our reading of the gospels and become cultural blinders which we spend a lifetime trying to overcome in attempting to follow the Shepherd more nearly. Or, as the famous Godspell refrain says it—and which I pray after communion each week: to see Thee more clearly, love Thee more dearly, and follow Thee more nearly.
I had a conversation recently with a conservative friend of mine. He now attends perhaps the most notoriously activist, vocally “liberal” church in southern California, whose pastor I’ve read about in the papers at least since the 1980’s, when this church was taking in refugees from Central American nations whose dictators were supported by the U.S. government. “America, right or wrong” has definitely not been their rallying cry. They’ve probably declared themselves a “nuclear-free church,” for all I know. I would often shake my head reading these stories, but also ponder what compass they were using which gave them the boldness to undertake such unpopular actions. Which means that every once in a while I’d have this fleeting question as to whether this was just a difference in our political overlays or if their reading of scripture had fewer cultural blinders than mine. Could they be right?
So, remembering this pastor’s notoriety, I asked my friend how in the world he came to that church a decade ago from his conservative church background, and how did he feel about this pastor. His answer continues to haunt me. “Cory, I never cease to be challenged by him to care more about people. I’ve never encountered anyone who so consistently leads with love.”
Leading with love, with compassion. That sounds a lot like Jesus to me. Jesus had an amazing lack of need to “hold the line” on so-called moral issues. He loved the woman caught in adultery, he loved the woman at the well who’d had 5 husbands and was cohabiting with another man, he even loved the rich young ruler before inviting him to give away everything which he possessed and which possessed him if he really wanted to follow a new Master. (Mark 10:21)
We on the other hand seem to have a great need to “hold the line” on Jesus’ behalf, and to the outside world, it appears that our judgment triumphs over mercy. Fifty years ago, the church held the line on divorce, removing divorced persons from church leadership and sometimes from the church rolls. We judged those with AIDS. We held the line on women in the pulpit, sometimes barring women in any church leadership position “over men.” Women’s ordination was the impetus for many painful church splits and denominational splinter groups.
We see these hard-line stands as forgivable miscalculations, forgetting the hordes we’ve left shunned and rejected, perhaps permanently, by our principled positions.
When it’s so easy to find examples from as little as a few decades ago where passionate principles were rigorously defended, yet which now seem shamefully backwards to us today, what haunts me is this: In view of that history—and my own history of getting it wrong—what are the issues facing the church today where we are busy “holding the line” yet which in 50-100 years will seem equally absurd? When will our intransigence on Jesus’ behalf once again prove ultimately to be a blemish on Jesus’ reputation?
New York Times columnist Nicholas Kristof wrote an editorial this past weekend about John Stott’s life and his huge, positive impact on Christian thinking and engagement in the world, how he commended Jesus to a skeptical world by challenging believers to lead with love. Kristof also contrasted Stott with some well-known “blowhards”, as he refers to them. To my point, he wonders, “When the Rev. Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson discussed on television whether the 9/11 attacks were God’s punishment on feminists, gays and secularists, God should have sued them for defamation.” (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/07/31/opinion/sunday/kristof-evangelicals-without-blowhards.html?_r=3)
So what nags me is this: Will God accuse me too of defamation of character? And how will Christ-followers in future generations judge how I stewarded his reputation during my “watch”?
I know a doctor who was sued by a homosexual patient and the ACLU over his refusal to provide a medical service on religious grounds. Millions of dollars, numerous news articles and nearly a decade of court battles later, he lamented with what seemed like disillusionment, “Looking back, as a Christian I’m not sure how good it is to be known for what I’m against.”
Looking back, I too lament for being known for what I’m against. My position has changed over the past 30 years (thank goodness!) on some issues, like women in the pulpit for instance. If I got that wrong then, what am I getting wrong now? And how do I avoid the same hard-line mistakes over today’s issues? I honestly don’t know where I stand on some of today’s hot-button “morality” issues, but my new starting point is to lead with love, to seek first to understand.
Each generation desperately needs gracious yet prophetic voices such as dear John Stott who can help us see beyond our day’s culture wars, beyond our culture, and be confronted once again with the example of Jesus, who is not just savior but also, as Stott himself may have put it, the Lord of Love.
So long, John Stott. I feel as if one of my anchors has just broken off, but my rudder is more firmly set on course because of your life and witness.
Cory
August 2011
John Stott was a spiritual grandfather figure for me in my faith journey. He was the first “light” for my understanding of Christian/evangelical social responsibility, and he put into words what was already stirring in my heart. I was a fairly new Jesus follower, and new to World Vision, when nearly 30 years ago someone recommended his books to me, especially his series on evangelical social responsibility published by InterVarsity Press. I led an adult Sunday School class through several volumes, stretching all of us and re-envisioning my own understanding of the day’s issues through this new lens of Jesus’ paradigm. What did it mean to follow Jesus footsteps in a world not just of economic disparity but also of nuclear weapons, of birth control, of the death penalty, and increasing divorce in the church? Stott gently unpacked each issue with non-judgmental understanding for differing opinions, yet with a consistent call to compassionately engage in a world in need. Thirty years later, the Protestant Church has moved, albeit fitfully and protestingly, toward where John was inviting us, following an engaged and compassionate Jesus.
It’s a very hard road, this stepping out of oneself, seeking to truly understand the other, and laying down the cultural assumptions which define so much of what we think of as Christianity. Patriotism/nationalism, party politics, upbringing… all these and more color our reading of the gospels and become cultural blinders which we spend a lifetime trying to overcome in attempting to follow the Shepherd more nearly. Or, as the famous Godspell refrain says it—and which I pray after communion each week: to see Thee more clearly, love Thee more dearly, and follow Thee more nearly.
I had a conversation recently with a conservative friend of mine. He now attends perhaps the most notoriously activist, vocally “liberal” church in southern California, whose pastor I’ve read about in the papers at least since the 1980’s, when this church was taking in refugees from Central American nations whose dictators were supported by the U.S. government. “America, right or wrong” has definitely not been their rallying cry. They’ve probably declared themselves a “nuclear-free church,” for all I know. I would often shake my head reading these stories, but also ponder what compass they were using which gave them the boldness to undertake such unpopular actions. Which means that every once in a while I’d have this fleeting question as to whether this was just a difference in our political overlays or if their reading of scripture had fewer cultural blinders than mine. Could they be right?
So, remembering this pastor’s notoriety, I asked my friend how in the world he came to that church a decade ago from his conservative church background, and how did he feel about this pastor. His answer continues to haunt me. “Cory, I never cease to be challenged by him to care more about people. I’ve never encountered anyone who so consistently leads with love.”
Leading with love, with compassion. That sounds a lot like Jesus to me. Jesus had an amazing lack of need to “hold the line” on so-called moral issues. He loved the woman caught in adultery, he loved the woman at the well who’d had 5 husbands and was cohabiting with another man, he even loved the rich young ruler before inviting him to give away everything which he possessed and which possessed him if he really wanted to follow a new Master. (Mark 10:21)
We on the other hand seem to have a great need to “hold the line” on Jesus’ behalf, and to the outside world, it appears that our judgment triumphs over mercy. Fifty years ago, the church held the line on divorce, removing divorced persons from church leadership and sometimes from the church rolls. We judged those with AIDS. We held the line on women in the pulpit, sometimes barring women in any church leadership position “over men.” Women’s ordination was the impetus for many painful church splits and denominational splinter groups.
We see these hard-line stands as forgivable miscalculations, forgetting the hordes we’ve left shunned and rejected, perhaps permanently, by our principled positions.
When it’s so easy to find examples from as little as a few decades ago where passionate principles were rigorously defended, yet which now seem shamefully backwards to us today, what haunts me is this: In view of that history—and my own history of getting it wrong—what are the issues facing the church today where we are busy “holding the line” yet which in 50-100 years will seem equally absurd? When will our intransigence on Jesus’ behalf once again prove ultimately to be a blemish on Jesus’ reputation?
New York Times columnist Nicholas Kristof wrote an editorial this past weekend about John Stott’s life and his huge, positive impact on Christian thinking and engagement in the world, how he commended Jesus to a skeptical world by challenging believers to lead with love. Kristof also contrasted Stott with some well-known “blowhards”, as he refers to them. To my point, he wonders, “When the Rev. Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson discussed on television whether the 9/11 attacks were God’s punishment on feminists, gays and secularists, God should have sued them for defamation.” (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/07/31/opinion/sunday/kristof-evangelicals-without-blowhards.html?_r=3)
So what nags me is this: Will God accuse me too of defamation of character? And how will Christ-followers in future generations judge how I stewarded his reputation during my “watch”?
I know a doctor who was sued by a homosexual patient and the ACLU over his refusal to provide a medical service on religious grounds. Millions of dollars, numerous news articles and nearly a decade of court battles later, he lamented with what seemed like disillusionment, “Looking back, as a Christian I’m not sure how good it is to be known for what I’m against.”
Looking back, I too lament for being known for what I’m against. My position has changed over the past 30 years (thank goodness!) on some issues, like women in the pulpit for instance. If I got that wrong then, what am I getting wrong now? And how do I avoid the same hard-line mistakes over today’s issues? I honestly don’t know where I stand on some of today’s hot-button “morality” issues, but my new starting point is to lead with love, to seek first to understand.
Each generation desperately needs gracious yet prophetic voices such as dear John Stott who can help us see beyond our day’s culture wars, beyond our culture, and be confronted once again with the example of Jesus, who is not just savior but also, as Stott himself may have put it, the Lord of Love.
So long, John Stott. I feel as if one of my anchors has just broken off, but my rudder is more firmly set on course because of your life and witness.
Cory
August 2011
Eating an Elephant
I'm watching an elephant being eaten, one bite at a time.
That's one of the real takeaways from my trip to Kenya a week ago. The “elephant” is the AIDS pandemic which was overwhelming much of sub-Saharan Africa a decade ago.
On this latest trip, we were primarily visiting water-related programs, but along the way we also visited a group of PLWHAs or “PLEW-ahs”, People Living With HIV and AIDS. The group was formed both for support and to provide a way for these outcasts to make a living. They were banding together for an income-generating activity—grinding corn (maize), thanks to a grant from World Vision which provided the grinder. This group has 66 members who take turns working at the grinding mill, and 142 children are benefitting as a result. Not only that, but these people with the virus are now providing a service to their community and generating resources instead of draining their community’s resources.
We talked with them about the stigma they experience (“sometimes other kids aren’t allowed to play with our children”), about the availability of anti-retroviral (ARV) drugs, about their business… and we prayed together. It was yet another special experience with precious people, loved by God, yet suffering from HIV/AIDS.
But what was most notable was what we didn't experience. I saw it, but those with me couldn’t.
So I had to explain to my fellow travelers what it was like to visit PLWHAs just 8 or 9 years ago, before ARVs, before sensitization training against stigma, before testing for the virus was generally accessible, before President Bush’s AIDS Initiative. Back then, I said, we often were visiting AIDS patients "on bed", which usually meant they were lying on the ground, if not under a tree outside the house. Their tears came so easily as these sallow victims told of being cast out of their own homes by spouses and children, or as they begged siblings or parents to care for their too-soon-to-be orphaned children. It was such a terrible scourge, with terrible suffering and terrible stigma and shame. It's hard now even to imagine that this was happening in the 21st century, under our watch, and that these were things I had personally witnessed in multiple countries and settings.
I had to explain all these dynamics to first-time visitors who had never experienced them. It was astounding to realize that, in my last three trips visiting those with HIV and AIDS, the experience was much more related to "living positively" than to dying with some dignity. This is truly an amazing improvement in less than a decade. There is still some stigma, fear and a lack of understanding. But the level of rejection is measurably diminishing, to the point that customers were willing to let the group’s members grind the corn their families would cook and consume. The PLWHAs were thin and dull-eyed, but they were all standing, walking and attending our gathering. There are still doors closed to them and rejection in the workplace, but they've embraced a new way to generate income as a group, to keep working and to provide for their families with the sweat of their brows. They may need transportation help to access medications, but those are generally available for most who need and want them. I expect these PLWHAs will still die of complications from the virus, but now they are living for years and are able to raise their children toward the safety of adulthood in the meantime.
It's stunning, really, to think of the overwhelming mountain that loomed in front of us ten years ago, and how these improvements are gradually but steadily showing themselves in numerous ways and countries. I'm experiencing it incrementally but clearly each time in my own travels, not just reading statistics about it.
It's also surreal in a way. I could hardly believe the stories I was sharing with my fellow travelers about the situations I experienced in the early years of the last decade. So recent and yet so ancient as to sound like I'd lived during the Black Plague. In fact, I suppose in some ways we did. I read recently that during the Plague, some regions actually lost over half of their inhabitants. One man wrote during that no one cried anymore over individual deaths—they were all themselves just waiting to die. I couldn't even imagine the sense of hopelessness, despair and doom. And I wasn't at all surprised to read that there was a widespread belief during that era that the world itself was about to end.
Despair tinged with hopelessness was bleeding through the strong social fabric of African communities a decade ago too, and plenty of us bystanders were ready to finally give up on Africa rather than deal with this overwhelming crisis. It's completely shameful that we "rich nation" peoples would allow something like this to go on. Of course, a small Gideon’s Army of people like Rich Stearns, Kay Warren and Lynne Hybels sounded the alarm and helped change our tolerance into intolerance. And from a Kingdom perspective, President Bush's tripling of funding to combat the global AIDS pandemic may have been his greatest foreign policy achievement, as he brought tremendous resources to bear in fighting this battle.
Finally, it was a bit shocking to have to explain these things to my first-time fellow travelers, to be reminded of how few people even ten years later really understand what happened—and is still happening, albeit to a lesser degree. The facts were painful to conjure up; the feelings, impossible. Like soldiers returned from the front who can't begin to adequately explain to the folks back home what it was actually like to experience the decisive battle which saved their city. Yet all the same, what a privilege to be able to say "Yes, I served; I was a foot soldier in that battle."
Of course, the battle isn't over, but I can report from my last few visits to the frontlines that the battle is turning, the tide is shifting, the dawn is coming.
If you ask me, the glass is half full. The elephant is half eaten.
Cory
August 2011
That's one of the real takeaways from my trip to Kenya a week ago. The “elephant” is the AIDS pandemic which was overwhelming much of sub-Saharan Africa a decade ago.
On this latest trip, we were primarily visiting water-related programs, but along the way we also visited a group of PLWHAs or “PLEW-ahs”, People Living With HIV and AIDS. The group was formed both for support and to provide a way for these outcasts to make a living. They were banding together for an income-generating activity—grinding corn (maize), thanks to a grant from World Vision which provided the grinder. This group has 66 members who take turns working at the grinding mill, and 142 children are benefitting as a result. Not only that, but these people with the virus are now providing a service to their community and generating resources instead of draining their community’s resources.
We talked with them about the stigma they experience (“sometimes other kids aren’t allowed to play with our children”), about the availability of anti-retroviral (ARV) drugs, about their business… and we prayed together. It was yet another special experience with precious people, loved by God, yet suffering from HIV/AIDS.
But what was most notable was what we didn't experience. I saw it, but those with me couldn’t.
So I had to explain to my fellow travelers what it was like to visit PLWHAs just 8 or 9 years ago, before ARVs, before sensitization training against stigma, before testing for the virus was generally accessible, before President Bush’s AIDS Initiative. Back then, I said, we often were visiting AIDS patients "on bed", which usually meant they were lying on the ground, if not under a tree outside the house. Their tears came so easily as these sallow victims told of being cast out of their own homes by spouses and children, or as they begged siblings or parents to care for their too-soon-to-be orphaned children. It was such a terrible scourge, with terrible suffering and terrible stigma and shame. It's hard now even to imagine that this was happening in the 21st century, under our watch, and that these were things I had personally witnessed in multiple countries and settings.
I had to explain all these dynamics to first-time visitors who had never experienced them. It was astounding to realize that, in my last three trips visiting those with HIV and AIDS, the experience was much more related to "living positively" than to dying with some dignity. This is truly an amazing improvement in less than a decade. There is still some stigma, fear and a lack of understanding. But the level of rejection is measurably diminishing, to the point that customers were willing to let the group’s members grind the corn their families would cook and consume. The PLWHAs were thin and dull-eyed, but they were all standing, walking and attending our gathering. There are still doors closed to them and rejection in the workplace, but they've embraced a new way to generate income as a group, to keep working and to provide for their families with the sweat of their brows. They may need transportation help to access medications, but those are generally available for most who need and want them. I expect these PLWHAs will still die of complications from the virus, but now they are living for years and are able to raise their children toward the safety of adulthood in the meantime.
It's stunning, really, to think of the overwhelming mountain that loomed in front of us ten years ago, and how these improvements are gradually but steadily showing themselves in numerous ways and countries. I'm experiencing it incrementally but clearly each time in my own travels, not just reading statistics about it.
It's also surreal in a way. I could hardly believe the stories I was sharing with my fellow travelers about the situations I experienced in the early years of the last decade. So recent and yet so ancient as to sound like I'd lived during the Black Plague. In fact, I suppose in some ways we did. I read recently that during the Plague, some regions actually lost over half of their inhabitants. One man wrote during that no one cried anymore over individual deaths—they were all themselves just waiting to die. I couldn't even imagine the sense of hopelessness, despair and doom. And I wasn't at all surprised to read that there was a widespread belief during that era that the world itself was about to end.
Despair tinged with hopelessness was bleeding through the strong social fabric of African communities a decade ago too, and plenty of us bystanders were ready to finally give up on Africa rather than deal with this overwhelming crisis. It's completely shameful that we "rich nation" peoples would allow something like this to go on. Of course, a small Gideon’s Army of people like Rich Stearns, Kay Warren and Lynne Hybels sounded the alarm and helped change our tolerance into intolerance. And from a Kingdom perspective, President Bush's tripling of funding to combat the global AIDS pandemic may have been his greatest foreign policy achievement, as he brought tremendous resources to bear in fighting this battle.
Finally, it was a bit shocking to have to explain these things to my first-time fellow travelers, to be reminded of how few people even ten years later really understand what happened—and is still happening, albeit to a lesser degree. The facts were painful to conjure up; the feelings, impossible. Like soldiers returned from the front who can't begin to adequately explain to the folks back home what it was actually like to experience the decisive battle which saved their city. Yet all the same, what a privilege to be able to say "Yes, I served; I was a foot soldier in that battle."
Of course, the battle isn't over, but I can report from my last few visits to the frontlines that the battle is turning, the tide is shifting, the dawn is coming.
If you ask me, the glass is half full. The elephant is half eaten.
Cory
August 2011
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