Diversity Not Adversity

“The wise man belongs to all countries, for the home of a great soul is the whole world.”  ~ Democritus, ancient Greek philosopher (460 BC – 370 BC)

It was late Saturday morning and I was standing in the stockroom of a vacant store sampling homemade catfish. Though it might have been vacant from a retail perspective, it was anything but quiet. From the front of the store came the clamor of commerce, people and activity; sounds which could be heard even in the back where I stood. They were the sounds of the Afro-Centric Market Place in Simi Valley, California.

I had been invited to participate, as a representative of my company, by my new best friend, Sandra Brown. Sandra and I had met in a leadership program sponsored by the local chamber of commerce. Her outgoing personality had made it easy to get to know her and to feel comfortable around her. Since I was a diversity marketing manager, she had encouraged me to participate in the African American Tradeshow she was chairing.

So here I was with a catfish sandwich in hand courtesy of Sandra’s best friend Lizzy. “How is it?” she asked with a smile. “Deee-licious,” I replied, still chewing. “It’s a bit early for catfish though.”  “It’s never too early for one of my catfish sandwiches,” retorted Lizzy, her hands on her hips. (This friendly banter had started when I arrived and would continue through-out the day. It was only one of Lizzy’s endearing qualities.)

“So what do you think of the trade show?” Sandra asked. “It’s really nice” I replied, still focused on the catfish. “Really nice,” Sandra said, mimicking my vocal pattern. “That is definitely a white person’s response.” Sandra’s head moved back and forth punctuating each word.  I stopped chewing, surprised to hear Sandra refer to me as a “white person.” After all I was a white person.

“Have you ever heard music like this?” “Have you ever seen booths like these?” Have you ever seen clothes like these?” Sandra’s head continued to go back and forth. “No, not really” I responded feebly.  “So tell me what you really think?” Sandra’s look had become penetrating.

 I put the sandwich down, realizing this was becoming more than a casual conversation. “I think it’s different,” I offered. “Different how?” Sandra was not going to let me off easily. “Different as in it is something I have never experienced before.”

Finally Sandra’s gaze began to soften. She broke into a litany about how they had set about to make this trade show different; one which truly reflected their culture. “We Black folk are different from you White folk, so what do you really think?” Sandra concluded. This final comment caught me off guard. I had come to believe it was impolite and perhaps inflammatory to suggest we were different.

I swallowed hard and then proceeded to tell Sandra all the things I liked and the few things I didn’t like about the trade show. More importantly, I asked about the things I didn’t understand. Sandra listened intently and offered explanations where necessary. Finally, I was done.

A big grin began to spread across Sandra’s face. “Now that wasn’t so hard was it?” she asked. “You see, we are different than you.” “Different in how we act, how we think and the things we value. Being different isn’t bad, it’s just…different. The good thing is we live in the 21^st century where we can acknowledge, talk about, and maybe even celebrate the differences. Now let’s get you some corn bread and butterbeans.”  

For centuries, cultures have often looked upon other cultures, races, religions and social groups as suspect, inferior and even subhuman. Blacks were sold as property and a Native American tribe was put on trial by the United States Government to determine if they were truly human. These biases continue in many parts of the world even today.

As we traversed the 20^th century, we reached a sort of middle ground where we convinced ourselves everyone was equal and therefore the same; to point out differences was often viewed as bigotry. Sandra taught me what many of us are coming to understand, that it is a good thing to discuss the differences. In fact, we are called to celebrate these differences.

As Christian Stewards, we understand that every person is, in a sense, his or her own individual culture. In today’s “culture,” it is not that we are becoming more the same; rather, we are each becoming more unique. While we may find some comfort where we overlap, in point of fact, our strength lies in the differences between us.

 This is one of the messages of Pentecost. While we are all members of the human race, we are each our own unique culture with unique gifts – “one Spirit, but different gifts”.  God made us all different for a reason. We are called to use our gifts to complement one another, not to be in conflict with one another.

As we celebrate Pentecost this weekend, it is a time to recognize and rejoice in the unique culture of the others in our lives. They are not adversaries, but gifts of God.

Dear God: Teach me to be grateful for all the other people you have created in this world.

“The greater the diversity, the greater the perfection.”  ~Thomas Berry, CP, Catholic Priest, member of the Passionist order, cultural historian, ecotheologian, cosmologist and geologist (1914-2009)

©2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.

“90 Second Stewardship” is a reflection on being a Christian Steward in a secular and sometimes harsh world. This reflection is written by James E. Carper of Simi Valley, California. All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the “© 2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.

Happy Dance

“We wouldn’t ask why a rose, that grew from the concrete, has damaged petals, in turn we would celebrate its tenacity, we would all love its will to reach the sun, well, we are the roses, this is the concrete and these are my damaged petals, don’t ask me why, thank God and ask me how.” ~Tupac Shakur, American rap artist (1971-1996)

It was the middle of a Thursday morning and I found myself at my desktop computer grinding away at a document that needed to be out by lunch time. There are those times when words and expressions seem to flow effortlessly, but this was not one of those times. I found myself deleting more than I was writing; the words I needed seemed to be just beyond my reach. I knew they existed, but I just could not find them. 

The page was filled with four incomplete paragraphs and I was in the middle of starting a fifth when a noise from somewhere down the hallway distracted my struggling attention span. 

A moment later I recognized the noise. It was Renita, a member of the parish capital campaign staff. What had started as a “Woohoo!” was escalating into a series inexplicably gleeful sounds.  

Suddenly she appeared in my doorway. “We just got a $100,000 pledge!” she shouted. In an instant she threw her arms in the air and began gyrating. As she did so she repeated two words: “Happy dance, happy dance.”  

This was not the first time I had experienced this type of display. Renita’s island heritage made her particularly susceptible to spontaneous fits of celebration. She finished her impromptu choreography and stood there grinning at me. I’m sure my expressionless face spoke volumes. 

“Aren’t you going to happy dance with me?” she asked. “I’m a fifty-something, white male from back East,” I responded. “I don’t ‘happy dance.’” “Well you need to get yourself one,” she fired back. And with that she continued down the hall doing what looked like a cha-cha step, repeatedly exclaiming, “Happy dance!”  

I smiled to myself although I would never have admitted it to anyone. 

Returning to my document, I began to notice connections between my disjointed paragraphs. Slowly things began to flow: additions here, deletions there, some connecting explanations and paragraph rearrangement, etc. By 11:45 am I found myself putting the finishing touches on what had become a very acceptable piece of work. 

Carefully, I saved the document, tapped out a quick email, inserted the appropriate addresses, and attached the document. My hand on the wireless mouse, I pointed at the SEND box. I hesitated for only a moment, and then, with gusto, I “left clicked,” sending the email, document and all, off into cyberspace. 

Then listening intently, I made sure I heard no one in the hall. Then I rose from my chair and did a private impromptu jig whispering to myself, “Happy dance.” 

Joy is one of God’s greatest gifts and we seem to be losing our ability to express it, at least with any kind of spontaneity. When small children are happy, they irrepressibly dance, giggle, laugh and throw their arms into the air. As we get older we seem to suppress this unbridled joy of youth as if it is somehow wrong to be too happy, too celebratory. 

We tend to look upon other groups or cultures who instinctively feel the inspiration to dance and sing spontaneously as somehow less sophisticated or even underdeveloped. Perhaps one of the reasons we Americans gravitate to sporting events is because it gives us license to celebrate without reservation — to express unbridled joy; these events provide an acceptable excuse to demonstrate our joy publicly.  

On other occasions, perhaps in an effort to appear more sophisticated, we stifle our happiness. However, suppressing our joy is just as damaging as suppressing suffering. Both need to be validated and lived out. After all wasn’t waking up this morning worth celebrating, considering the alternative? 

Like Renita we all need a “happy dance” and we need to do it often, because we are all truly blessed. 

Dear God: Remind me to celebrate life today.

“The more you praise and celebrate your life, the more there is in life to celebrate.” ~Oprah Winfrey, American television personality, actress and producer (b. 1954)

 

©2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved. “90 Second Stewardship”  All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the “© 2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.

Tragic Gifts

“When you are falling from a mountain you may as well attempt to fly.” ~Babylon 5, American TV show (1993-1997)

The gymnasium was deathly quiet, though it was filled to the rafters with Junior and Senior high school students. Moments before, with the utterance of a single sentence, the air had gone out of the room, leaving behind only stunned silence.

It was the second day of the “Every 15 Minutes” program at Simi Valley High School, a program intended to make the students aware of the dangers of drunk driving.  The first day was a simulation of an alcohol-related accident involving students from the school. 

"Every 15 Minutes" is an educational experience which drives home the reality of the dangers associated with driving while impaired. The crash was staged, but the emotions were real!

Today was the wrap-up session. Everyone who had “died” or been injured in the simulation the day before had been miraculously brought back to life and fully restored.

The day before I had been shadowing a Police Chaplain. Today I was sitting in the back row of the guest seating on the gym floor, thinking about how physically unforgiving metal folding chairs could be.

The speaker was relating the story of her best friend – a friend whose “drinking career” had begun in high school and had gradually escalated even as she worked multiple jobs, pursued a successful career, and raised two children.

Things were going well for her friend. She was careful to mask her drinking habits and never drove herself home from parties. One morning however, after a party, she realized she had neglected to pick up her children. “She grabbed her keys and headed out the door.”

Suddenly pictures of a totaled SUV flashed on the screen. “My friend woke up in the hospital, not able to remember how she had gotten there,” the speaker said with tears streaming down her face. “She found out from the medical staff she had been in a serious accident,” she continued.  

“And then she found out another person had been killed in the accident – an accident she had caused.” The gym got quiet. The speaker choked back another sob. “I know this story about my friend is true,” she continued, speaking through the tears. “Because the friend I’ve been telling you about, the friend who drove drunk and killed another person… was me!” 

Every once in a while, when a Lottery Jackpot rises to the mega millions, I am inclined to buy some tickets. I justify my greed by telling myself, “With that much money I could really do some good in the world.” It’s easy to convince ourselves we could really make a difference if only we had more time, greater talent, or abundant treasure. 

It is difficult, perhaps nearly impossible, for any of us to believe that our brokenness or personal tragedies have value; that God could use the worst days of our lives, those moments of epic failure, for good.  

God does not cause them to happen, but in our darkest hours God still cares for us. He can take our humanity, our failures, and use them in ways completely beyond our expectation.  

This is not simply a question of a “comeback” or our surviving the event. There are many stories of those who have rebounded from failures or underdogs who became successes. But it takes a loving and involved Creator to use the worst parts of our lives to positively affect the lives of others. The speaker’s personal tragedy became a means by which the lives of others might be transformed.

No one can ever measure the number of lives changed or saved by the speaker on that day. The tragedies of life are not gifts from God, nor created by Him. We are the ones who create tragedy in the world. But what God does with those tragedies, through us, can become miracles.

Dear God: Remind me that no matter what, I am valuable to you.

“Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.” ~Oscar Wilde, Irish poet, dramatist, novelist and critic (1854-1900)

 ©2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.

“90 Second Stewardship” All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the “© 2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.

Face of the Poor

“Let us touch the dying, the poor, the lonely and the unwanted according to the graces we have received and let us not be ashamed or slow to do the humble work.” ~ Blessed Mother Teresa of Calcutta, Roman Catholic Sister, founder of the Missionaries of Charity order (1910-1997)

It was Sunday afternoon and the Parish Center was humming. The Ladies’ Tea started in less than 15 minutes and final preparations were being made. The annual event was a particular favorite for the women of St Peter Claver Parish.

Each of 30-plus tables had a hostess who took responsibility for the decorations and service ware. It was a chance for each to show off her finest china and tea service. Each table was a masterpiece reflecting the character of the hostess.

Husbands, sons and other male volunteers served as the waiters.

My wife, Teresa, was seated at our friend Jennifer’s table. The teapots were filled and I was just preparing to head for the kitchen, when Linda, one of our parishioners, came running up. “Jim, there’s a homeless person at the door who needs help.” “Since you are going to be ordained as a Deacon soon, I thought you would be the best person to handle it.”

Standing there in my crisp, starched tux shirt, black bow tie, cummerbund and matching cufflinks, I could not have felt more ill-equipped.  “Of course,” I responded, dutifully following Linda to the main entrance of the event.

Along the way I tried to prepare myself for what I might encounter - probably a scruffy old man with a foul smell and an attitude to match. But, as a soon-to-be Deacon, my principal responsibility was serving the marginalized. “This is what we do,” I thought.

Linda disappeared out the door ahead of me. I stepped outside behind her and turned, my eyes adjusting to the bright sunlight. The sight which greeted me was unexpected, to say the least.

There, standing next to Linda, was not the man I had imagined. Instead, Linda was standing next to a wisp of girl who could not have been more than 20. Her lower lip was pierced in two places and her wispy blonde hair was pulled back with a well-worn scrunchie. She wore a pink and white striped knit top with short sleeves. At her feet lay two zippered bags which appeared to have once been nice carryon luggage.  Her nose was red, as if she had been crying.

“Hi, I’m Jim, What’s your name?”  “Christi” she responded, looking at her feet.  “How can I help you?” I asked.  She choked back a sob. “I’m hungry, I have no money and I need something to eat,” Christi said, looking to her right, tears leaking from her eyes.

I gently asked her a few questions regarding services she had tried or organizations she might have contacted. The problem was that it was Sunday and none of the usual services were open. Even our own parish office was closed. 

“Wait right here,” I said finally. I trotted back into the parish center where I was greeted by the hum of convivial conversation. We tapped the cash box for a few dollars, enough for some food and bus fare to the Samaritan Center which would be open in the morning.  

When I returned, Christi was still standing there.  “Here’s enough money to get you through the rest of the day and bus fare across town,” I said with a hopeful smile. “Thank you, Deacon,” she sniffed, looking at her shoes. “May I pray for you?” I asked. For the first time, Christi made eye contact. “Yes, thank you.” 

I prayed briefly over her, asking God to give her help and strength. “Thank you,” she exclaimed again as I pronounced the “Amen.”  Then she hugged me. 

Even outside I could hear the opening announcements for the Ladies’ Tea. “I’ve got to go,” I told Christi. “Will you be all right?” “I think so,” she said simply; picking up her bags. Turning, I headed for the door. As I reached it, I glanced back just in time to catch a glimpse of her disappearing around the corner.  

I paused for a moment: Funny, I never told her I was a Deacon. Heading back into the crush of activity in the parish center I wondered what other surprises God might have in store for me. 

“The poor you will always have with you, but you will not always have me,” (Matthew 26:11 Jesus tells his disciples.  That phrase (a version of which appears in three of the four Gospels) has generated much discussion and debate as to what Jesus really meant.   

It seems to me that the words mean more than just the continued existence of the poor – that they will always be around. Rather, the words imply a relationship in the same way that “I have a child” or “I have a spouse” implies a relationship. “I have the poor with me” also means I have a relationship with them. So, perhaps the implication here is: “You will not always have me (here), but you will always have the poor (instead).” 

On the day of the Ladies’ Tea, this passage took on a special meaning for me. Whether or not we acknowledge their presence, the poor are always with us, and they are often nearer than we think. Sometimes we pass them on the street, sometimes they are on the highway exit ramps, and sometimes they are literally right outside our door.  

Those in need seem to appear at the most inconvenient of times. They appear just as we are trying to get something else done, something important to us. Perhaps they are a reminder of what really is or isn’t important. The poor don’t require an appointment, but they do require our attention.  

The poor don’t always fit neatly into our stereotypes. They are not simply the local wino from the gutter. They can be people who are uncomfortably close to us, even family and friends.  

Once, while working in a homeless shelter, a former, fellow employee appeared asking for food. He had gone from being the head of a department to being homeless. The poor and needy are closer than we think. 

Whether it is a grizzled old man, a scared young girl, or a former co-worker, when we look into the face of the poor, the homeless, or the marginalized, we are looking into the face of Christ. After all, he promised that they – and he – would always be with us. 

Dear God: Help me to see you in everyone I meet today. 

“If a free society cannot help the many who are poor, it cannot save the few who are rich.” ~John F. Kennedy, 35^th President of the United States (1917-1963) 

©2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.

“90 Second Stewardship”  All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the “© 2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.