Thanks to Women, We All Belong

My sister-in-law Maria told me an amazing story once when we were visiting.  She was explaining to her three-year old daughter Frida that she shouldn't touch birds that have fallen out of the nest, because their mothers recognize them by smell, and a human touch would mask that unique scent.

I don't know if that's ornithologically accurate, but that night, Frida was laying in bed with Maria next to her, when she suddenly whispered, "Mama, smell me.  Am I your baby?"  Maria immediately remembered the earlier conversation, so she sniffed Frida very theatrically, and announced with a big hug that yes, Frida was her own special girl.  Apparently, Frida and her mother had been repeating that ritual every night since.  Each night, Frida would ask again, then Maria would sniff her and announce with great affection and fanfare that yes, Frida was her baby.

There is something in us that desires connection and a sense that we belong, that we have identity.  My brother's daughters, while raised in a very gender-neutral environment, nonetheless want to understand who they are as little girls.  At preschool, they gravitate to the little girl groups and do things the little girls do.  They want to know who they are, where they belong.

Who are we, mommy? Am I your own little girl?  Is this where I belong?

I remember once back during our years living in Chicago when Janet gave some cheese to the two daughters of some friends of ours. The younger one immediately looked to the older one and said, "Laura, do we like this?"

Is this who we are?

We all feel the yearning to belong, to something, to someone. To feel cared for and cared about.

One of the most tragic side-products of the AIDS pandemic that swept the globe, especially in its poorer places, during the first decade of this century, was the millions of children who lost one or both parents to the disease.  Most adults died between ages 20 to 45, the prime child-rearing years. Orphans who could move in with an Auntie or were shipped off to an elderly grandmother were the most fortunate.  Next were those who could be taken in by a neighbor.  Those on the other end of the spectrum ended up on the streets or, in rural areas, in what we in the poverty business rather clinically refer to as "child-headed households."  But a dilapidated one-room mud-and-stick hut occupied solely by children trying to fend for themselves, the oldest sibling maybe age 13 or 14, is anything but a "clinical" event.

The experiences of visiting these child-headed households were for me mind-numbing and almost paralyzing in light of their tremendous needs.  They were also times where I most admired the nurturing response of women.

I met John and his two siblings in Malawi, living in a "home" which was almost indescribable. Inside it was probably no more than six feet by eight feet, with an interior dividing wall stretching most of its length, giving the effect of it having two "rooms" with an open door between.  The three boys slept on the bare dirt ground, with a blanket and a single peg for each boys’ clothing being the only other articles I can recall inside.

It was my first trip to an AIDS-ravaged region in those early days, and I did what I often do when I don't know what to say: I played the organizer of my group instead of engaging the people in pain, and instead I made sure my group was involved in the experience of meeting these boys.  But one woman traveling with us, Kay, didn't need to be a host and wasn't about to act like one.  She was no doubt overwhelmed as well, but unlike me, she funneled those feelings of disorientation and shock into compassion.  She sat on the ground with the boys, she spoke tenderly to them, and with her words and countenance she showed them a mother's compassion.  John, the oldest and therefore the one who always needed to be strong, furtively wiped away a reluctant tear sneaking out of the corner of his eye. That stingy tear said more than a torrent could have, about how the compassion of a woman and mother had, at least for the moment, broken through and soothed his weary and fearful soul.

A few years later, I traveled in Tanzania visiting orphaned children with a woman from a very different background. Evelyn is a member of her Community Care Coalition, which is a volunteer network that was caring for orphans and vulnerable children in their own area.  Evelyn and I, with a staff translator, rode in the back of a vehicle on our way to visit Rosy and her two sisters, who comprised another child-headed household.  Theirs was again a miserable story, but the Care Coalition was ensuring the girls are checked on regularly and can receive help that comes available from outside or from the community's own meager possessions. Some coalitions develop a community garden where all the food that is grown goes to the orphans and vulnerable children. Other groups, such as Evelyn's, get trained and become officially registered nonprofits which can receive grants such as chicken coops and other assistance to distribute to those in need, those like Rosy and her sisters.

But though the sisters were surviving--living by themselves for over three years when I met them--I sensed a deep loneliness.  "We love it when Evelyn comes.  She's the only person who comes to visit."  It was such a forlorn comment that I used a photo of Evelyn with these three girls as my screen saver, reminding me why I do my work on behalf of children.

But even more powerful to me than the lonely misery of these children was my conversation with Evelyn.  On the way there, I asked her why she gave the many hours she does to being a community volunteer. Her feelings needed no translation.  "No child should live like this," she replied with the indignation of just about every mother everywhere.  Her own children have their mother, but here are other children who have neither mother or father. Therefore, Evelyn sees that it is partly her responsibility before God to care for them, too.  The rest is unimportant: No child should live like this, not if Evelyn can do something about it, anyway.  The response is immediate and caring.

There is a great mantle women carry as nurturers and caregivers.  Kay, from suburban Orange County, California, and Evelyn from rural Tanzania, both feel it.  Both push past revulsion or shock better than most of us men, and they extend arms of love that reach across chasms of culture and spasms of pain to say, "Yes, you still belong. You are one of us. You still deserve motherly love and a compassionate touch.  As long as we share this planet, you are important to me."

Cory
August 2013

Paying It Forward

Today was my birthday, and my favorite gift was one I was able to give away.

Janet walked back into our condo with a sober look on her face after taking the trash out to the dumpster this morning. "When I opened the trash enclosure door, there was a Hispanic man and woman in there, picking through the trash."

We have a Hispanic family that comes by in a truck fairly regularly on the evening before the trash truck comes, the truck bed usually piled high with discarded furniture and mattresses.  I'm glad they seem to do a good business.

But Janet wasn't sure what the couple in there today was doing.  I asked her if they were using any tools; she replied that the man was just using his bare hands.  

I immediately knew what I wanted to do, if it wasn't too late to catch them.  I ran to the garage and snatched up the pincer tool that I'd been given 4-5 years ago by a little Hispanic woman who didn't really speak English. I'd grown to really appreciate that tool for reaching into the rafters, or retrieving the bar of soap our cat knocked under the sink.  Every time I use that grabber tool I think of her generosity and smile to myself.

But the tool has done the good work in me that God had intended for it.  After all, it prompted me to write about it, write what became my first meditation.  I assigned that story to the first chapter in my book, to mark its significance to me in shaking up my bifurcated worlds--the one I resided in, and the one I'd visit among the poor.  That little Hispanic lady started a cascade of synapses, connecting the dots between paradigms I'd experienced on my trips and the value they could bring to my everyday life, my life back in the erstwhile "bubble" of comfort in which I live.

Having a forty-something couple dumpster-diving a few yards from my front door tends to make those worlds collide, too.  I knew there were a great many things I did not want to do in response to Janet's report, actions I could take which might be perceived as demeaning, or would embarrass them, like giving them money.  I could assuage my discomfort by calling the police.  I could tiptoe over and lock my front door. 

Or, I could pay it forward and accept that God now had a new, needier owner in mind for my now-beloved pincer tool.

I thought I'd missed them, but when I opened the wooden door to the closure, there they stood.  As soon as I held out the tool in my two hands, they both smiled broadly and the woman exclaimed, "God bless you! Thank you so much!"  Hoping she actually did speak some English I decided to tell them the pincer's story, probably for no reason other than I wanted to share with them my joy in being able to pass on this blessing that some kind Hispanic person had blessed me with.  

I felt a bond, a kinsmanship, in rejoicing along with them.  And I felt like a caretaker, a steward; that I'd been entrusted with the tool for just such a time as this to pass it along. I wasn't the owner.  I certainly wasn't better than them; I felt more like a delivery boy who was handed some valuable, and I now understood that my job was to transport it from one VIP to another VIP.  And I was thrilled to successfully complete my assignment.

I suppose I should feel this way about everything that happens to currently reside "in my hands". That's what this idea of being a steward is all about, isn't it?  If I felt this much joy "transporting" a tool that cost ten bucks, imagine the joy I ought to be getting from stewarding things costing hundreds or thousands.  

But for now, I'm just glad to close the loop on the "Uncomfortable Generosity" I had powerfully experienced in receiving the pincer tool, and the joy I felt in paying it forward.

Cory

August 2013

PS: If you’ve forgotten or never read “Uncomfortable Generosity” or want to close the loop yourself, I’ve pasted it below…

Uncomfortable Generosity

Last Saturday we met my son and grandkids to celebrate the twin’s birthday.  As we sat outside at a multi-restaurant food court in Yorba Linda, a Hispanic shopping center employee in her tidy uniform came by picking up trash with a trigger-handled pole that had rubber-lipped pincers on the end.  I marveled that she could pick up the tiniest piece of straw wrapper without stooping down, and non-verbally commented several times with a “wow!” on what a wonderful tool it was.  "I want one of those!" I affirmed with a smile to this pleasant-faced, round and compact, middle-aged bronze woman.  I tried hard to talk respectfully, calling her "Ma'am" so she hopefully wouldn't mistake my friendliness for condescension.

She smiled, nodded and moved on to pinch trash in other areas.

Half an hour later she’s back, again with her fancy tool... but this time with an identical one still in the packaging which she thrusts into my hand, speaking a few words in Spanish that I didn't understand.  I tried assuming that she only wanted to show me what the package looked like so I could go buy one myself; or that maybe she would let me try out the new one.  She however didn’t understand me either and apparently thought I wanted her to unwrap the new one for me, which she carefully did.  Then she firmly placed it in my hands. 

I animatedly tried it out—they work great!—ready to hand it back.  But when I turned around, she was gone.  Nowhere to be found.

I kept looking around, trying to decide how to appropriately respond... Could I pay her?  If so, how much? But no, that would cheapen her graciousness. 

Then maybe there is something I could give her in return?!  I quickly tried to assess my assets at hand to find something commensurate with her kindness. 

But it was futile and pointless... she never came back.

Did she give away her employer's asset?  Will it put her job at risk?  What if someone saw her do it?

All the while, my son sits back assuring me I should simply accept the gift and relax… the same advice I always give to fellow travelers on an international trip when one of them is overwhelmed with the generosity of the poor.  I self-assuredly spout off about relaxing, about accepting, as though I'm the expert.  But subconsciously I comfort myself with a feeling that part of the generosity shown is actually in thanks to World Vision and the impact WV has already had on the life of this poor person, that the visitor is simply the representative of all donors and thereby the lucky and uncomfortable recipient.

I'm full of crap.

Here was no such substitutionary reciprocity, no gratitude for the impact of something I am counted as representing.  Just kindness.  Raw generosity.

Maybe the pincer tool was hers to give, maybe not.  Even if not, she could be charged for it, or possibly fired for giving it away.  Yet she wasn't discreet or clandestine about it: the adjacent tables all watched the animated conversation.  (Although perhaps that's why she disappeared again so quickly.)

Her gracious, simple generosity demanded the attention of my thoughts for the rest of the birthday party.

How does one account for the amazing generosity of the poor, and of other cultures in general?  How do I account for claiming to be a person who promotes and inspires generosity yet doesn't even know how to accept the smallest gestures of it when it comes in pure form?

A major donor recently said to me (though it was clear he was mildly scolding himself), "Don't thank me for donating.  Let's face it, Cory.  I'm not giving out of my lack, but out of my abundance.  My giving doesn’t really impact my lifestyle; and almost everyone else you work with is the same."

We who are not poor may never understand the calculus and ethos of the poor, and why they are so absurdly generous.  It's why the story of the poor widow who put a mere pittance in the temple offering plate has made the papers for 2000 years and continues to bother us; because she gave everything she had.  Who would do that?  It doesn't make any earthly sense. 

And yet there it is.  The act itself screams for our attention.  It slams up against our own calculus and says “There is another way; a way of freedom and trust.” 

Of course, we spiritualize the story, and think it’s all about donating money for the church or other Christian causes.

But then what do we say about 50,000 Africans World Vision has trained and organized who are voluntarily caring for those sick and dying of HIV/AIDS around them?  They not only don’t get paid anything, but they will share of their own family’s meager food supplies to feed the sick, use their own money to buy needed supplies, and take in orphans to the extent that virtually 100% of them are caring for other people’s children, either in their own homes or with financial support.

When those realities slam into me, I realize again how little I understand, and how much we’ve lost as we’ve gained material comfort. 

Tim Dearborn of World Vision’s Christian Commitment team, and in some ways our global pastor, recently told us “Our job is to connect those who are rich in commodities with those who are rich in community.” 

Isn’t that beautiful?  Who’s poor?  Who’s rich?  We all are.

What we have, they need.  Sometimes desperately. 

What they have, we need.  Just as desperately.

Cory

February, 2008

Drafting

This week I read a short piece by Henri Nouwen, about how he would seek God in silence and fervently ask God to express his love and pleasure toward him.  It struck me how vulnerable Henri was to write such a thing, not asking God to give him direction, but rather to give him affirmation.  Let's face it: it takes real courage to ask God to tell me he loves me and hope I hear something back!  Everyone wants this kind of word from God of course, but very few would admit that publicly.  It was Nouwen at his vulnerable best.

Then today I read about Mother Teresa's regular discipline of spending time in silence with God, and her private agony at not hearing from God about his favor, despite her incredibly God-pleasing work.  I took a short time of silence this morning after that reading, and I have to admit, I didn't hear from God either.  

But as I did, it struck me that perhaps I was looking in the wrong place, because I have had very many times of feeling God's favor toward me in my life and my work, and even his superintending of my actions.  The most recent was only last week when I wanted deeply to surprise and bless Janet to celebrate our 500th month anniversary since we first began dating, way back during high school in November, 1971.  

As we sat on a blanket at the beach at sunset, all of the surprises having now been revealed and Janet superbly stunned, I marveled at how God had placed extra treats directly in my path to accentuate the experience, like the dozen red carnations I walked right past and bought at the last minute. I didn't even have a clear plan how I'd use or present them, but then I thought to stand each one up in the sand circling around our blanket, like some miniature picket fence of love encircling Janet. I'm not that creative!  

I felt that God knew my desire was to bless Janet, and he shined his favor on that desire to help make it happen beyond what I could have planned. Some angel must have given us perfect sunny weather, unusually majestic waves, a warm ocean, the carnations, and music I played Janet as she opened the card, which I'd not heard in years until only the day before, when it had moved me to tears. I somehow found the absolutely perfect card.  And Janet, knowing only that I was making some sort of surprise plan for the evening for reasons she didn't know, wore the same perfume she wore in high school.  And some guy ten yards away took photos of us on the beach, then voluntarily built a fire for us and left it for us to enjoy.  

I was well-prepared, certainly, but beyond all that I could do or even dream, I felt God was showing us his favor and love by showering special blessings on us. 

Then, reminiscing on the beach about our relationship over these 41+ years since we began dating as pimpled high-schoolers, through a 'crisis' pregnancy and the ups and downs (very few downs, really) of life to the crescendo of that evening... We know we are not that good, we were unqualified and unaware and have in no way 'deserved' the marriage with which we've been blessed, the life we've had together.  

Janet said, "If I die tonight, it's OK." She called it her best date she's ever had (which maybe doesn't say much for my performance the prior 41 years!).  We felt like two kids again, staring back at a minefield we'd just somehow safely crossed, knowing without a doubt we couldn't have done it alone.

I'm not single, as Nouwen and Mother Teresa were.  I don't need the level of intimacy with God that they perhaps felt.  They each walked a lonely journey in rarefied air, feeling tremendous expectations from the outside world, as special representatives of the God to whom they clung fiercely despite it all. I've had over 40 years with a true life partner, for which I'm inexpressibly grateful.  So I don't pretend to know or see God in the places where Henri and Teresa could not.  I'm not sure I have as much courage to ask as they did to hear God's voice, fearful I'd be setting myself up for deep disappointment.

But I'm grateful for the many times and ways I have in fact seen God's fingerprints, walked in footprints he'd already set down, his hand preparing the good works God intended for me to walk in. (Eph 2:10)

I think I can relate my own experience most to the story where Moses asks of God, "Now show me your glory." (Ex 33:18)  God answers that he'll pass by, but tells Moses he'll only be able to see God's back. 

For a cyclist or a swimmer, it's known as "drafting"--when the resistance of the water or air is reduced because there is another rider or swimmer traveling slightly ahead of you, "running interference for you" as it were. Last week I was reminded once again how much pleasure I have felt from God, in my life and in my work, when I discover I'm drafting behind him.

Cory

July 2013

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!