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.

For All Who Are Thirsty

My previous meditation talked about attending Mass some weekday mornings. The desire came from a sense that I was missing the mystery of the liturgy and the Eucharist by attending contemporary churches for the past 30 years. Recently, we've found some type of middle ground attending a lovely Episcopal church near us, where the experience below took place on Easter Sunday...
Cory
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For All Who Are Thirsty
As usual these days, we arrived at St. John's for Easter Sunday service just as the procession was starting. Which of course on Easter meant that the only open seats were on the front row of the side (transept) chapel. What we didn't expect is that we'd have the best seats in the house.
About five feet away, off the end of the front rows of the main (nave) seating facing the altar, was a woman in a brightly flowered dress, often smiling, singing out... sitting in what was clearly her life-sentence wheelchair. Occasionally her son ambled over adult laps down the row to rest on hers, a happy boy with Down's Syndrome.
In what might be expected to be a parade of "beautiful people", it became quite moving to watch everyone come to the altar for communion... the woman in the wheelchair just the first of the lame, the infirm, some leaning on canes, others sitting in wheelchairs; all of the rest of us humbly on our knees, hands outstretched to take hold of the broken Body of Christ, the Bread of Life, necks craned to receive the Cup of Salvation.
And all of a sudden I saw with new eyes that these fine people were dressed in their Easter finery not out of pretense, but as part of their act of worship and celebration of the day. Because no one was attired so fine as to be above the humility of bended knee, outstretched and beggarly hands, hungry as baby birds in the nest for what gifts Jesus had to give us.
A little boy, maybe three years old, was hungry too; he wouldn't let the cup pass him by without getting a drink. Other children came forward, as they come every week here, as Jesus bid them come, whether for a blessing upon their heads or for an experience of the Eucharistic mystery they hardly understand; which, after all, is true of all of us. Maybe in some ways, children understand with their hearts more than we understand with our heads.
There's a cacophony of comings and goings at the altar every week that I simply can't take my eyes off of. Today it was multiplied into a banquet feast, Fr. John moving from end to end and back again giving the bread to every supplicant, trailed by four lay leaders providing wine.
And the rhythm of broken, "imperfect" bodies coming forward, punctuating the pageantry, was stunning. I thought of Bob Cratchit's report to his wife in Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" about having taken Tiny Tim to church on Christmas morn, that "Tiny Tim was happy that people should look upon him and remember who made the blind to see and the lame to walk." Here they came, only their outward appearance more clearly showing their want of God's touch than mine. And what a seat I had to look upon them.
Finally, in the last group to the altar was a man I hadn't seen approach the rail. He seemed to struggle to hold the communion wafer, almost hiding it in his fists. A kindly, knowing lay minister with the chalice extracted his wafer and dipped it in the cup, then placed it on the man's tongue, adding a compassionate touch to his shoulder. Only when the man arose did I see his cane, his uncertain gait and his withered hands.
And as he wobbled back slowly up the side aisle between me and the lady in the wheelchair on the end of the aisle facing forward, her Down's Syndrome boy playing peacefully between dad and grandma, my eyes suddenly became wet.
As he went along, Jesus saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, "Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?""Neither this man nor his parents sinned," said Jesus, "but this happened so that the work of God might be displayed in his life." (John 9:1-3)
What a display of the work of God I was privileged to celebrate, not only as an historical event, but as a firsthand witness, on this Easter Day. All of us imperfect, all of us needy; hungry and thirsty at the foot of the empty cross.
Cory
April 2009

A God Who Weeps

I wrote this in early May, just after the twin disasters of Cyclone Nargis in Myanmar and the earthquake in central China. It seemed right for Good Friday.
May the mystery and work of Jesus be fresh for you this Holy Week.
Cory

A God Who Weeps
I just finished attending a weekday morning Mass at the nearby Catholic Church. I sit here and ponder: When hunger increases and food grows more scarce, or when disaster casualties mount, sometimes my heart sinks with each sad report, and it turns from bright red and warm to a cool steel blue.
I can almost feel it. My chest exhales and I feel something like a loss of body temperature. My heart stops sinking only by cooling itself, another slight cooling of passion and hopefulness.
Then I go after faith as something to blame, go after my expectations of God and grouse at his potency if not his unconcern, his laissez faire way of overlording this world in the midst of pain and need. Can He do nothing? Who is clanging the steeple bells to rouse... God?
This is where I suppose it turns from a faith-in-humankind issue and becomes a faith-in-God issue. The fateful twist of the accusing finger away from our combined culpability to the one seductively simple Scapegoat.
As I drove away from the church toward my office, I listened to the gorgeous, and for me emotive, 17th century sacred choral "Miserere" by Allegre, rendered from David's penitential mourn in Psalm 51. It's the wail of the world, and of all who live there, vocalized by voices straight from heaven itself that pierce every octave of my soul. Heaven bewailing the misery of man. Heaven crying with us, grieving our sin, mourning our fate in ancient Latin words that I wish I understood but barely need to. Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love.
And I recall the priest's words as he held up the communion host today: "The body of Christ, broken for you." Broken. Broken for a broken world; for a broken me. The body of Christ, Cory, broken for you.
Between his body and his blood given, can there be there any question of the heart of Christ also being broken? Scripture says Jesus wept. Was there ever a religion that claims that God weeps, that He mourns, that he breaks for us?
"Weep with those who weep," Jesus says. Is that what God does too? It wouldn’t be enough for me if that's all He were capable of doing. Yet there is something about this weeping, this broken heart, that speaks to my heart, that resonates with my experience of life for 54 years: God does not swoop in and right every wrong. Yet. He does not feed every hungry child. Yet. He does not, whether he is able or interested or potent or all or none of the above; He does not.
Sermons promising that this time he surely will no longer finds easy space in my heart. And I think that explains why I gain strength from this expression of Jesus' Church, the Church of the Perpetual Crucifix, the Church of Faithful Sufferers. Why? Because I myself can feel some tiny part of the pain of the world, and I have seen pretty close up that there are no glib, neatly-tied-up answers or perfect endings in this life. But I can show up anyway, just like the 60 other people at church this morning of diverse age, ethnicity and economic status.
No promises from a positivist pulpit. No hanging on the words of a preacher for the comfort I lack, relying on him and his stirring words to bolster a flagging belief that everything will work out the way I want it to work out.
Instead, just the sacramental homage to a God I love but don't always like in the way He superintends things. Instead, gazing up at a God-man who didn’t take the easy way out. He hung there until it was finished, stayed in the pain, drank the dregs.
There is a rhythm of faith in this place, of faithful-ness. A faith that accepts the ache, and has even discovered a way to integrate the ache into the very experience of faith itself. Because the ache is life; it's real, and I refuse to deny it or fear it. After all, I only fear it because my faith walk hasn't been holistic enough to integrate it fully. Yet.
But today I realized that it's not only about us participating in the sufferings of Christ; it's also about Christ participating in the sufferings of us. Not just "once for all" in his death, but something quite immediate, available, a traveling and hurting together. God with us. Emmanuel.
I turned out from my short drive to the office and detoured instead to a coffee house to write this. And while I waited and listened and reflected at a long turn signal, I sensed my fear of faithlessness turning away too, the music and my heart embracing the same beautiful aching groan that heaven was heaving, letting it in from the cold to warm my heart, cradling the truth of it, transcending words. Too deep for words. As deep called unto deep.
And right then my eyes caught sight of something very strange: a trinity of vertical purple flags without any markings, inexplicably standing beside the traffic light, side by side, flapping in the breeze. Like Father, Son and Holy Spirit, all arrayed in the very color of the Passion, the Pain, the Broken Heart, broken for us.
A God who weeps.
And now, praise be to Him, my own heart warming again by the spirit of the suffering faithful Christ, I can weep too.

Together in the Crucible

I took my California colleagues to visit World Vision's Tijuana project last week. It's always great to visit the people and the program. Last year I made 6 trips, and I returned home each time thinking that day was the best visit ever. But this time my heart stirred with less comfortable feelings.

I came away sobered, maybe sad, having seen and heard from many people there about the impact of the economic downturn, especially on the poor, but on everyone else as well. Perhaps most vivid was driving down Revolucion Avenue, the main touristfare in Tijuana, devoid of tourists; shop fronts flung open wide, shopkeepers keeping vigil outside, yet without shoppers inside. Drive-by voyeurism of an abandoned populace. And it drove home the point that this economic slump is hardly confined to America.

These downtown store owners are not our microloan borrowers; yet they are still entrepreneurs trying to make a living for their families. The enterprising, the proactive, the hard-working, feeling the pressure of the economic screws turning, mixed in with the border’s gangster-on-gangster violence which scares away the few remaining tourists who might otherwise still come with precious dollars in their pockets.

Tijuana is a brackish place, where my friend and colleague Mauricio must pay his rent in dollars but receives his salary in pesos. Now the peso has declined from 11-to-$1 down to 15-to-$1 and his math becomes increasingly difficult.

People still go to work; they're not giving up. Others are getting second and third jobs or starting small income-generating activities on the side. The volunteers somehow are still amazingly active, planning new activities. They are wonderfully faithful and inspiring, although Mauricio tells me that some volunteers are having to cut back in order to concentrate on making ends meet at home.

The unknowns are trying for everyone we met. Occasionally women even choked up talking about the economic impacts on their families, clearly concerned for the future as well as the present. "Finances are so difficult right now, as we must buy in dollars but sell in pesos. My husband is a butcher and his business is really struggling."

Yet some beautiful kindnesses are emerging as well, as is often mercifully the case when people see themselves as being together in the crucible. We met a group of 5 women who have formed a sewing cooperative business. "We give each other credit here, so people can still get what they need." "We share food with each other and make it into a meal all our families can eat."

A pathos for me, compared to other visits, was that Rosaria, the leader of this sewing business, seemed pensive if not apprehensive. Maybe I’m reading too much into her countenance, but it struck me as an acknowledgement that the necessary ingredients to make their business succeed were no longer as simple as a good idea, a little financing and hard work. Other forces lurked in the shadows, forces she could not control nor predict. She wasn't backing down, but she wouldn't be naively self-confident either. Hers was not the bright-eyed, can-do spirit we all love to see and that I've become so accustomed to encountering among poor entrepreneurs in Tijuana and around the world.

Janet and I recently watched the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy, and I easily think of little Frodo Baggins, setting his sights on mighty and ominous Mordor, no Pollyanna nor pretense. The risks are enormous but the call is clear, and he doesn't back down. The story is so compelling of course because this is the best kind of commitment, the kind we hope we ourselves might make if called to do so in a darkening hour.

In this environment, I'm reminded again that this is not the season for expecting the highest highs and the biggest gains. Rather, there is a call to faithfulness despite the risks and the shadows, to keep on keeping on, to putting one foot in front of the other and getting through this time... together. Like our friends in Tijuana are doing each day.

And a call to solidarity. Janet and I plan to visit Mauricio and his wife Vanessa in their home soon, to see the parts of Tijuana I never get to see, to just be together. And I think I'll spend some dollars there.