When You’re Hanging on a Cross - a Good Friday meditation

When You’re Hanging on a Cross

Good Friday meditation

I read an anecdote some years ago which initially bothered me, but which has also lingered in my memory for its striking analogy. The story was of the Dalai Lama, a tireless advocate for justice, who had just finished giving a speech at a major university.  Afterwards, two student attendees were overheard talking in the lobby.  The first commented, "He really didn't say much, did he?" The other replied, "When you're ‘hanging on a cross’ you don't have to say anything."  Once past the theological questions, I recognized this poignant nod to the power of personal sacrifice.

That phrase came rushing back into my mind during a Lenten walk last year through the Stations of the Cross with a couple of buddies. We were gazing at Station XI, where Jesus' body, his fleshy, contoured, sinewed humanness, is being fastened onto the stiff, hard cross-beams of unforgiving wood.

Jesus didn't have to say anything (though mercifully he did).  The act itself said it all.  That's why the crucifix, discomfiting and vile, is such a powerful and enduring symbol.

Janet and I walked the stations again later that week, on Good Friday, this time at an abbey near our home.  From its hilltop perch, a gorgeous pastoral vista fought for my attention, a peaceful springtime backdrop to the violent and cruel scenes of the crucifixion story.

Up ahead was Station XII... Christ on the cross.  A young woman knelt there, head down, on the hilltop grass.  She wore a bright red shawl and bright red lipstick.  The sun glinted off her deep-auburn hair.  

Here it seemed was Mary Magdalene in the flesh.   I nearly expected to see a costly bottle of perfume next to her.

I'd seen her there earlier, and then she'd finished the stations and left... only to come back a few minutes later.  This time she lingered, sometimes touching and nearly hugging the foot of the cross, always upon her knees on the balding hilltop.

We gave her a wide berth to do whatever business with God she needed to do, but eventually some sincere yet energetic young men came close, and she quickly got up and moved away to leave for good.

She walked past us now, but I just couldn't let the opportunity pass to at least give her a chance to connect with someone in the flesh if she so wished.  I called to her and told her how blessed I'd been in seeing her devotion at the foot of the cross, and she accepted a lingering hug.  She was quiet a moment, then said "I really wanted to gain strength from the cross today; three days ago I tried to commit suicide.  Coming here really helped."

We introduced ourselves and talked for another minute, and she explained her situation a bit.  Before we parted, Janet asked if we could pray for her, which was a privilege.  Janet later exchanged phone numbers with her and offered to stay in touch, and by the end of the day they'd already traded text messages on some favorite verses Janet sent.

Rachel in red.  I’m glad we spoke with her, yet it was her silence that spoke most to me.  There she’d knelt, alone, below a simple wooden cross.  All was silent but for the breeze and the swallows flitting to and fro, high above.  But... she didn’t have to say anything.

Let’s face it: It’s our actions—not our words—which truly “speak” anything. Our actions tell everything about who we believe and what we put our faith in.

I heard it again during a chapel message last month in El Salvador, that “World Vision presents the gospel with a body.”  Another of our spiritual leaders etched a phrase in my mind a decade ago which I’ve never forgotten: “World Vision will preach no disembodied words.”

As Dietrich Bonhoeffer reminds us powerfully, “When Jesus bids a man, he bids him come and die.”  So, may something of us die on that cross this Good Friday. May we die to any notion that cheap words, not costly deeds, profess our faith and show what we stand for. Christ hung on a cross to dispel that myth. 

When we’re hanging on a cross, we don’t have to say anything. And when we’re not, our words really don’t mean a thing.  I think that’s part of why Good Friday is probably the most meaningful holy day of the year for me.

May Good Friday “speak” volumes to you this year.

Cory

Under The Cross

There's a well-known Rembrandt sketch I like to ponder around Good Friday. Known as "Three Crosses," it portrays a crowded and chaotic crucifixion scene... http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Rembrandt_Harmensz._van_Rijn_-_Christ_Crucified_Between_the_Two_Thieves_(%22The_Three_Crosses%22)_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg

Blending into the crowd under the crosses on the hill is a clearly Renaissance-era man, purported to be either the artist himself or the patron of the painting (often done in religious art of that era). The figure seems to be gazing elsewhere, perhaps oblivious to the significance of the drama playing out right in front of him.  As we approach Good Friday, it's always worth reflecting: If I were there, literally under the cross, where would I be, and what would I be doing?

As followers of Jesus, of course, we are all called to "live under the cross."  I've been thinking about that ever since an encounter we had in El Salvador. We were meeting with a group of pastors and other local church leaders and some of their spouses. The topic was World Vision's work through a wonderful initiative called Channels of Hope, to help the church credibly live out the Gospel they proclaim.

Channels of Hope (CoH) was created during the worst years of the AIDS pandemic, and during that time churches were often the most stigmatizing institution in town.  It's hard to remember back even 10-15 years ago, at how condemnatory and vitriolic our own churches and churches in Africa could be regarding AIDS.  Many saw their role as pointing out "sin" from some high and holy perch, and they hadn't begun to think about where Jesus would be in this situation, or how the church could lead the way in compassionate response to those who were sick and dying.  At one time, I'm ashamed to say, I could be painted right there in that crowd.

Channels of Hope walked faith leaders through these realizations, which convicted their own hearts, and then empowered them to reach out tangibly with hope and help in their communities in beyond. Over 200,000(!) pastors and faith leaders have gone through this program, and they in turn have walked millions of congregants through this same amazing transformation, from sideline finger-waggers to frontline helping hands… one reason the AIDS crisis is abating.

Now this same methodology is being applied to new issues, particularly around child protection and "gender" issues (demeaning and mistreating girls and women), and we were hearing about these that day in El Salvador.  This new training helps participants explore their own upbringing and cultural overlays... what we "bring with us” to the Bible when we try to understand and teach it.

We can't help it that we start with a specific family and cultural context; everyone does. But we can acknowledge that we have one, and try continually to be open to our fellow Christ-followers who can take us by the hand around our resulting blind spots. And that was exactly the epiphany we learned of this day.

After we'd heard a bit from the pastors, the question was asked about what the impact has been. Eventually Pastor Juan announced with a quiet urgency that he wanted to say something.  First, he asked one of our visitors who was sitting next to him if she could move so that Juan's wife--his "First Lady"--could sit by him. His need to speak up and this symbolic action spoke even more directly than their subsequent words about their private transformation.

He invited his esposa to be the first to speak: "We’ve been trained on gender equality,” she began. “This has helped us a lot, even as a couple: My husband and I have been working to make adjustments in our own relationship. We understand each other better. We spend more time together and more with our children. We are doing what we can with the families in church, but we have improved as well."

Then Juan added, "We learned about disorganized creation and reorganized creation… This has to do with us as a couple. God created a natural order.  Then sin came and created disorder. But with Christ, everything is reordered." He went on to say that in the church they dedicate one Sunday of every month to family issues and have instituted an annual retreat to talk about family concerns using the training they've received. Clearly, they have made this learning a major focus in their church.

Just as clearly, there was more to their personal story than they spelled out, but in a machismo culture, the details are not difficult to imagine. But beautifully, now his wife truly seemed to be his “First Lady.”

After others had spoken, I felt a strong urge to comment on one aspect of what Pastor Juan had said. But how does one coming like me from a culture of power speak properly to a humble servant of God? I dropped onto my knees from my chair. I thanked him for his comments, but then tried to gingerly point out that it was not the very same moment he became a Christian when suddenly his family life was “reordered.” Rather, the act of opening ourselves to God in Christ is an invitation to remain continually open to God’s conviction and to “say yes” in obedience whenever we hear his voice. “You humbly opened yourself to new teaching and other ways of thinking, and when you heard God’s voice in that, you were obedient to it."

This feels very important to me.  Living "under the cross" must call us to continual transformation, not a one-time event and then a lifetime of intransigence.  I don't think that there has been a time when I have changed as much in my Christian life as I have the past 5-10 years. I’m no longer afraid of discovering new areas where I've been wrong. Nowadays I simply assume that in many areas I was “born blind,” and I can't wait to recruit the help of others—provocative authors, diverse cultures, historical figures—to help me navigate past my blind spots in order to get a better understanding of Jesus than any single culture or upbringing could give me, my own included.

Don't misunderstand me: I don't enjoy feeling convicted or discovering areas where I've been a judge rather than a light, where my viewpoint has been only a view from one point without considering the views of others. This is not a good feeling. 

But I now have a different goal which drives me, rather than defending my viewpoint: to be continually transformed more and more into the image of Christ, as quickly as I can. And this means letting go of my preconceptions and admitting quickly when I just might not be as dead-right as I thought I was. If it's true that only together we form Christ’s Body, then I desperately need all those other parts of the body to help me navigate, if we are to make any progress at all in the work we are together called to do.

Pastor Juan sat there without pride, having let go and been transformed on this issue. Not afraid to be convicted. Not afraid to say that his eyes had been opened, that he was wrong, that all the Scripture verses he had used to justify his previous actions and attitudes toward his children and wife were trumped by others which until recently he had simply ignored as being irrelevant.

Today, as a result, he is leading the way for his entire congregation on that same journey past this cultural blind spot, and leading his fellow pastors in what it means to "confess our sins to one another,” bearing each other’s burdens “and so fulfill the law of Christ."  What would it really mean to take seriously our need to confront and confess our own flaws and blind spots as the only way we can actually "fulfill the law of Christ" together?

It might mean staying in that place of continual transformation, of living under the cross.

Cory

March 2014

A Whisper and a Voice

I love being a “voice for the voiceless.” It's one of my great privileges to be able to whisper into the ears of the wealthy about the needs of the poor, and hope that God got there ahead of me.  

But on my first day back from a trip to El Salvador, I read a quote that challenged my preconceptions and brought the whole trip experience into focus.  

Our group started our visit there with a presentation by World Vision's national leadership team, and it seemed to me later that everything we saw that week cascaded from the strategic framework that was presented that first day...  When we wanted to learn what World Vision was doing to equip the churches, we met with the pastors and volunteers who are on the Christian Commitments committee. When we visited a water project, we learned about it from the local Water Board members. When we saw child protection work, we met youth leaders and a teacher and others who are all part of the Child Protection Coalition. When the topic was health, we met health professionals and youth and "mother coach" volunteers who serve on the Health Committee.

All this talk about committees may sound uninteresting or even bureaucratic, but the big idea is to mobilize various "actors" in the community to come together, work together, get equipped to do more, speak into the halls of power whether locally or nationally… and find their voice.  The shared goal is always to improve the well-being of children, and anyone in the community who cares about children is not only welcome but proactively invited and expected to participate.

Our final day was at an Area Development Project that had only been started 3-4 years ago.  One traveler said that a high point of her trip was when she asked the ADP Manager there how they get all the work done, and he explained that they have 8 staff... and 300 volunteers.  These community volunteers are the people who make it happen, even setting the agenda and priorities of their teams, with guidance and capacity-building help from World Vision staff.  They, much more than the staff, are making the change we and they want to see happen in their communities, and in the process, they are empowered to think of themselves differently and dream bigger than they ever thought possible.    

All of these thoughts were rumbling in my heart and head as I read In the Company of the Poor the next day and came to the following paradigm-bender by Latin theologian Gustavo Gutierrez: 

There is no true commitment to solidarity with the poor if one sees them merely as people passively waiting for help. Respecting their status as those who control their own destiny is an indispensable condition for genuine solidarity. For that reason the goal is not to become, except in cases of extreme urgency or short duration, the “voice of the voiceless” as is sometimes said— undoubtedly with the best of intentions— but rather in some way to help ensure that those without a voice find one.

Helping the "voiceless" find their own voice was in fact the underlying theme of everything we saw and experienced in El Salvador, and it was beautiful to witness.

It's true that Scripture calls us to "Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute.  Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy."  [PR 31:8-9 NIV]

But let me say--even happily now--that this is the second best solution. As beautiful as it is to defend the rights of another, how much more beautiful when that one can defend fairly their own rights.  It's actually tougher than we might admit to give over the reins of control to those who have been powerless.  How much we secretly enjoy being "benevolent" but ultimately maintaining control.

But as we heard it said in El Salvador, we must remember that the poor are "the actors in their own play." Thus, they--not we--are the ones who must ultimately make the decisions which will most affect their lives. Trusting them to do so is the challenge for all of us.

In fact, Jesus’ invitations to us are much more whisper than commandment (other than the command to love). And though that whisper still evokes a violent rejection by some, which we mark again on Good Friday, yet we would have it no other way. So maybe I still get to whisper to the wealthy, and trust my colleagues in our field offices to treat the poor with that same dignity and respect. We each are the actor in our own play.

Cory

March 2014

DQ'ed

I started my Lenten observation last week with a sunrise Ash Wednesday mass at the cathedral in San Miguel, El Salvador.  The church covered a full city block, and the doors on three sides were all flung wide open, giving a wonderful sense of worship in the midst of life's noisy activity, of respite at the center of the waking city's hustle and bustle. I've been writing a bit lately, and as part of my observance of Lent I will attempt to share some thoughts which have been especially meaningful to me, and I hope something will add benefit to this season for you, as well.

DQ'ed

As I swam this evening, I reflected on our very positive trip to El Salvador last week and some recent reading I've done on the invaluable contribution that Latin American Christianity has made to the global Church and beyond through its so-called theology of liberation.  Some altogether beautiful and invitational ideas have blossomed like crocuses from that milieu, such as God's "preferential option" for the poor, our call to live in solidarity with the powerless, and something Dr. Paul Farmer terms "accompaniment"--the idea that true service and effective ministry comes from actually accompanying the poor on their journey to wholeness and health, not just providing services which may or may not be helpful to them, for reasons we would never know without walking with them.

But I'm so frustrated that too much of this theology of liberation is far too new to me, as it is to most of the Church outside Latin America. Now, I'm familiar with some of its ideas, though in other terms. Other ideas were over my head when I read them 25-30 years ago, when I decided to trust more experienced believers (whom I trusted because they were like me) to discern the wheat and discard the chaff.  But part of the reason I did that was because liberation theology also used politically-charged words for that era, words like "comrade."  So I gave up on it.

Nelson Mandela also used such words, even up until his election. So when he died, I found myself feeling the odd need to temper the accolades he was receiving for his amazing global leadership. I felt that need because my personal discomfort with him in the 1970's and '80's kept me from " betting on his horse" then.

It's difficult to articulate how discouraged I feel about this.  I'm so terribly tired of having history find me too little aligned with those I should have been supporting.  And it's all because something they did or said caused me to, in swimming terms, DQ or disqualify them.  In a race, you can get DQ'ed for the slightest technicality...touching a wall the wrong way, or brushing the lane lines, for instance. Nothing else you did in that race mattered, because you were DQ'ed.

I've DQ'ed far too many people and teachings that would have enriched my life and perhaps the lives of others... Mandela because he visited Cuba and tolerated violence. Martin Luther King because he was purported to have had a longtime affair. Liberation theologians during the terrible upheaval in Latin America because they used language associated with communism and some of its proponents supported government overthrow against repressive regimes.  My response? To over-throw out the baby with the bathwater. 

This is more than a once or twice thing, where I can continue to fool myself into thinking, well OK, maybe I didn't align with the right side that time, but every other position I'm currently taking--or avoiding--is correct. No, there are some systemic problems which I need to face.  

As a middle-class American, and thereby one of the richest people on the planet, how would I like it if other people automatically DQ'ed my words on some topic which I know well, simply by saying "How can I listen to that guy when the Bible has 2000 verses on God's concern for the poor and the downtrodden and he can live in such a wealthy society? He has nothing to say that I could learn from."  How would any of us feel? And who says my DQ rules more valid than theirs? Oh, how much we miss because we are quick to DQ one another over technicalities.

Just as I want to be listened to, everyone deserves to be heard.  So here's the question I struggle with: Who do I continue to DQ today without even thinking about it? Who do I ignore and what do I dismiss or avoid?  It is often the most militant who are the most marginalized, and I've come to realize that in many cases this is the very reason they in their tremendous frustration have resorted to militancy.  My unwillingness to actually listen to their voice has contributed to them replacing their voice with their fist. Our collective DQ has made them provocative and incendiary, which only reinforces our stereotype about them and perpetuates misunderstanding and human devaluation.

This is not a call to neglect discernment. But far too often I've used that label to mask distrust and judgment. Rather, the call I sense from Jesus is that these are the very people, the very voices I must especially strain to hear.  In doing so, in giving them the dignity of their voice, I may just save them from becoming shrill, strident or even violent. And in the process, their voices may just redeem me.

Last night there was an odd smell wafting in the bedroom windows. We realized it was eucalyptus and manure. They use manure freely around here as fertilizer, and perhaps also where people grow crocuses, as well. Too often, my sixth sense for offense has kept me from finding the beauty right under my nose.

Cory

March 2014

Praying... for Santa

The mystical night approaches quickly now, full of mystery and magic. And so it is that a boy, a young Palestinian Christian, prays to God for Santa to be able to cross the border checkpoints and come to visit even them.

This prayer was read a decade ago at World Vision’s annual Day of Prayer, one of several Children's Prayers that day. I saved it at the time and have never forgotten about it.  In fact, I prayed it just the other day for the children of Syria, that nation now torn asunder with its children strewn beyond its borders. As silly as I might have sounded to the others in the prayer circle, it just felt right.

There's something very special about children's prayers--their immediacy, practically, innocence...faith. 

I invite you to read this short prayer slowly, perhaps at the pace it would have been written, as it would have been felt. I could imagine it being prayed by candlelight, after darkness falls on Christmas Eve, this Night of Nights.  May we pray it in our hearts this Christmas for all God's children…

Prayer written by Bisan Mousa, aged 7 from Talitha Kumi Lutheran School in the West Bank

   O Lord Jesus, protect us from danger, and distance the bombs away from our homes, because they have been destroyed and we are forced to leave our homes for the street.

   O Jesus, distance the evil from us and the missiles and the rockets so that we can go back to living peacefully and so that Santa Claus can come to us. Our teacher told us that at the military checkpoint, the soldier did not allow Santa Claus to enter Bethlehem. We want Christmas to come and want to decorate the tree like the rest of the children in the world.

   O Jesus, give us courage and strength to overcome fear and to live in peace and tranquility and freedom in our beloved land and precious Palestine.
Amen.  

Peace and tranquility and freedom on earth; goodwill toward all.

Cory

Christmas Eve 2013

The Child of Christmas (from 2010)

We took Christmas Eve dinner to Janet's stepmother's home this evening.  Alice lives alone with a caregiver, and at age 93, dementia is coming on quickly.  After dinner, she opened her gift basket, and the highlight was a small set of photos Janet had assembled in an accordion-folded photobook.  She created it as a memory book of different stages of the life of our family, especially where Alice and Janet's now-deceased father where part of the scene.

Alice had lots of trouble determining who the people were in the pictures, but she was mesmerized with it.  When Janet then showed her there were just as many photos on the back side of the accordion folds, she was fascinated.  I remember as a small child going with my mom to the grocery; other days we went to the meat market.  One day, I discovered a short hallway in the grocery, and a few steps later found myself in the meat market!  My delight at such an amazing discovery was much like Alice's delight tonight.  As she finished the back panels, she started back the other way as though she'd never seen these photos.  Back and forth she went, perhaps 4-5 times.  And each time she did, the people in the pictures were slightly more familiar and she was even more touched.  She kept asking if she could have a copy of some of the photos, and each time that we assured her the entire memorybook was hers to keep, she would be overwhelmed with gratitude.  At Christmas Eve when our son Ben was two years old, 35 years ago now, he received a jack-in-the-box.  As we twirled the grinder, he began to dance to "Pop Goes the Weasel".  And when the jack actually popped up, he was so stunned that he gasped and fell backwards, straight as a board, to the floor.   It was so hilarious, we played it again.  And Ben was just as stunned and fell backwards all over again.  Finally, after about four times, he'd figured out what would happen, and he dropped backwards, but only to please us.  The gig was up.

But not so with Alice this evening.  In fact, each time we assured her again, and each time she saw the photos of her late beloved husband, the more moved she was, not less.  Tears then came freely for her, and I comforted her that it's good to remember on Christmas, even the memories that touch us in tender places.  Alice, who had been quite agitated earlier in the evening, certain that she'd bought and wrapped untold gifts for us which were nowhere to be found (because they didn't exist), ended the evening in childlike wonder and contentment, memorybook and chocolates still clutched in her hands.  She will have many days of re-discovering her memorybook and its photos, even as she tries to recapture some of her quickly fading memory.

Please don't misunderstand my attitude: each time I see her struggle with her memory, I'm reminded that I'm not far behind her at all.

As we drove away, Janet broke down in tears.  Seeing the photos of her father and her only sibling, both now deceased, and remembering once again the passing of her mother just one year ago, opened her eyes.  "The past few weeks preparing Christmas gifts, I kept feeling I was forgetting something or someone.  Now I realize it was my family members who are no longer around to give gifts to."

And I had a bit of a revelation that sadness at Christmas is not necessarily morbid, that it can be honoring, and cleansing.  As we got home I told Janet that I thought her dad would be very proud and grateful for her thoughtful gift to her stepmom.

Earlier that afternoon, Janet and I had sung Christmas carols with residents of a retirement home in our little town.  This was the second year we've done this, and though the crowd is only a few handfuls, we know these are the people who don't have family and friends calling, and we're blessed to be there.  Between the carols, I sang a few songs at the piano, including a lovely one made famous by Amy Grant, "Grown-Up Christmas List".  The chords and notes are a bit tricky, so I'm usually paying attention to that.  But mid-song, I was struck in some new way by the sentiment of the chorus and thought to myself in a flash, "This could be my theme song!"

No more lives torn apart
That wars would never start
And time would heal all hearts
Everyone would have a friend
And right would always win
And love would never end
This is my grown-up Christmas list

I really like the song, but honestly I always thought it a bit sappy.  But this Advent season, I've been noticing more and reading more about the Peaceable Kingdom of God.  Passages from Isaiah about lions laying down with lambs, and children playing at adders' dens, as lovely as they are, are also very fanciful, frankly.  Lions as we know them need meat, and mother snakes are as protective as are any other mothers around their young.

What happened to Isaiah?  Was he simply senile, in his so-called "second childhood", like Alice (as delightful as that can be at times)?

Maybe another possible answer can be found in the bridge of the same song:

What is this illusion called the innocence of youth
Maybe only in our blind belief can we ever find the truth

When I read Isaiah's prophetic passages, it's clear that you and I can never usher in the fullness of the Kingdom of God.  We can -- and if we call ourselves followers of Jesus, we must -- work toward a more just and peaceable world, as he did.  But we can't turn lions into vegetarians or make snakes trust infants with their offspring.

But we can embrace a childlike faith that God can bring about something of which we can only dream as in childlike fantasy, that somehow, somewhere in time, God will do the part that only God can do.  And just maybe God also helps us to do our part in the meantime.

Keeping the child alive in ourselves probably shouldn't be confined to the beginning and ending days of our lives, especially in this special season as we keep the Child of Christmas in our hearts.

Cory
Christmas Eve, 2010

Still Waiting for God

I have no idea what else she said.  It was one of those prayers where one sentence stops you cold. You wish you could just hit the brakes on the prayer and contemplate for a bit; but instead the pray-er keeping truckin’ down the road and you find yourself left at the curb, gazing into the pearl you discovered.

She said it in the middle of a lovely prayer in a lovely home in Orange County, as 20-25 of us joined hands around the bounty in our midst.  "...And we thank you Lord for once again providing us a beautiful meal," prayed the woman of great faith from Congo (DRC, formerly Zaire), "even as we are mindful of those around the world who are still waiting for you to show up in their lives today."

That juxtaposition took my spiritual breath away.

There we were, encircling the trappings of our invulnerability, but those “still waiting for God to show up for them”, on the edge, without a net—they are really the ones with faith.  Faith is what you must have when you don't already possess what you need.  Let’s admit it: for us, faith is usually optional, something that kicks in when a loved one is sick or some situation is beyond our power.  For the poor, exercising faith is as daily a regimen as my morning stretches.

Will God show up in their lives today? And if another day goes by where they feel forgotten by God, will they still have faith enough to ask again tomorrow?

Rich Stearns in He Walks Among Us, his new devotional book with wife Reneé , tells the story of driving away from an earthquake-ravaged village in India when a desperate mother ran up to the window of his car, holding her young son—who had no feet. In the chaos, Rich’s driver kept going, but Rich couldn't get the boy out of his mind, despite the thousands of other faces and needs he'd seen there in Gujarat. He felt personally compelled to find out more, and some weeks later the staff found this boy whose legs had been crushed in the quake.  Rich gladly wrote a personal check for the boy to get the prosthetics his mother couldn't begin to afford ...a whopping $300.  Three hundred dollars to change his life for years, allowing him to go to school, help his mother at home and begin to make his new way in the world as a double amputee.

The boy's mother in all likelihood had watched Rich's car drive away, the son in her arms feeling heavier by the minute as the adrenalin of hope drained away, and felt once again that God had not shown up for her.

"Hope deferred makes the heart sick" even Solomon the king admitted (Prov. 13:12).  And not simply deferred; this mother must have felt that hope had just left her behind, wheels kicking up a cloud of spurning dust in its wake.  Hers was a desperate hope, of course: the only way out that she imagined was for Rich to whisk her boy away from her; a stranger, but one who may have seemed like royalty from her vantage point.

It's a story with a lovely ending. And it was a reminder to Rich that desperation and poverty have a face, and a name (Vikas), and that we each can make a difference in individual lives.

But it's also a reminder that even behind the sometimes sterile statistics of victims harmed and beneficiaries helped—whether in India, Haiti, New Orleans or now the Philippines, there are not only real faces and real stories, but real people clinging to hope, with faith enough to keep waiting for God to show up in their lives today...like the women in this short video report from a Philippines relief operation last week..http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=rCGFMwsZziQ&desktop_uri=%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DrCGFMwsZziQ

I said earlier that, for those of us with means and safety nets, faith is mostly optional, reserved for family and friends in crisis and times when we feel powerlessness.  But that depends on what we think about and pray for, doesn’t it?  If our prayers and our vision are large enough, they are always beyond us; we are always powerless.  When we seek to see the wide world as God can see it, we become aware that only God can heal it.

And if our hearts and prayers are willing, God will even recruit us in doing just that.

I’m thankful to know people like you: willing to be part of the answer to the prayers of those still waiting for God to show up today.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Cory
PS: This year as we gather around our own bounty, I for one plan to repeat the words of her prayer.