This weekend, the futon in our guest room celebrates its tenth birthday with us. I don’t usually remember when we bought furniture, but this was one of those high-charged experiences when a confusing parable suddenly becomes clear—and you suddenly know what you need to do to obey it.
It was the Saturday after the September 11 attacks in 2001. Our daughter had just gotten married on September 1, and her bed became the marriage bed in their matchbox rental unit. We knew we needed to find a replacement bed for our now-empty second bedroom and thought perhaps we’d try a futon. Then 9/11 happened, and like everyone else, we became glued to the TV day and night, asking why, asking who. Within a couple days, our collective national finger was pointed at Afghanistan. Soon reports were surfacing of harassment and even violence against Middle-Eastern looking people living here. And still the incessant 24-hour news reports went on and on. Everyone seemed to be frustrated.
That Saturday afternoon, Janet and I realized we needed to get out of the house and just do something “normal”. There was already a reported slump in consumer purchasing, and we needed to start shopping for a futon, so off we went to check out a few stores and begin the process of doing our homework.
At the very first store, we were helped by a nicely-dressed man in his 40’s, wearing a solid blue dress shirt with a tie. He showed us their merchandise, and we focused on one futon. Between his features and his accent, it was easy to tell he was a native of the Middle East. In light of the charged atmosphere in our nation toward people who looked like him, we simply wanted to interact normally. But as we continued to talk, I noticed that the top of his dress shirt began to get dark and realized that sweat was soaking right down his collar.
Finally I told him that our daughter and her new husband had served in Jordan and asked if he was originally from that region. He said yes. Oh, what part? “I’ve lived here for 20 years, paid my taxes, had a family here… but I’m from Kabul” he blurted out, perhaps hoping I didn’t know where that was.
Our interactions alternated between touching furniture and this touchy subtext. At some point, I eased us into a discussion of the past few days and asked if he had personally experienced any of the harassment mentioned in the press. He warily recited several incidences of name-calling and gestures made from passing car windows, and then said, “Finally, the pressure was so much that last night I told my family we should go out and eat at Burger King, just to get out of the house and do something normal.” I could relate. “But as we were sitting there, a man at the next table began to speak louder and louder to his own family about how all Middle-Easterners should leave America or be thrown out…or worse. The man wouldn’t look at us, but it was clear what he was doing. I wanted to blurt out to him, ‘I’m an American citizen! My children were born here!’ But by that point he was swearing and I didn’t think it would do any good. I tried to distract my kids from hearing him, but it was impossible. We finally got up and left. I felt so ashamed in front of my children; ashamed of America.”
By now, the dark stains of perspiration were covering more than half his collar and working down even farther. I empathized and apologized, reminding him that America wasn’t founded on such xenophobic principles. But it sounded a bit hollow from my safe Anglo perch.
While he was checking on some futon covers or such, Janet and I looked at each other and knew we both wanted to buy a futon from him, today. Forget the shopping around, forget the waiting a few weeks. Our actions just might speak acceptance to him, only in some little way, but in a way that our 'cheap' words never could.
And suddenly I understood that peculiar parable of the “unrighteous steward” (Luke 16:1-9), where Jesus tells of the crooked manager of a rich man’s businesses who is about to be fired, so he makes secret deals with each debtor to lower their debt to his master … abusing the owner’s resources so as to make friends who might give him a job after he loses this one.
The kicker is the ending, where the rich man--and Jesus--actually applaud the crooked steward (v8-9). "The master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly. For the people of this world are more shrewd in dealing with their own kind than are the people of the light. I tell you, use worldly wealth to gain friends for yourselves, so that when it is gone, you will be welcomed into eternal dwellings.”
I believe that I’m to be a “steward” of all of the time, talent and treasure with which God entrusts me, not just the portion I donate. And that day we learned something new about "good stewardship"... as important as it is to spend judiciously, there is ultimately a much more important function for money: using it to make friends for Kingdom purposes. If the owner in Jesus' parable apparently doesn’t suffer from this seemingly major fraud committed against him, how much less will the Lord of the universe, the owner of everything, suffer if we use the resources he entrusts to us in order to gain friends?
For us, purchasing a piece of furniture like this was not a trivial exercise, especially coming on the heels of our daughter's wedding expenses. But that day, we were given a very clear opportunity to dispense with our normal caution and see how God was inviting us to be used in a small way in this man’s life, provided we were willing to abandon our plans and accept the invitation.
It turned out to be a great purchase. After all, we’ve had ten years of reminders from that faithful futon of how things work in God’s economy.
Cory
September 2011
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…"
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Clues in the Rubble -- Reflection on 9/11/11
I was privileged to be at Ground Zero in New York City on the first anniversary of 9/11. I looked down on that empty place where the Twin Towers had last stood so proudly one year earlier. And now as I looked at the bare hole, that ground truly was zero, nothing but a gaping cavity caused by a knockdown punch to the lower jaw of Manhattan.
But maybe in the rubble of that tragedy there were some clues of learning for us, evidence, as it were, that was inadvertently carted off.
It’s a vast oversimplification to compare death tolls as the measure of 9/11’s impact. For instance, some 2750 people died at the Twin Towers, while approximately ten times* that many innocent children die needlessly every day in developing nations due to poverty. We might be tempted to wonder why so much trauma (not to mention maybe trillions in increased military spending) was created by the deaths of 2750 when the deaths of 27,500 today and 27,500 tomorrow and 27,500 every new day barely evokes a yawn, not to mention recent calls to cut our national aid for those in poverty.
But clearly this ignores the deeper meaning behind 9/11... and the trauma we felt that day and will feel again as we see the reruns today, in our memories if not on our TV screens, of the planes hitting those towers.
First of all, its impact on us: our initial cluelessness as we watched hour after frustrating hour, trying desperately to piece together who did this, why they did it, and how did they get away with it... the visceral, personal helplessness we each felt wherever we were as we watched the unfolding drama of those buildings burning and then, suddenly and impossibly, collapsing in slow motion into a graveyard heap of twisted, burning metal and glass. Helplessness is a terrible feeling that we adults have spent a lifetime attempting to escape.
Second, a simplistic casualty comparison perhaps misses the power in the messages and meaning communicated by the event itself:
- the incendiary political act that it was
- the underlying religious passions that could evoke an act such as this
- the declaration of war between worldviews that the act represented
In America, we have spent a great deal of time and energy since 9/11 defending our worldview against that onslaught of underlying messages and meanings. So much so that maybe we've forgotten to ask: What was it about our nation that was so hate-provoking? And what part do I play personally in what was so hateful?
Maybe up ‘til now we've missed a real opportunity for soul-searching and learning. Had we done more of that, perhaps we might have addressed earlier some of the rampant speculation and plain old greed in our commodities markets and in the financial sector which first led to the global food crisis of a few years ago [we didn't feel that one so much, but it drove an additional 100 million people below the poverty line worldwide], and then led us to the global financial crisis -- where America was again Ground Zero.
Maybe. While it's normal to defend oneself when feeling judged by others, in that defensive response little is learned. An opportunity can be missed; perhaps it has been.
And perhaps we're at risk of missing some lessons and meanings behind the daily horror of 27,500 children dying, as well...
- What political priorities are evidenced in the level of our collective response, and non-response?
- What does our tolerance of those deaths show about our own religious commitments and understanding?
- And here too there's a clash of worldviews which is brought home every day in that staccato drumroll of deaths: The worldview which is evident in my actions, versus the one evident in Jesus' actions. He lived out what has always been God's worldview, because long before Jesus came on the scene, the God of Israel was making it very clear with his words that he sided with the poor, the orphan, the widow, the powerless. Then, in Jesus, his very words became Flesh.
Maybe we struggle with those same feelings of helplessness contemplating these daily deaths, too. And we find it simpler to throw up our hands than put them to the plow to furrow our one measly row against that onslaught.
Truly, 2750 deaths by terrible violence is a tragedy worthy of our solemn remembrance, today and on every 9/11. Although I'm not sure yet that future historians will be able to say that it seriously "changed" America in substantive ways, certainly it deeply impacted all of us Americans old enough to remember it, and there may yet be lessons we will glean from it.
And if the tragedy also reminds us that God mourns every new day with its fresh body count, and if that reminder causes us to ask for more of the heart of God -- and to be the hands of Jesus in response, then maybe there still are valuable treasures we can find in the rubble.
Cory
September 2011
* The latest estimate is that globally about 21,000 children die of preventable, poverty-related causes each day (the number is gradually shrinking!), but this only includes children up to age five.
But maybe in the rubble of that tragedy there were some clues of learning for us, evidence, as it were, that was inadvertently carted off.
It’s a vast oversimplification to compare death tolls as the measure of 9/11’s impact. For instance, some 2750 people died at the Twin Towers, while approximately ten times* that many innocent children die needlessly every day in developing nations due to poverty. We might be tempted to wonder why so much trauma (not to mention maybe trillions in increased military spending) was created by the deaths of 2750 when the deaths of 27,500 today and 27,500 tomorrow and 27,500 every new day barely evokes a yawn, not to mention recent calls to cut our national aid for those in poverty.
But clearly this ignores the deeper meaning behind 9/11... and the trauma we felt that day and will feel again as we see the reruns today, in our memories if not on our TV screens, of the planes hitting those towers.
First of all, its impact on us: our initial cluelessness as we watched hour after frustrating hour, trying desperately to piece together who did this, why they did it, and how did they get away with it... the visceral, personal helplessness we each felt wherever we were as we watched the unfolding drama of those buildings burning and then, suddenly and impossibly, collapsing in slow motion into a graveyard heap of twisted, burning metal and glass. Helplessness is a terrible feeling that we adults have spent a lifetime attempting to escape.
Second, a simplistic casualty comparison perhaps misses the power in the messages and meaning communicated by the event itself:
- the incendiary political act that it was
- the underlying religious passions that could evoke an act such as this
- the declaration of war between worldviews that the act represented
In America, we have spent a great deal of time and energy since 9/11 defending our worldview against that onslaught of underlying messages and meanings. So much so that maybe we've forgotten to ask: What was it about our nation that was so hate-provoking? And what part do I play personally in what was so hateful?
Maybe up ‘til now we've missed a real opportunity for soul-searching and learning. Had we done more of that, perhaps we might have addressed earlier some of the rampant speculation and plain old greed in our commodities markets and in the financial sector which first led to the global food crisis of a few years ago [we didn't feel that one so much, but it drove an additional 100 million people below the poverty line worldwide], and then led us to the global financial crisis -- where America was again Ground Zero.
Maybe. While it's normal to defend oneself when feeling judged by others, in that defensive response little is learned. An opportunity can be missed; perhaps it has been.
And perhaps we're at risk of missing some lessons and meanings behind the daily horror of 27,500 children dying, as well...
- What political priorities are evidenced in the level of our collective response, and non-response?
- What does our tolerance of those deaths show about our own religious commitments and understanding?
- And here too there's a clash of worldviews which is brought home every day in that staccato drumroll of deaths: The worldview which is evident in my actions, versus the one evident in Jesus' actions. He lived out what has always been God's worldview, because long before Jesus came on the scene, the God of Israel was making it very clear with his words that he sided with the poor, the orphan, the widow, the powerless. Then, in Jesus, his very words became Flesh.
Maybe we struggle with those same feelings of helplessness contemplating these daily deaths, too. And we find it simpler to throw up our hands than put them to the plow to furrow our one measly row against that onslaught.
Truly, 2750 deaths by terrible violence is a tragedy worthy of our solemn remembrance, today and on every 9/11. Although I'm not sure yet that future historians will be able to say that it seriously "changed" America in substantive ways, certainly it deeply impacted all of us Americans old enough to remember it, and there may yet be lessons we will glean from it.
And if the tragedy also reminds us that God mourns every new day with its fresh body count, and if that reminder causes us to ask for more of the heart of God -- and to be the hands of Jesus in response, then maybe there still are valuable treasures we can find in the rubble.
Cory
September 2011
* The latest estimate is that globally about 21,000 children die of preventable, poverty-related causes each day (the number is gradually shrinking!), but this only includes children up to age five.
Monday, August 29, 2011
First, an apology
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
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
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
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