Building Bridges

"What do you mean, a dish rack?"

The question came from one of the travelers on my trip to Zambia this month.  We had just met Oswald, a boy who may be alive today because of a mobile health (mHealth) project that was underwritten by the Innovation Fund last year.  This cellphone-based program allowed a volunteer community caregiver to assess that Oswald had a dangerous case of malaria, which convinced his mother to walk the four hours needed to get him to the nearest clinic.  Because he’d been prescreened, he received priority treatment, and when we met him, he was fully recovered ...and he wants to be a doctor!

Now Oswald’s mother was explaining that Betsy the caregiver also helps her family live a healthier life, so they don’t get sick as often.  Case in point: the dish rack.
Our eyes danced around the ground looking for a rubber-coated wire strainer, like the one that fits neatly inside half our kitchen sink. The Zambian mother pointed instead to something that resembled the frame of a small shed, with bare branches creating a flat if uneven roof.  Atop this contraption were a few pots and pans and plates--about what we'd stack neatly into one kitchen cabinet--spread out and all turned upside down.  

"Now we use a latrine, but before Betsy, we’d defecate in the bush. The dogs and pigs would eat the waste, and then they’d come home and eat from the plates. So now we keep our plates and cooking pots off the ground and away from the animals."

Please excuse the shock of that story, but this one small part of an otherwise very encouraging conversation became very dis-couraging to me.  Since returning from Zambia, I've been hounded with recurring melancholy this past week, which happens occasionally.  I don't know how much of it is frustration from watching myself chase again all the things I think I 'require' for a happy life, the depth of poverty in the people we met, unrealistic expectations of how far World Vision's efforts will carry them, the gnarl of underlying issues, or simply the huge gap between how I live and they live.  The feelings aren’t completely new to me; in one form or another, it's an occupational hazard.  But the upshot is that, after a truly wonderful trip, my re-entry has been surprisingly unsettling.

I saw my pastor midweek, and he'd just come back from a diocesan conference on global food insecurity, where one speaker had warned that anyone who gets involved in these issues will at times be overwhelmed by the sheer size of the problem, which the speaker said is the predictable side effect of any vision worth pursuing.  That was a comfort. But comforts only seem to last me a few hours, then the gas seems to leak out of my tank again.  Janet equates it to grieving, and she's probably spot-on.  And when she pointed that out, I immediately thought of the story above, of how Oswald and his widowed mother are living, with a mentally challenged sister besides. I was grieving for their reality, improved though it is.

We run the good race when we pursue "any vision worth pursuing", but there are times when the magnitude of the gap can feel overwhelming. I’m not disgusted with myself (this time at least) so much as I’m simply sad at the huge chasm between our worlds, feeling almost hopeless that it will ever be bridged.

Yet, I think my typing fingers may have just shown me a path forward: You see, a bridge doesn't make things "the same", it spans two different things and allows connections between them, a flow of people and goods and assistance in times of need.  I've seen bridges that allow women in birthing distress to get life-saving care, and bridges that allow poor farmers to suddenly have buyers and produce the income to support their families.  

And my work is also to be a bridge.  My personal mission statement is "Connecting the wealthy and the poor to build a better world and to transform both." Andrew Natsios, a former World Vision Sr. VP who left to become the head of USAID under President Bush said it even better in his confirmation hearing: “Putting the hand of the at-risk poor into the hand of the 'at-risk' rich so that BOTH will be blessed."

If we can connect, much good can happen.  If we can continually widen the connections, more help can flow--to both sides.  Yes, some people will always be poor-er economically, but they needn't be condemned to suffer forever from maladies we long ago solved.  Bridges also mean a flow both ways, which allows opportunity and options and ways to get to know one another.  Ways which hopefully, with God's grace, as more and more connections are made, can turn strangers into friends, where they learn from each other and benefit from the gifts and skills the other brings.

OK, the bridge is very long.  The distance seemed particularly daunting this past week.  But I can work on a bridge.  Work has already been done, for many lifetimes.  My work won't complete the bridge, nor add all the expansions it will one day hopefully need.

But I can put my shoulder to it, drop my welder's mask down and start back to work.  Just staring off at the horizon won't build the bridge.  Jesus' kingdom vision calls me to be a bridge constructor.  Yet, I am only a workman, not the Master Builder.  That's where faith and trust come in.  It's his vision, not mine.

And if the vision isn't overwhelming, I guess it probably wouldn't be worth pursuing.

Cory
May 2013

Who are You, God? And who am I?

I'm writing this from Orange County airport, held up by weather from getting to Chicago, where tomorrow we are scheduled to make the major decisions related to the story below.  I know the Grant Committee would covet your prayers...

Last week, I felt caught in some vortex.  I spent much of the week plowing through twenty-eight project proposals submitted to the Innovation Fund.  It was emotionally draining, at times difficult to psych up or even pray up to start again.  The very first proposal I read was about child trafficking on the Haitian/Dominican border, an area I visited just last autumn, targeting Haitian refugee children just like those we met on our vision trip.  The next day my first read was, unbelievably, about child sacrifice in northern Uganda, or more accurately about robbing living children of their organs--which causes death, painful horrible death--in 90% of the victims.  A supporting study from another organization included bone-chilling quotes from an organ robber, the customer of a witch doctor who "places orders" and uses these body parts, and a rare survivor who told his story.  I wanted to crawl into a hole, but in order to keep on schedule I had to get through 5-6 more proposals after that, as my role was to write an executive summary and analysis of each one for the donor committee who will award the winners.

The goal of the Innovation Fund is not simply to identify and address specific, horrific social issues, but to identify innovative new solutions to these intractable problems; and my task is to help the Grant Committee determine which are the most important new ideas and those most transferable to other contexts.  So whereas the normal person is able to be moved by a specific need or location and support a program which might address that need effectively, we have to temper our emotional response to the specific need and find the "best overall investments."  Without question, this makes it difficult to do my job--I feel a very human or humane urge to sit and weep, to plant a flag on these dark corners of the globe and rally support to bring light and hope to that place, to those specific children.  That urge makes my usual daily work of connecting needs and donors very rewarding, and it's often the key to supporters finding great meaning in their giving: There is a specific place where I'm making a specific difference in addressing a significant issue.  We all need that--me included!

But, for the sake of other people and other needy places, we sometimes also need to look beyond those horizons to people we can't yet "see" in our mind.  If we want to increase the pace and the effectiveness of poverty alleviation and its myriad related issues and evils, a portion of our attention and our investing of time, talent, and treasure must look with clear eyes of vision into new ways to address as-yet-unsolved issues and to find faster, better, less expensive ways to impact more people quicker, people whose lives surely hang in the balance, too.

It's a HUGE privilege to be in this situation.  Clearly, the Innovation Fund and our call for concept papers has struck a chord and "unearthed" some of the risk-takers and the courageous among World Vision field staff around the globe.  Of these 28 proposals, surely half or more are worthy of funding today.  Yet with the amount of money we have currently, we'll be lucky to be able to underwrite 3-5.  What will happen to the rest?  I now feel the burden of having in effect raised expectations, given hope to staff and national offices.  They've perhaps been chew-boning on these ideas I’m reviewing for years, or perhaps only a few months, having been newly spurred to creativity by the possibility of money actually being available to carry out a dream that turns a old problem into a new opportunity, turns it on its head, or leveraging new realities.  

They are in effect eagerly volunteering to be risk-taskers, which means facing the very real possibility of "failure."  More and more often (this year is Round 3 of submissions), the papers carry a plan to disseminate "lessons learnt" whether the innovation works or doesn't work, an attitude of learning faster--even from our "failures"--in order to succeed faster.  Attempting more, to learn faster, to get better faster--that's been the key to Silicon Valley's success, and the success of our most relevant industries.  And turning the fear of failure into an eagerness to try and to learn was perhaps the most important attitude shift (a.k.a. "software") needed to open those floodgates of creativity.

A few years ago a colleague frustrated me greatly. I was looking for ways to "feed the winners and starve the losers" in allocating funds to some existing projects.  But he protested paternalistically, "We have to feed all our children."  It sounded so sappy, so egalitarian, as though "fairness" was the most important virtue, trumping even our stewardship of resources to help the most people.  His argument didn't carry the day, and I'm glad it didn't.

But I've got an odd sense of the same feeling right now with these 28 proposals.  There are several in here that are very strong and deeply meaningful, but some don't really fit our unique criteria of being a "test", or widely replicable, or highly innovative.  They'll simply save real lives and rescue real children in real need.  And they DESERVE to be funded.

And I don't know what to do about it.  I can't rescue every child.  But I have to do something.

These were the feelings inside me as I woke up early last Saturday, my back hurting, to face the task again.  I felt I'd be wise to first do my morning stretches and spiritual readings.  Nothing seemed to "stick", but the last devotional I read started with the statement that St. Francis used to spend whole nights praying the same prayer: “Who are you, O God? And who am I?...”

When I was done reading I still felt heavy, so I dropped to my knees and slumped over the couch.  It was then that St. Francis' prayer came to mind and I prayed: "Lord, in light of this heavy task in front of me, Who are you, O God? And who am I?"

And a beautiful thing happened.  God seemed to immediately answer: I am the one who doesn't just read about these disturbing subjects.  I witness them.  I'm there when children are abused, sickened, sacrificed. I live with this reality every minute of every day.  I know the name of the every victim and those who hurt.  I know them as much as I know your name, know where you are as you pray and how you feel right now.  

It was such a mercy for me.  A dialog continued, or perhaps an internal recalibration, where I was reminded not only that I do not carry this burden, but I cannot carry it.  I am not capable.  I am not able.  And I am not required.

I am required to do my bit, to the best of my ability, and only my bit.  And leave the rest, and the results, to God, the only One capable to carry such a burden.

It feels that somehow when the Innovation Fund sent out the Call for Concept Papers it was as if we yelled into a deep cavern waiting to hear an opposite and equal force echo back.  But instead, a legion of voices erupted back at us from the blackness of the cavern, an overwhelming force that knocked me off my feet.  What kind of Pandora's Box had we opened from the depths of despair, voiced by those colleagues eager to make an assault on Mount Doom, armed only with a Frodo's sword?

But the word of the Lord, the sword of the Lord, came to me, calmed me down, put me --thanks be to God -- back in my place. In light of this mountain before me, Who are you, O God? And who am I?

Now perhaps I understand why St. Francis might pray this all night long. Yes, perhaps he was open to hearing a new word from God, of not taking for granted his understanding of the Holy.  But more than that, it's a beautiful tool for being reminded where I fit and where God fits in the constellation of time and eternity, of remembering who I am not, and more importantly, who God is.

My New Gateway Drug

Last week I was in Geneva for a few days related to my role with the Innovation Fund.  I arrived mid-afternoon, so I quickly took a bus and headed for the historic Old City, where I soon found myself at Calvin Auditory, a small chapel next to the old cathedral that was long ago stripped of its religious symbols and whitewashed inside as a result of the confrontive preaching of John Calvin, the great reformer.  Entering this unassuming former hotbed of the Reformation, I stumbled into the rehearsal of a dozen women who were preparing for a concert of sacred choral music, a style I've grown to love more each year.  Inside this small and spare, almost tomb-like, auditorium, the lovely Latin phrases wafted all round me, as I sat quietly on the back row, trying not to be expelled from their private session.

I think of Calvin, not because I was ever much of a fan, but because I owe a debt to him and to other theologians, Catholic, Reformed and Orthodox.  I netted it out today to Janet, as we sat on a bench enjoying a little picnic on a hillside at nearby St. Michael's Abbey, before walking the Stations of the Cross there (including a powerful encounter I'll save for next Good Friday).

"Theology was my gateway drug," I announced to her. It's true: My faith needed to get past the gateway of my brain before my heart could truly become enveloped in the love of God in Christ.  I needed to believe that it all more or less made sense to me intellectually in order to ally the doubts that would revisit me regarding this somewhat radical path I/we had taken.

But now that I am hopelessly in love with Jesus, theology has become less important to me; almost an annoyance at times.  You see, I no longer have to understand how -- or even if -- the whole theological house of cards fits together just so.  In fact, I rather believe that if I could understand all that God is about, I've probably invented that god.

I find that nowadays my doubts are actually about my theology, not about God's care for me or my love for Jesus.  And I'm even finding some strange inexplicable comfort when I face those doubts head on and don't try to resolve them.  There's an honesty about it, which I hope makes me more approachable and more willing to listen to others.  I read a devotional the other day where the author, a "contemplative," demystified that term by equating it with "nonjudgmental listening."  I liked that; these days I enjoy contemplating other people's viewpoints.  I'm not afraid of doing so, I suppose because my bedrock of faith feels solid, that its foundations are set firmly in love, not in my limited understanding.

So instead, I'm finding a new gateway drug these days: sacred music, and language that is poetic enough to allow in some mystery.  And so it was that after traveling the Stations today, I went for a bike ride up Trabuco Creek Canyon while listening to a few sacred songs performed by the Westminster Chorus*, one in Latin, one Russian Orthodox, and then in English "Oh Love That Will Not Let Me Go."  This last piece is a perfect illustration of my new gateway to communion with God, and a beautiful exclamation of love’s antiphonal call back to Love, and of the impact of Good Friday and Easter Sunday.

I’m pasting a YouTube link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZiZ9xXoZ1Mk, which I encourage you to listen to while meditating on the lyrics below.  

O Love That Will Not Let Me Go, Lyrics by George Mattheson

O Love that wilt not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in thee;
I give thee back the life I owe,
That in thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.

O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be.

O Cross that liftest up my head,
I dare not ask to fly from thee;
I lay in dust life’s glory dead,
And from the ground there blossoms red
Life that shall endless be.

Eastertide blessings,

Cory

March 2013

*  Not to be confused with Westminster Abbey or Cathedral (though they won "Choir of the World" in 2009 in a UK contest), the Westminster Chorus is a group of over 100 young men from Orange County, CA.  All are under age 35, and they've won every international barbershop competition they've entered since 2007-- they are the future of barbershop singing, but they do so much more…  http://www.westminsterchorus.org/  They are worth any chance to hear them perform.  The album is featured on their website, or buy it here:  http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0041990H0/ref=dm_sp_alb  By the way, the other two sacred songs I mentioned are from the same album: Bogoroditse Devo and Lux Aurumque.

Children Have More Than "Potential"

We attended Ash Wednesday service last evening, and I was blessed to be a Lay Eucharistic Minister, serving alongside three elementary-age girls, very attentive and diligent “acolytes”. A few years ago, I attended a mass celebrated by our local bishop.  During the preparation for communion, he surrounded himself with young acolytes and with purpose he paused the liturgy to explain why he always does so: "Young people are not our future; they are our present."  I've always remembered his words, though I was never sure what they meant beyond a nice platitude (or a desperate attempt to rebuild sagging church membership!).

But last month, I caught a powerful glimpse of how that mindset might be lived out in our reality, and the impact it could make.  I visited World Vision programs in Honduras with a group of supporters, and what struck me most was how children and youth were part of every visit, not simply as "beneficiaries" of sponsorship and other programs, but also as vital community members and activists.  

Gifted child-preachers led us adults in devotions.  Others spoke beautiful and articulate prayers from their hearts.  Nicole Alejandro, age 10, gave a lovely devotional message. She told the story of Jesus feeding the 5000, how the disciples—like World Vision—didn’t have enough resources to help everyone. "But if we trust in God, God will provide enough.  A little child provided the loaves and fishes, which shows that children can be part of the solution, too.  Those weren't enough food, but through prayer, Jesus' prayer, God multiplied the food and made it enough for everyone.  And this miracle prompted the people to praise God…"  As she unpacked each point, she wasn’t proud of herself or coquettish; she wanted us to understand!

At another gathering, a young boy, Benitas, preached to us and to several hundred community members and then prayed for our lunch. “Lord, please use me as your instrument of blessing… And, any strength we receive from this food, may we use it to do your will.”

Young people made the majority of the presentations we heard, and they did so with confidence.  At our very first stop we heard from the "Youth Mayor", age 13, who casually sipped coffee and, along with his 12-year-old colleagues, walked us through the many programs they are helping organize and conduct.  Now, these were not simply youth-focused programs; these young leaders knew the statistics on how many people had access to clean water and what was being done about it, what the health care needs of the community are, they discussed surveys being conducted to assess various community-wide problems and the solutions that are being brought, and explained through photos and displays the extent of their community's strategy and programs.  It was quite stunning to realize that these are not simply youth leaders, but community leaders!

Many youth have received training through World Vision's Channels of Hope program.  This global initiative reaches pastors and faith leaders, to reduce stigma around HIV & AIDS and transform judgment into tangible, compassionate response.  COH has now been adapted for youth, and the HIV training has become a platform for many additional youth empowerment programs.  Our final stop was to a large open field next to a school, where five separate COH youth groups stood in the rain and presented to us.  

One represented her group by explaining, "Through the training we have received, we raise awareness on HIV through expos and AIDS fairs, and we organize marathons to support youth workshops on self-esteem and leadership… It's great to be able to advocate for change here in our area and -- why not? -- at the level of the whole nation!"

Following the presentations and some fun folkloric dances, we moved next door to invade the empty school for an actual Channels of Hope carnival.  Three good-looking young men gave us a very energetic and visionary explanation of what was taking place, as scores of noisy children streamed past us to start playing the various carnival learning games inside: “We’ve seen great attitude changes about HIV through this program. In the churches no one would discuss AIDS, but now churches will discuss it openly, and they have become the main actors [in ministry outreach]. It's been a very difficult topic to discuss here, but Honduras has the highest HIV rate in Central America, so something must be done.”

They showed us a quiz game with a spinning wheel which tested knowledge not only about AIDS, but also gender issues, discrimination, values, nutrition, and spiritual issues. "We adapt the topics for the age of the player.  We always have a specific target audience... children, or adults, or youth. We are all volunteers, and we started this program after receiving training in 2009. A month before our next planned event, we start working at raising funds and ask businesses to donate the prizes.

"COH is different by linking in the Christian component.  We always incorporate spiritual motivations and try to influence youth. Every day more leaders get involved and join us. Now we are even part of the community structure, and we've impacted those structures."  At times, it felt as though we were talking with Latin revolucionados, whose fervent goal was to overthrow the minds and hearts of their entire nation.  They had vision and passion and clearly believed that they could impact their world.  "Now we can say we have become ambassadors of Christ and bring truth with love."

My mind goes right to my own grandkids: what do they believe about their impact?  It's certainly true that our own kids could learn from these kids.  Couldn't we adults perhaps also learn from these programs, these communities, about how to create an "enabling environment," where our children see themselves not simply as "the future,” able to impact their world once they finish their education and reach adulthood but, as we heard from the Youth Mayor and his cabinet on our first stop, as "the present”?

Beyond the novelty and heart-stirring notion of kids helping their communities like this, what's the big idea here?  It's that communities are taking the lead, and “community” extends to include the youth and children as part of the asset base.  World Vision provides tools, and the youth and children, as well as the adults, are taking these firmly in hand to improve their communities.  They are turning their dreams, their desired future, into their present reality, and inviting anyone who has the will to help make it so.  By not giving kids the notion that they are simply "the future", after you get your education, after you reach 16 or 18 or 21 or 30, new vistas for creativity and energy are opened up, allowing young men and women to not only dream youthful dreams but help make shared dreams into shared reality.

I realize now that I missed an small opportunity to embrace that mindset last night. Though I always strive to learn the names of my fellow LEMs, I can’t tell you the name of one young acolyte.  Yet they—especially their leader—were more attentive to the order of service than I was, performing their roles very diligently.  But most of what they heard from us adults was “Good job!”…exactly what we say to my 20-month-old grandson.  An verbal pat on the head was proffered, yet that affirmation also declares a hierarchy in the relationship between us servers. Reverse age discrimination in a way, perhaps?

The mindset I witnessed in Honduras was different, and convicting. Children aren’t simply “precious in our sight”:  If you are here, you are part of the present, not just the future. So come, bring your ideas and your passions, and let's work side-by-side to create the future, our shared future.  We need you at the table. We are stronger with you here.

There is much good news in this mindset, a mindset which I want to develop.   And hopefully, a little child shall teach me.

Cory

February 2013

PS: On a personal note, after the vision trip, Janet met me on the island of Roatan off the Honduran coast, where we celebrated our 40th wedding anniversary!

Prayers from the Bottom

As the nation prepares for Monday’s inauguration* (which I will miss while traveling to Honduras), I was reminded once again of the most meaningful part of Barack Obama’s first inaugural.  After the main speeches and the swearing in were over, after the crescendo was past and many (like me) were turning off the TV, an old Black preacher ambled slowly to the podium to give the closing benediction.  At the time I only heard it in my car, but I’ve watched and re-read it at least a dozen times since.

Just before him came poetic stanzas that set the table from which the preacher would feed us, penned and read by Yale professor Elizabeth Alexander:

Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by “Love thy neighbor as thy self.”

Others by "first do no harm," or "take no more than you need."

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light…

I happen to think the mightiest word is love, and I applaud anyone willing to wonder so out-loud, especially on such an electric and soon-dissected occasion, where talk about love could seem sentimental at best on this occasion where the world’s mightiest power transfers that power.

Then an introduction… and a pause.  An empty microphone waited as the old man of God, the Reverend Joseph Lowery, ambled toward the podium to give the benediction… a prayer which one must surely live before one could give it.  Spoken by one who seemed almost a relic, a living proof-text of the holy writ he read.  Spoken not with jubilation, but in the slow, lilting rhythm of a Negro Spiritual, which is the only way it should be read.  A prayer bubbling up from the bottom, a recollection of the pain of the past, mixed with a cautious word to the disempowered who were eagerly anticipating becoming—finally, just maybe—empowered:

God of our weary years, God of our silent tears,

Thou, who has brought us thus far along the way,

Thou, who has by thy might led us into the light,

Keep us forever in the path we pray,

Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met thee,

Lest, our hearts drunk with the wine of the world, we forget thee.

Shadowed beneath thy hand, may we forever stand

True to thee, oh God, and true to our native land.

The whole prayer, even the parts that made me squirm a bit, gave me a glimpse through the window onto the marginalized.  Not the militant, not the triumphalist, but the preacher who is shepherd-guide to the also-rans… 

We pray now, oh Lord, for your blessing upon thy servant Barak Obama, the 44th president of these United States, his family and his administration. He has come to this high office at a low moment in the national, and indeed the global, fiscal climate. But because we know you got the whole world in your hands, we pray for not only our nation, but for the community of nations.

Our faith does not shrink though pressed by the flood of mortal ills.

For we know that, Lord, you are able and you're willing to work through faithful leadership to restore stability, mend our brokenness, heal our wounds, and deliver us from the exploitation of the poor, of the least of these, and from favoritism toward the rich, the elite of these.

His truth, his sting, even his enduring personal pain which bleeds through were wrapped in such beauty, symmetry and poetic rhythm as to disarm us, undo us, convict us all with truth while enfolding us in grace. 

In the low cadence of a preacher man too old, too tired and too somber to be fooled into thinking Obama’s ascendance would change everything, yet with the trespasses of the past still in his mind, he too closed with a call for more love, more justice, more transformation…

With your hands of power and your heart of love, help us now, Lord, to work for that day when nation shall not lift up sword against nation, when tanks will be beaten into tractors, when every man and every woman shall sit under his or her own vine and fig tree and none shall be afraid, when justice will roll down like waters and righteousness as a mighty stream.

Lord, in the memory of all the saints who from their labors rest, and in the joy of a new beginning, we ask you to help us work for that day… when black will not be asked to get in back, when brown can stick around ... when yellow will be mellow ... when the red man can get ahead, man… and when white will embrace what is right.

Let all those who do justice and love mercy say Amen.

Prayers from the bottom, glimpses from the disenfranchised poor, of a hoped-for future he’s too old to see come to fruition.  I glance at them furtively, uncomfortable and somewhat afraid of the implications they might have for me and my position at the top of the heap.  Yet, this week I read that there are 1,009 passages in the Bible about God’s concern for justice, with special concentration in the book of Isaiah, the book to which my Lord most closely aligns his own ministry. 

The sweetness of the preacher’s verses help me to swallow their medicine.  And they become a siren call, beckoning my heart where it knows it must go, over the energetic protestations of my head.

(You can see Rev. Lowery’s benediction at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Il9r-VSu9g)

Cory

January 2013

* Post-script: This past Sunday evening, I was in Washington, D.C., and a colleague and I walked a few blocks to the Capitol.  In the early evening darkness, the Capitol’s gleaming white dome was wrapped in fog and draped in light…ethereal and beckoning.  Though it would be eight days before President Obama’s second inauguration, the thousands of  chairs and the grandstands and the serpentine lines of porta-potties were already in place—poised with anticipation, it seemed, for yet another historic event in a city which has seen many.  It was quite a sight.  The blanket of fog, the quietude… everything shrouded in darkness save the Capitol dome, which seemed to emanate fuzzy light… one could sense that something was about to happen.  Yet the scene itself, like the future, was unclear. In Les Miserables, every character passionately sings his or her various prayers and hopes and anticipations in “One Day More,” then collides their voices together in the climactic acknowledgement of Who alone holds the future in his hands: “…Tomorrow we’ll discover what our God in heaven has in store.”

'Tis the Season to be Tender

It's the most wondrous time of the year.  That's true enough. But our songs all insist we must all put on a jolly face, have a wonderful time and, for goodness sake, we'd better not cry! 

Goodness knows, we don't want to be sad this time of year.  We are supposed to be happy, right?  "I'm sorry," my friend apologizes through reddened eyes, "I don't know why I'm weepy."

And yet, it's the season of the year when we celebrate the most vulnerable time of all--the birth of a baby.  Death in childbirth for mother and/or child was an all-too-common occurrence then (and still is in too much of the world), multiplied several times over by placing the newborn in an animal trough!

Angels and shepherds and circumcision and magi and Herod... we bunch together a couple years of gospel events into one big season of constant celebration.  And maybe that's the point: we call it all a "celebration" when the story itself calls for a commemoration.  There are solemn, even somber, parts to that story.  Those parts didn't have to be part of the scriptural record.  It could have been all angels singing, innkeepers repenting, shepherd dancing in gay apparel, no sheep dung on their sandals. But isn't that just like the Bible to show life as the mixed bag it really is, warts and all? David, the "man after God's own heart," adding adultery and murder to his résumé . Peter, both passionate and foolish.  The ancient Israelites, set apart as God's "chosen people," yet berated by their own prophets for their greed, injustice and xenophobia.  If there's one thing that strengthens my faith in the veracity of Scripture, it's the unvarnished and almost universally unadorned portrait of its characters.

Yet over the centuries our culture has adorned Christmas and varnished it 'til its glossy sheen nearly blinds us to the underlying material. It has become something different, a magical season of fantasy.  Janet and I watched the original "Miracle of 34th Street" last night and were swept up in the story as much as the next guy.  It's fun to delight once again, like we did as children, in a myriad of memories and traditions and twinkling lights like those that mesmerize my young grandson.

But not only can this feeling not be sustained for the entire “Christmas season” (which is a shopping term of ever-increasing length), but neither should it be.  The Church's term throughout history, "Advent", invites and even beckons a different and more complex set of emotions.  It's a time of preparation, of remembrance of the full story, of feeling the complete range of human emotion at the full-orbed story of the entry of the Christ-child into our full-orbed world. 

"Peaceful Christmas" music wafts behind me, courtesy of Pandora.  It invites a peaceful acceptance of emotion, as violins now render "Silent night, holy night."  The phrase, repeated in every verse of this most-beloved song, is "holy night," not "happy night."  "Holy" can be joy-filled, thoughtful, tearful, awestruck, watchful.  None of those emotions need an apology during a season of preparation for a holy night. 

In my office hangs a framed photo I was given when I left Promise Keepers, after serving as their California state manager during the boom years.  The Orange County Register published the photograph during the largest stadium event PK ever held, at the LA Coliseum in 1995.  The photo portrayed what was best about that uneven men's movement: as worship music was pulsing from the stage, the men on the front row are shown alternately lifting hands, kneeling, weeping openly, singing passionately.  Their diversity of response to what was "holy" is as riveting as their diversity of race and socio-economic status.  It is beautiful to behold.

Let that be our invitation then, to not only feel but to accept and even welcome the full range of human emotion in this season, without apologies that "I'm such a downer" or "I know I shouldn't be sad at this time of year."  Those of us who struggle to feel the complete range of emotion should be jealous.  We lack the taste buds to enjoy the full-bodied communion wine of all the complex flavors of Advent. 

If you can taste them fully, but are tempted to apologize for that, perhaps it will help to remember that this is first and foremost Advent season, the time of preparation for Christmas, which lasts for a day.

In my view, an Advent season without tears is the saddest Christmas indeed.  'Tis the season to be tender.

Cory

Advent 2012

Joy Deep As Sorrow

The slaughter of 20 innocent first-grade children in Newtown, Connecticut last week sickens and disheartens us all. There is some pathos that the tragedy occurred the day after I sent out my meditation "I'm dreaming of a safe Christmas" dedicated to vulnerable children. That it happened during Advent season, when we are re-reading wondrous Christmas stories that always crash headlong into Herod’s terrible slaughter of the infants in Bethlehem, makes both incidents all the more poignant.

At times like these, people often look to spiritual leaders for answers. I'm sure some of these “spokespersons for God” are feeling great pressure to find meaning in the senseless violence, feeling a need to defend God's reputation.

I was talking with a friend today who told me she’d just seen one of the popular television preachers on a major network morning show. The primary question that the host had was, "After a terrible tragedy like this, how would you reassure our viewers that God exists and that God cares?"

My friend felt the clergyman had done a fairly good job of empathetically providing the explanations most of us, if we've been people of faith for some length of time, have heard repeatedly in one form or another:  reminders about man's free will and assurances of God’s compassion for the victims.  Without question, this is a tough circumstance in which to be an apologist.

But as she was talking, I put myself in the place of this "man of God,"  and I realized that I no longer feel it's my responsibility to "apologize" for God, to defend God in times like this. God is perfectly capable to defend God.

That sounds odd, doesn't it?  Somehow we've all been indoctrinated that this is our job.  We’ve had our gospel sales training and we walk around feeling great pressure to help get God off the hook. 

If there's good news in that gospel, I don't see it.

I even think we can do a disservice to God in trying to use reasoning that we humans can understand.  It implies that I can understand God and you could, too. In truth, If we could understand the mind of God, God would not be God.

As we discussed it further, I was reminded of an article that was written over 20 years ago to World Vision staff. It was written by a staff psychologist before PTSD was a household term. He was offering empathy and an explanation of our colleagues who work in relief camps or other difficult settings surrounded by misery and pain, who then come back and would worship with us at World Vision's weekly chapel service. The counselor counseled the rest of us not to be concerned that these wounded warriors were not being demonstrative in chapel or singing praise songs with great gusto. Don't think they've lost their faith in God, he advised us. Rather, they continue to believe in a loving God despite the evidence to the contrary.

I've remembered that article for over two decades and I especially appreciated that he inserted the word "the" in the phrase “despite the evidence.” It acknowledges what we all know is true yet are usually afraid to admit—that there is evidence, compelling at an emotional level at the very least, that argues against belief in a loving and all-powerful God.  So, to hold our own subterranean fear of unbelief at bay, we do all we can to defend that God, “our God”.

As I'm writing this, my wife just sent a text with the disturbing news that a former church member and acquaintance died yesterday of complications from a terrible motorcycle accident. Frank has been a well-known radio host at a Christian station here. What will his family go through?  What words of comfort will quickly morph into fervent explanations and apologia?

Let’s face it. Life is painfully cruel; as life is unbelievably beautiful. 

My new friend bob Bennett sent me the very first CD of his new album. He burned it himself for my dying friend Mark Archibald, who passed away the next day, before Bob could mail it, so it came to me instead. The title song asks plaintively, "Is there joy deep as sorrow?" 

Despite the evidence to the contrary, the fact that the answer to Bob' question is a resounding yes may be all the defense I personally need for God.  Oh yes, there is joy deep as sorrow. 

And for those who can open their hearts to it, this season offers deep reminders of both.  Our usual response to someone’s loss or heartache at Christmastime is, “Oh, and how terrible that it happened at this time of year, too.”  Perhaps the ultimate victory of the Christ-mission despite the river of blood from Herod’s infamous Slaughter of the Innocents requires a different reading, a different response when tragedy strikes at this very time of year.  Perhaps at no other season is there such clear evidence that joy is always comingled with sorrow, and vice versa; such a clear sign of ultimate hope, that sorrow can be redeemed. 

Redeeming last week’s sorrow is the task before us now, as well… a task we can undertake in strength and comfort, reaching out for the hand of One who also endured great sorrow while beckoning us to a Peaceable Kingdom of unending joy.

Peace on earth; goodwill to all,

Cory

December 2012