“Seek first to understand, then to be understood.” ~Stephen R. Covey, 7 Habits of Effective People
We descended into Kibera led by one of the district elders. This “illegal city,” built on the steep slopes of a long valley, is located on the outskirts of Nairobi, Kenya. A single dirt road runs along the facing slope. Packed dirt pathways wend their way up and down the hillsides like hamster trails, connecting hundreds of small hovels, most the size of a bedroom, housing six to eight families each. I was reminded of a clubhouse, made of scrap wood, tar paper and corrugated chicken-house roofing, my brothers and I built as kids.
Slowly we picked our way down the first slope. The path was narrow, steep and rutted, partially filled with greenish gray-blue sewage. As we neared the bottom of the valley the path bent slightly to the left, then to the right. The base of the valley came into view. Here, in the bowels of Kibera, the sewage run-off from a portion of the city collected in a large brackish pool of unidentifiable sludge. The only means of getting to the other side was an Indiana Jones-like bridge which crossed a narrower part of the sludge pool. “Bridge” would be a beneficent term, as it was no more than scraps of wood fastened together into something like a ladder.
We crossed safely, but as we watched in horror, a pig on the opposing bank lost its footing and slid into the sickening ooze. It squealed miserably as it struggled for purchase on the bank, finally scrabbling out of the mire, with a slick coat of brackish green still clinging to its skin.
Our circuitous route led us up the opposing hillside. We weaved in and out between shacks, ducking pieces of metal roofing which jutted out, carefully stepping across the sewage filled ruts to wider places in the path. Teresa’s foot suddenly slipped into the muck. Quickly she pulled it out, but a horrible stench followed with it.
As we continued up the path, we were greeted by the chants of children: “Muzungu,” “Muzungu,” meaning “white person” or “European person.” Sometimes they played and chanted: “How are you?” “How are you?” “How are you?” their voices strangely harmonic creating a surreal self accompanied ballet. They were not mocking us; rather they were greeting us.
The path crested. Ahead of us a long level cut, running parallel to the hillside, formed a kind of “Main Street.” We turned right onto this thoroughfare of sorts. As we walked along, I realized the small shanties on both sides were the Kiberian version of store fronts: promoting goods and services alike. Vegetables, handmade tools, cooked food, woven clothes; even Kung Fu movies were available for purchase. The local laundromat was a simple round metal tub in which two men washed clothes using only their bare feet. It was a day, just like a day anywhere else in the world: people “work’n for a liv’n, just try’n to get by”. In that instant, Main Street, Kibera was Main Street, Anywhere-in-the-World.
Turning right again, we started back down the hill. Carefully negotiating the treacherous path we again made our way to the valley floor and back up the hillside returning to the place on the dirt road where we had begun. Nearby four little boys were playing their version of soccer with a ball made of knotted rags. Turning uphill one last time we began our final ascent up the steep hill to the summit where our bus was parked. Children’s voices chanted behind us, “How are you?”
Over half the population of Nairobi resides in slums like Kibera. There are more than 150 of them in areas we would consider uninhabitable as they are located in flood plains, on steep slopes like Kibera, or in hazardous industrial areas like Dandora. The circumstances which lead to the existence of these slums, or “illegal cities”, are many and complex. Not surprisingly, greed and corruption are high on the list.
This does not mean there have not been efforts made to correct the problems. The World Bank has poured millions of Kenyan Shillings into Kibera in an effort to bring electricity to the area, but to no avail. Curiously, one of the reasons attempts at change have been ineffective is no one ever asked the residents what they wanted. No one took the time to ask the question, let alone listen to the answer! “What do you want?”
Stewardship can easily be confused with the capitalistic model of the transfer of goods and services. If you’ve got, what I’ve got, you should be happy. In other words, if I give other people what I have (i.e. the kind of possessions or the amount of money) then that will solve their problems. Unfortunately such an approach, though well intentioned, can be misguided.
During a reception in our parish courtyard I noticed a homeless man from the park next door. He was comfortably seated in an out-of-the-way place listening to the music. Being the Good Samaritan I imagined myself to be, I made up a plate of food and proudly presented it to the man. He graciously accepted it. I went on about my business smugly congratulating myself for being such a “good steward”. When we were cleaning up afterwards, I discovered the untouched plate of food under his empty chair. I complained bitterly to one of my coworkers who simply responded, “Maybe he wasn’t hungry?”
As stewards we are often called upon to ask questions rather than remedy situations. Busy minds and busy mouths lead to hearts which are blind to real needs. “Big egos have little ears” (Rev. Robert Schuller). Open ears, a still tongue, and empty, available hands are sometimes the greatest gifts we can offer someone. Asking sincere questions, waiting for and listening to the answer are a great place for a steward to start.
By the way: “How are you?”
Dear God: Remind me daily I must hear my brother and sister first, before I can help them.
“Many a man would rather you heard his story than granted his request.” ~Phillip Stanhope, 4th Earl of Chesterton, English statesman (1694-1773)
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
“90 Second Stewardship” This reflection is written by James E. Carper, Stewardship Director for Saint Monica Catholic Community in Santa Monica, California. All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 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 ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
Image is Everything?
“It is not the image you would see. Nor the song you would hear. But rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears…” ~Kahil Gibran, Lebanese born, American essayist, novelist and poet (1883-1931)
The Convent of the Missionaries of Charity, just outside Nairobi, Kenya sits atop a hill overlooking a poverty stricken valley. It is a fitting place for this sanctuary, home to the religious order started by Mother Teresa of Calcutta. Fitting, because it is adjacent to the second largest slum in the world, Kibera; home to over a million people living in grinding poverty and the most deplorable conditions imaginable. The Sisters are easily identified by their white habits with the familiar Marian blue stripes, as they go about their business serving the poor.
We arrived in time for morning Mass. There were small wooden benches (luxuries) in the back for us. The Sisters and Novices knelt on the floor, their feet bare, as their shoes remained outside. Their sole possessions in life are two habits and a bucket. The reason is eminently practical: one habit is worn while the other is washed using the bucket. Mass began. They sang like angels. Hymnals are nonessentials, so each had a small notebook in which they wrote the words to the hymns they sang. Mass ended, but we remained for prayers. Finally, we quietly filed out of the room. As we stood outside chatting, two novices rolled up the thin carpet in the room we had just exited, exposing a gray concrete floor. Even that little bit of padding had been solely for our comfort not theirs.
The Sister’s mission is to care for some of the most marginalized of society…those who are severely mentally and often physically challenged. Sometimes, children are brought to the convent gate by their families, but often as not, members of the Order retrieve them from wherever they have been discarded. Many are left by a contaminated stream which runs through the valley which Kibera occupies.
We were escorted to a large gathering room, a common area at the heart of the facility; and it beat like a heart. The residents filled wheelchairs and benches. Small beds lined the walls for those who could not sit in wheelchairs. We were greeted by the sound of a drum and singing. There were no televisions here, lulling the residents into a technological haze. The room was alive with activity, which stimulated the senses. We danced, we clapped and we sang. I found myself seated on a wooden bench, my arms around the shoulders of two people who would undoubtedly never leave the facility. We swayed to the sounds.
A group of Spanish nursing students arrived and the Macarena began. Suddenly, one of the resident revelers launched herself from her wheelchair onto the floor. Several of us leapt to our feet thinking she was in the early throes of a grand mal seizure. Quickly we realized her writhing was not a seizure, but her version of the dance. The Spanish girls smoothly formed a circle making the resident the center of the event. As the dance ended the girls hoisted her from the floor. She rose like Aphrodite from her shell, a radiant smile upon her face, and then she was carefully nestled back into her chair. Tears of joy glistened in our eyes as we watched.
My wife stood next to the Mother Superior; a small Indian woman with a remarkable aura of peace about her. A wave of tranquility seemed to envelope her and those around her. “How long do you keep them here?” Teresa asked. “Until they die,” she replied simply. And so the dance continued.
“Image is Everything,” an ad for the Canon Rebel camera, featuring Andre Agassi, was one of the most successful ad campaigns of the early 1990’s. But, if image were everything, most of us would be in big trouble (particularly in the early morning hours). And yet, many of us allow our image (what people think of us) to control a great deal of what we say, what we do, how we look and how we act. I often catch myself asking my wife, “How do I look?” Making sure I leave the house projecting the proper image.
Unfortunately, this approach can channel our energies away from the more important things in life. I’m not suggesting it’s bad to look good, but conditioning ourselves to respond based upon the outward effect versus the inner spirit can deprive us of a great deal of joy. Besides, it can be emotionally taxing and even exhausting.
When the resident exited her wheelchair, in favor of dancing on the floor like the rest of us, many of our first-world, western minds immediately thought, “How does this look?” A mentally and physically challenged patient, writhing on the floor of a care facility in Los Angeles would be met with an immediate response and probably restraints. I doubt the caregivers would join in the dance.
But, joy does not come from the exterior image: matching clothes, properly accessorized, saying and doing the right things at the right time. Joy comes from our inner spirit; that impulse to move our feet to the beat of a drum or sing along with the car radio when no one else is around. Keeping up appearances takes concentration, saps energy and when there are slips, cracks in the well prepared façade, it makes us cranky or downright irritable.
Decorum is overrated. The take-your-shoes-off-and-dance, wedding-cake-in-the-face world is a lot more fun (and real). Image isn’t everything. Our inner joy shining through is everything. Come…join the dance!
Dear God: Teach me to dance!
“This isn’t gonna look good on a resume!” ~Robin Williams (Good Morning Vietnam, 1987)
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
“90 Second Stewardship” This reflection is written by James E. Carper, Stewardship Coordinator for Saint Monica Catholic Community in Santa Monica, California. All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 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 ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
The Convent of the Missionaries of Charity, just outside Nairobi, Kenya sits atop a hill overlooking a poverty stricken valley. It is a fitting place for this sanctuary, home to the religious order started by Mother Teresa of Calcutta. Fitting, because it is adjacent to the second largest slum in the world, Kibera; home to over a million people living in grinding poverty and the most deplorable conditions imaginable. The Sisters are easily identified by their white habits with the familiar Marian blue stripes, as they go about their business serving the poor.
We arrived in time for morning Mass. There were small wooden benches (luxuries) in the back for us. The Sisters and Novices knelt on the floor, their feet bare, as their shoes remained outside. Their sole possessions in life are two habits and a bucket. The reason is eminently practical: one habit is worn while the other is washed using the bucket. Mass began. They sang like angels. Hymnals are nonessentials, so each had a small notebook in which they wrote the words to the hymns they sang. Mass ended, but we remained for prayers. Finally, we quietly filed out of the room. As we stood outside chatting, two novices rolled up the thin carpet in the room we had just exited, exposing a gray concrete floor. Even that little bit of padding had been solely for our comfort not theirs.
The Sister’s mission is to care for some of the most marginalized of society…those who are severely mentally and often physically challenged. Sometimes, children are brought to the convent gate by their families, but often as not, members of the Order retrieve them from wherever they have been discarded. Many are left by a contaminated stream which runs through the valley which Kibera occupies.
We were escorted to a large gathering room, a common area at the heart of the facility; and it beat like a heart. The residents filled wheelchairs and benches. Small beds lined the walls for those who could not sit in wheelchairs. We were greeted by the sound of a drum and singing. There were no televisions here, lulling the residents into a technological haze. The room was alive with activity, which stimulated the senses. We danced, we clapped and we sang. I found myself seated on a wooden bench, my arms around the shoulders of two people who would undoubtedly never leave the facility. We swayed to the sounds.
A group of Spanish nursing students arrived and the Macarena began. Suddenly, one of the resident revelers launched herself from her wheelchair onto the floor. Several of us leapt to our feet thinking she was in the early throes of a grand mal seizure. Quickly we realized her writhing was not a seizure, but her version of the dance. The Spanish girls smoothly formed a circle making the resident the center of the event. As the dance ended the girls hoisted her from the floor. She rose like Aphrodite from her shell, a radiant smile upon her face, and then she was carefully nestled back into her chair. Tears of joy glistened in our eyes as we watched.
My wife stood next to the Mother Superior; a small Indian woman with a remarkable aura of peace about her. A wave of tranquility seemed to envelope her and those around her. “How long do you keep them here?” Teresa asked. “Until they die,” she replied simply. And so the dance continued.
“Image is Everything,” an ad for the Canon Rebel camera, featuring Andre Agassi, was one of the most successful ad campaigns of the early 1990’s. But, if image were everything, most of us would be in big trouble (particularly in the early morning hours). And yet, many of us allow our image (what people think of us) to control a great deal of what we say, what we do, how we look and how we act. I often catch myself asking my wife, “How do I look?” Making sure I leave the house projecting the proper image.
Unfortunately, this approach can channel our energies away from the more important things in life. I’m not suggesting it’s bad to look good, but conditioning ourselves to respond based upon the outward effect versus the inner spirit can deprive us of a great deal of joy. Besides, it can be emotionally taxing and even exhausting.
When the resident exited her wheelchair, in favor of dancing on the floor like the rest of us, many of our first-world, western minds immediately thought, “How does this look?” A mentally and physically challenged patient, writhing on the floor of a care facility in Los Angeles would be met with an immediate response and probably restraints. I doubt the caregivers would join in the dance.
But, joy does not come from the exterior image: matching clothes, properly accessorized, saying and doing the right things at the right time. Joy comes from our inner spirit; that impulse to move our feet to the beat of a drum or sing along with the car radio when no one else is around. Keeping up appearances takes concentration, saps energy and when there are slips, cracks in the well prepared façade, it makes us cranky or downright irritable.
Decorum is overrated. The take-your-shoes-off-and-dance, wedding-cake-in-the-face world is a lot more fun (and real). Image isn’t everything. Our inner joy shining through is everything. Come…join the dance!
Dear God: Teach me to dance!
“This isn’t gonna look good on a resume!” ~Robin Williams (Good Morning Vietnam, 1987)
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
“90 Second Stewardship” This reflection is written by James E. Carper, Stewardship Coordinator for Saint Monica Catholic Community in Santa Monica, California. All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 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 ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
Friday, August 6, 2010
The Glass Floor
“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeing new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” ~ Marcel Proust, French novelist (1871-1922)
The short, man-bridge spanned a small river which bordered the southern edge of the dump. We were told fish, extricated from the fetid waters, was consumed by the locals. Entertaining the thought anyone would eat anything which came from the poisoned runoff was too disturbing to contemplate. At the end of the bridge, to our right, an old man was fighting a losing battle. Air-borne trash filled his yard even as he raked it into small heaps; as if trying to exercise some control over his life. His attempts were doomed to failure, but he pressed on as did we.
We completed our crossing and started up the steep hill; the massive dump, seemingly unending, lay to our left. Hedge rows and fences prevented us from going to our right. The only way was up. Two plain-clothes policemen, replete with ancient military weapons, kept watch over us; preceding us up the steep hillside.
We passed “St. Prisca’s Childhood Rehabilitation Centre.” St. Prisca, a first century martyr, was a thirteen year old girl imprisoned and tortured to death for her beliefs. The irony of naming this children’s center after her was lost on most of us. Little black hands reached out through the bars of the gated entrance, just to touch our hands, to connect with us some how. The moment passed and we moved on.
On our right, a solid gate appeared. A sign announced the entrance led to the “Boma Rescue Centre”. The inscription at the bottom of the sign read: “mtoto auye na mzazi hali uchafu”. I could only make out the words “children” (mtoto) and “no parents” (na mzazi).
The Boma Rescue Centre is appropriately named as workers literally “rescue” children from the dump of Dandora, Kenya. Dedicated volunteers regularly venture into the vast garbage dump in search of the lost. Some are abandoned. Some run away from home because of abuse. One small girl, who cuddled up with one of our fellow female travelers was only four years old. Without the rescue center all of them would be left to survive on what they could forage from the 400 tons of garbage dumped each day or die by whatever misadventure befell them.
We headed for the main building. The children were waiting for us inside. We passed piles of shoes at the doorway. The dimly lit shelter was constructed of corrugated metal and 4x4’s. A gap of one to two feet was left between the top of the wall and the roof line. A gap protected by chicken wire; poor man’s air conditioning I thought. Child-like frescoes covered the walls.
Seated on backless wooden benches we celebrated Mass together: a group of comfortable urbanites from Los Angeles and a pack of kids from Kenya whose prior address read simply, “the city dump.” The great social reformer, Dorothy Day, once professed what attracted her to the Catholic faith was “the rich knelt down with the poor” and so we worshiped together.
Mass ended and it was the children’s turn to entertain. Not surprisingly they sang songs and performed dances. The singing and dancing ended. A table and two chairs were placed in the middle of the floor. A series of skits followed. One would have expected funny and/or familiar tales would be acted out; the products of the simple and innocent minds of children. These skits however, were horrifyingly adult. They depicted drunkenness, drug use, physical and mental abuse and marital infidelity. In short, the skits depicted their reality; the realities which had molded their lives; the path by which many of them had come to the rescue center.
The skits ended abruptly and we headed outside. The actors became children again. We distributed stickers, posed for pictures and, with a glance over our shoulders, started back down the hill toward the safety of our bus; armed guards trailing behind. As we got to the bridge I glanced to my left. The little old man was still waging his battle against the trash; his bent body swinging the ancient wooden rake as best he could; papers still swirling around him. A last look and I headed for the sanctuary of the bus and the sanitary wipes in my bag.
Dr. Timothy Leary, the infamous advocate of psychedelic drug use, is sometimes credited with asking the question: “What is reality anyway?” While there is no simple answer to the question, I would profess a great deal of our realities are conditioned by our life experiences. Dr. Phil would say, “There is no reality, only perception.”
As upper middle class Americans, who could afford to travel to Kenya, our reality was clearly different than those of the children we met at Boma Rescue Centre. For us a hardship might be defined as a flat tire, a difficult boss, a bad relationship, or losing a job. For these children hardship is no food, no clean water, no decent clothes or shoes, no family or emotional comfort and possible injury, illness or death.
These differing realities create a “glass floor” of sorts. Hardships beyond our own experience are difficult to comprehend. Even when confronted with the realistic images provided by modern media it is difficult for us to conceive “hardship” or “need” which is much beyond our comfort zone of existence. Case in point, the TV Series, “The Simple Life” humorously depicted life in rural America as a “hardship” for Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie. Ironically, to the people we met in Kenya, that same rural life would have been luxurious.
Gratitude is fueled by need, not by satisfaction. Therefore, experiencing need first hand through ministry, even vicariously, helps drive us to greater levels of gratitude. This is why ministry is so important! Ministry (sharing our gifts of time, talent and treasure) nourishes the minister as well as those being served. It shatters the glass floor and brings us in contact with the realities of those for whom we are called to care. It provides us with the realization of how much we really have; how gifted we are, in comparison with the rest of the world’s inhabitants, vividly demonstrating the many reasons we should be grateful.
In turn, deep, heart-felt gratitude, conscious acknowledgement of how much we have been given by God, should naturally lead to increased generosity. There is an important dynamic created by being fully participative in the gifting of time, talent and treasure (not time, talent or treasure). Each enhances the experience of the other. Service in ministry enhances gratitude which, hopefully, increases our desire to be generous.
Timothy Leary spent his life trying to enhance his psychedelic experience. On the other hand, fully participative stewardship enhances our spiritual experience and our lives.
Dear God: Put me to work! I need to be more grateful!
“We do not see things as they are. We see them as we are.” ~The Talmud
© 2010 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”© 2010 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 ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
The short, man-bridge spanned a small river which bordered the southern edge of the dump. We were told fish, extricated from the fetid waters, was consumed by the locals. Entertaining the thought anyone would eat anything which came from the poisoned runoff was too disturbing to contemplate. At the end of the bridge, to our right, an old man was fighting a losing battle. Air-borne trash filled his yard even as he raked it into small heaps; as if trying to exercise some control over his life. His attempts were doomed to failure, but he pressed on as did we.
We completed our crossing and started up the steep hill; the massive dump, seemingly unending, lay to our left. Hedge rows and fences prevented us from going to our right. The only way was up. Two plain-clothes policemen, replete with ancient military weapons, kept watch over us; preceding us up the steep hillside.
We passed “St. Prisca’s Childhood Rehabilitation Centre.” St. Prisca, a first century martyr, was a thirteen year old girl imprisoned and tortured to death for her beliefs. The irony of naming this children’s center after her was lost on most of us. Little black hands reached out through the bars of the gated entrance, just to touch our hands, to connect with us some how. The moment passed and we moved on.
On our right, a solid gate appeared. A sign announced the entrance led to the “Boma Rescue Centre”. The inscription at the bottom of the sign read: “mtoto auye na mzazi hali uchafu”. I could only make out the words “children” (mtoto) and “no parents” (na mzazi).
The Boma Rescue Centre is appropriately named as workers literally “rescue” children from the dump of Dandora, Kenya. Dedicated volunteers regularly venture into the vast garbage dump in search of the lost. Some are abandoned. Some run away from home because of abuse. One small girl, who cuddled up with one of our fellow female travelers was only four years old. Without the rescue center all of them would be left to survive on what they could forage from the 400 tons of garbage dumped each day or die by whatever misadventure befell them.
We headed for the main building. The children were waiting for us inside. We passed piles of shoes at the doorway. The dimly lit shelter was constructed of corrugated metal and 4x4’s. A gap of one to two feet was left between the top of the wall and the roof line. A gap protected by chicken wire; poor man’s air conditioning I thought. Child-like frescoes covered the walls.
Seated on backless wooden benches we celebrated Mass together: a group of comfortable urbanites from Los Angeles and a pack of kids from Kenya whose prior address read simply, “the city dump.” The great social reformer, Dorothy Day, once professed what attracted her to the Catholic faith was “the rich knelt down with the poor” and so we worshiped together.
Mass ended and it was the children’s turn to entertain. Not surprisingly they sang songs and performed dances. The singing and dancing ended. A table and two chairs were placed in the middle of the floor. A series of skits followed. One would have expected funny and/or familiar tales would be acted out; the products of the simple and innocent minds of children. These skits however, were horrifyingly adult. They depicted drunkenness, drug use, physical and mental abuse and marital infidelity. In short, the skits depicted their reality; the realities which had molded their lives; the path by which many of them had come to the rescue center.
The skits ended abruptly and we headed outside. The actors became children again. We distributed stickers, posed for pictures and, with a glance over our shoulders, started back down the hill toward the safety of our bus; armed guards trailing behind. As we got to the bridge I glanced to my left. The little old man was still waging his battle against the trash; his bent body swinging the ancient wooden rake as best he could; papers still swirling around him. A last look and I headed for the sanctuary of the bus and the sanitary wipes in my bag.
Dr. Timothy Leary, the infamous advocate of psychedelic drug use, is sometimes credited with asking the question: “What is reality anyway?” While there is no simple answer to the question, I would profess a great deal of our realities are conditioned by our life experiences. Dr. Phil would say, “There is no reality, only perception.”
As upper middle class Americans, who could afford to travel to Kenya, our reality was clearly different than those of the children we met at Boma Rescue Centre. For us a hardship might be defined as a flat tire, a difficult boss, a bad relationship, or losing a job. For these children hardship is no food, no clean water, no decent clothes or shoes, no family or emotional comfort and possible injury, illness or death.
These differing realities create a “glass floor” of sorts. Hardships beyond our own experience are difficult to comprehend. Even when confronted with the realistic images provided by modern media it is difficult for us to conceive “hardship” or “need” which is much beyond our comfort zone of existence. Case in point, the TV Series, “The Simple Life” humorously depicted life in rural America as a “hardship” for Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie. Ironically, to the people we met in Kenya, that same rural life would have been luxurious.
Gratitude is fueled by need, not by satisfaction. Therefore, experiencing need first hand through ministry, even vicariously, helps drive us to greater levels of gratitude. This is why ministry is so important! Ministry (sharing our gifts of time, talent and treasure) nourishes the minister as well as those being served. It shatters the glass floor and brings us in contact with the realities of those for whom we are called to care. It provides us with the realization of how much we really have; how gifted we are, in comparison with the rest of the world’s inhabitants, vividly demonstrating the many reasons we should be grateful.
In turn, deep, heart-felt gratitude, conscious acknowledgement of how much we have been given by God, should naturally lead to increased generosity. There is an important dynamic created by being fully participative in the gifting of time, talent and treasure (not time, talent or treasure). Each enhances the experience of the other. Service in ministry enhances gratitude which, hopefully, increases our desire to be generous.
Timothy Leary spent his life trying to enhance his psychedelic experience. On the other hand, fully participative stewardship enhances our spiritual experience and our lives.
Dear God: Put me to work! I need to be more grateful!
“We do not see things as they are. We see them as we are.” ~The Talmud
© 2010 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”© 2010 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 ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
Friday, July 30, 2010
It's a Stretch!
“By compassion we make others’ misery our own, and so, by relieving them, we relieve ourselves also.” ~Thomas Browne, Sr., Revolutionary War soldier, and Superintendent of the Southern Indian Department (1750-1825)
She was a big woman; wrapped in a navy blue sweater, with a lime green bandana, flecked with red, engulfing her head.
“Look at me!” “I am strong.” “I am not sick.” “I want to live!” “And I am so very grateful for the food you give me.” “It helps keep my body well.”
Only minutes before, we had entered like rock stars processing down the center aisle of the packed, tented shelter. The audience greeted us with applause, cheers and smiles. Now, we were seated on dark green plastic chairs listening to the testimonies of the participants. Some of us were interspersed with the group, others sat facing them, but we were all brothers and sisters as one. We had come to feed and to be fed.
Once a month victims of HIV/AIDS and their families, the lepers of modern times, come to Holy Cross Catholic Church situated physically and emotionally in the heart of Dandora, Kenya, just outside Nairobi. Dandora is located literally at the city dump where 400 tons of refuse are deposited daily. Hogs root in the garbage while carrion birds circle overhead. Acrid smoke, produced by the heat of natural composting, rises from smoldering piles. Scavengers, of the human variety, pick through trash in an attempt to eek out a living from the discards of the more prosperous of society.
St Monica Catholic Church, through a ministry known as “Veronica’s Place” donates about $16,000 a year to feed those in Dandora who suffer with HIV/AIDS. Once a month they come to the parish to receive a small ration of corn meal, rice and a bit of oil. In this setting it is easy to imagine the prophet Elijah requesting a small cake made of oil and flour from an old widow.
Western stereotypes of AIDS sufferers are obliterated here. Many with whom we chatted were mothers with small children who gratefully identified the members of their families who were not HIV positive. Some were so weak their ability to accomplish the short walk back to their homes was in question. Even a decent bag to carry their food stuffs would have been a luxury for most. And yet they gave testimony to their gratitude for what they had received, little as it was by our standards.
Many of us exercise our bodies: at the fitness center, on the jogging trail or by participating in various sports activities. Some of us exercise our minds through a variety of academic endeavors, learning a foreign language, solving puzzles or reading. Some of us even work at improving our “Karma” through spiritual exercises, yoga, tai chi, or meditation. But how many of us exercise our hearts; not in the physical sense, but in a loving sense?
Muscles grow through a process of tearing down and rebuilding. Mental capacity grows by confronting our minds with new ideas, new obstacles, new challenges, but how do we grow and stretch our hearts. How do we expand our capacity to love? We do so by acts of compassion which require us to encounter the marginalized of our world…to challenge our hearts just as we challenge our bodies and our minds
Christian stewardship teaches us everything is a gift from God, to be received gratefully and returned to God with increase. We enter into this process by becoming conduits of God’s gifts and in so doing we enter, what Fr. Robert Barron refers to as, the “loop of grace”. When we enter this loop, through sharing our gifts of time, talent and treasure, we find the more we give the more we receive. This occurs in part because gifts are not intended to be possessed, but rather to be given freely.
The poor, the destitute, the underprivileged, the marginalized, the lepers of society, viewed in this context, as potential recipients of our gifts, are no longer burdens to be shouldered, but opportunities to serve; invitations to enter the loop of grace, to practice compassion and to stretch our hearts, giving us an even greater capacity to love.
To those of us predisposed to exercise a steep hill can be viewed, not as an obstacle, but as an opportunity for a quick work out. A book can be something which collects dust or it can be a gateway to a new perspective or idea.
On that day, in that place, it would have been easy to despair; to be like the disciples telling Jesus, “We don’t have enough to feed these people,” but instead our hearts were stretched and our capacity for compassion expanded. Without disruption we entered the loop of grace and our lives were forever changed.
Dear God: help me each day to seek ways to stretch my heart; increasing my capacity for love.
“If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion.” Dali Lama, Head of the Dge-lugs-pa order of Tibetan Buddhists, 1989 Nobel Peace Prize winner (b 1935)
© 2010 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”© 2010 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 ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
She was a big woman; wrapped in a navy blue sweater, with a lime green bandana, flecked with red, engulfing her head.
“Look at me!” “I am strong.” “I am not sick.” “I want to live!” “And I am so very grateful for the food you give me.” “It helps keep my body well.”
Only minutes before, we had entered like rock stars processing down the center aisle of the packed, tented shelter. The audience greeted us with applause, cheers and smiles. Now, we were seated on dark green plastic chairs listening to the testimonies of the participants. Some of us were interspersed with the group, others sat facing them, but we were all brothers and sisters as one. We had come to feed and to be fed.
Once a month victims of HIV/AIDS and their families, the lepers of modern times, come to Holy Cross Catholic Church situated physically and emotionally in the heart of Dandora, Kenya, just outside Nairobi. Dandora is located literally at the city dump where 400 tons of refuse are deposited daily. Hogs root in the garbage while carrion birds circle overhead. Acrid smoke, produced by the heat of natural composting, rises from smoldering piles. Scavengers, of the human variety, pick through trash in an attempt to eek out a living from the discards of the more prosperous of society.
St Monica Catholic Church, through a ministry known as “Veronica’s Place” donates about $16,000 a year to feed those in Dandora who suffer with HIV/AIDS. Once a month they come to the parish to receive a small ration of corn meal, rice and a bit of oil. In this setting it is easy to imagine the prophet Elijah requesting a small cake made of oil and flour from an old widow.
Western stereotypes of AIDS sufferers are obliterated here. Many with whom we chatted were mothers with small children who gratefully identified the members of their families who were not HIV positive. Some were so weak their ability to accomplish the short walk back to their homes was in question. Even a decent bag to carry their food stuffs would have been a luxury for most. And yet they gave testimony to their gratitude for what they had received, little as it was by our standards.
Many of us exercise our bodies: at the fitness center, on the jogging trail or by participating in various sports activities. Some of us exercise our minds through a variety of academic endeavors, learning a foreign language, solving puzzles or reading. Some of us even work at improving our “Karma” through spiritual exercises, yoga, tai chi, or meditation. But how many of us exercise our hearts; not in the physical sense, but in a loving sense?
Muscles grow through a process of tearing down and rebuilding. Mental capacity grows by confronting our minds with new ideas, new obstacles, new challenges, but how do we grow and stretch our hearts. How do we expand our capacity to love? We do so by acts of compassion which require us to encounter the marginalized of our world…to challenge our hearts just as we challenge our bodies and our minds
Christian stewardship teaches us everything is a gift from God, to be received gratefully and returned to God with increase. We enter into this process by becoming conduits of God’s gifts and in so doing we enter, what Fr. Robert Barron refers to as, the “loop of grace”. When we enter this loop, through sharing our gifts of time, talent and treasure, we find the more we give the more we receive. This occurs in part because gifts are not intended to be possessed, but rather to be given freely.
The poor, the destitute, the underprivileged, the marginalized, the lepers of society, viewed in this context, as potential recipients of our gifts, are no longer burdens to be shouldered, but opportunities to serve; invitations to enter the loop of grace, to practice compassion and to stretch our hearts, giving us an even greater capacity to love.
To those of us predisposed to exercise a steep hill can be viewed, not as an obstacle, but as an opportunity for a quick work out. A book can be something which collects dust or it can be a gateway to a new perspective or idea.
On that day, in that place, it would have been easy to despair; to be like the disciples telling Jesus, “We don’t have enough to feed these people,” but instead our hearts were stretched and our capacity for compassion expanded. Without disruption we entered the loop of grace and our lives were forever changed.
Dear God: help me each day to seek ways to stretch my heart; increasing my capacity for love.
“If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion.” Dali Lama, Head of the Dge-lugs-pa order of Tibetan Buddhists, 1989 Nobel Peace Prize winner (b 1935)
© 2010 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”© 2010 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 ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Preparations
“You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday.” ~Psalm 91: 5, 6
The metal folding chair on which I sat was incredibly uncomfortable. It was one of only seven in the cramped narrow waiting room. In the only other occupied seat sat an anxious Asian gentleman. The wall was covered with a colorful photo montage style poster replete with pictures of lions, zebras, giraffes and grinning tribesmen in ceremonial garb. One was bent forward greeting the child of a European tourist whose back was to the viewer. “Visit Kenya” the poster read. For some reason, I had thought the Consulate of Kenya in LA would be bigger.
The service window was located at the far end of the waiting area. A movie theater style glass partition, with a beveled hole, through which to converse, and an arched slot at counter height, through which paperwork could be passed, separated “guests” from the office workers. In a few minutes, with any luck, two passports, with Kenyan Visas affixed inside, would pass through that slot into my waiting hands.
Procuring a travel visa takes time, effort and expense. Forms need to be completed on line and hard copies signed and submitted. Additional passport pictures are required and the Consulate only takes certified checks or money orders which requires an extra trip to the bank. Expedited service is also an additional charge. I had paid the extra fee so I could return in several hours rather than several days to retrieve my passports… and so I sat.
As I waited my mind rummaged through a random list of the preparations we had made thus far. You can tell a lot about a country by what you have to do to go there. The plethora of inoculations we had endured (Hep A, Hep B, Yellow Fever, Typhoid, Polio boosters, Tetanus boosters and even H1N1) was a clear indication of the level of health of the society. Malaria pills were prescribed as well. One out of four people in Kenya are infected with the disease. Mosquito repellent for body and clothes are also a must.
If inoculations are an indicator of the physical health of a society, currency will give you the vital signs of the economy. Exchanging currency into British Pounds or Euros is a bit like playing the stock market, but in third world countries it’s more like playing monopoly. A Kenya Shilling is worth less than 2 cents; a buck gets you 79 Shillings. In other words 34,000 Kenya Shillings are worth less than $500.00 US, indicating a weak economy and in turn a very poor country.
“Excuse me. Mistuh Cahpah?” The softly accented voice roused me out of my mental ramblings. There was a well appointed gentleman standing behind the glass; his crisp, white shirt, complete with gold cuff links, shone against his dark skin. As I stepped to the window he opened each of the two passports displaying the visa inside, assuring me all was in order. The visas were hand printed in “papyrus” script. I thanked him, shook his hand and happily headed for the elevator lobby, passports and receipt in hand.
If we plan on traveling there are preparations which need to be made. Some preparations are imposed upon us such as passports, visas, proper identification, etc. Other preparations are matters of comfort: the appropriate clothes and shoes, money to pay for necessities and frivolities, shelter (from tents to five star hotels), etc. Then there are those preparations which are for our health, well being and safety. Whether it be inoculations, insect repellent, being alert to dangerous areas or just having a pair of good walking shoes, safety is important. We ready ourselves physically, but we usually pay little attention to our spiritual preparedness. As we travel through life the one preparation most of us neglect is inviting God along in the form of the Holy Spirit.
God gave me a gentle reminder of this last week. I posted a light hearted comment on my Facebook page. It read “Teresa and I head for Dandora, Kenya to do missionary work for 2 weeks. Got the inoculations, got the visas, got the bug repellent...what am I forgetting???” I received many equally light hearted “shares” but one response, posted by a friend from South Africa, got my attention. “Read Psalm 91 every day,” she wrote.
South Africa has endured very troubled times over the last 30 to 40 years, but particularly in the 80's and 90's. In fact, in 1995 and 1998 South Africa led the world in reported murders. Life was not only uncertain, it was just plain dangerous; people murdered, homes, banks and businesses robbed, cars hijacked and their drivers and passengers slaughtered. At the same time however, there was an upsurge in prayer as the Holy Spirit moved through the country. All religions, Christian and non-Christian alike, prayed for peace; for an end to the death and destruction. Many began claiming protection under Psalm 91. Homes and businesses erected signs which read “Protected by Psalm 91” instead of “Protected by Brink’s Security”. Amazingly, none of those who claimed the protection of Psalm 91 were targeted.
As Christian Stewards we know prayer is an important part of our lives. As we make our preparations, whether it be for the coming day, a business meeting or a trip half way round the world, an important part of those preparations should be prayer and Psalm 91 is a good place to start.
Dear God: send your Holy Spirit to protect me today; to give me guidance and direction.
"Because they love me, says the LORD, I will rescue them; I will protect them, for they acknowledge my name. They will call upon me, and I will answer them; I will be with them in trouble, I will deliver them and honor them.” ~Psalm 91: 14, 15
© 2010 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”© 2010 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 ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
The metal folding chair on which I sat was incredibly uncomfortable. It was one of only seven in the cramped narrow waiting room. In the only other occupied seat sat an anxious Asian gentleman. The wall was covered with a colorful photo montage style poster replete with pictures of lions, zebras, giraffes and grinning tribesmen in ceremonial garb. One was bent forward greeting the child of a European tourist whose back was to the viewer. “Visit Kenya” the poster read. For some reason, I had thought the Consulate of Kenya in LA would be bigger.
The service window was located at the far end of the waiting area. A movie theater style glass partition, with a beveled hole, through which to converse, and an arched slot at counter height, through which paperwork could be passed, separated “guests” from the office workers. In a few minutes, with any luck, two passports, with Kenyan Visas affixed inside, would pass through that slot into my waiting hands.
Procuring a travel visa takes time, effort and expense. Forms need to be completed on line and hard copies signed and submitted. Additional passport pictures are required and the Consulate only takes certified checks or money orders which requires an extra trip to the bank. Expedited service is also an additional charge. I had paid the extra fee so I could return in several hours rather than several days to retrieve my passports… and so I sat.
As I waited my mind rummaged through a random list of the preparations we had made thus far. You can tell a lot about a country by what you have to do to go there. The plethora of inoculations we had endured (Hep A, Hep B, Yellow Fever, Typhoid, Polio boosters, Tetanus boosters and even H1N1) was a clear indication of the level of health of the society. Malaria pills were prescribed as well. One out of four people in Kenya are infected with the disease. Mosquito repellent for body and clothes are also a must.
If inoculations are an indicator of the physical health of a society, currency will give you the vital signs of the economy. Exchanging currency into British Pounds or Euros is a bit like playing the stock market, but in third world countries it’s more like playing monopoly. A Kenya Shilling is worth less than 2 cents; a buck gets you 79 Shillings. In other words 34,000 Kenya Shillings are worth less than $500.00 US, indicating a weak economy and in turn a very poor country.
“Excuse me. Mistuh Cahpah?” The softly accented voice roused me out of my mental ramblings. There was a well appointed gentleman standing behind the glass; his crisp, white shirt, complete with gold cuff links, shone against his dark skin. As I stepped to the window he opened each of the two passports displaying the visa inside, assuring me all was in order. The visas were hand printed in “papyrus” script. I thanked him, shook his hand and happily headed for the elevator lobby, passports and receipt in hand.
If we plan on traveling there are preparations which need to be made. Some preparations are imposed upon us such as passports, visas, proper identification, etc. Other preparations are matters of comfort: the appropriate clothes and shoes, money to pay for necessities and frivolities, shelter (from tents to five star hotels), etc. Then there are those preparations which are for our health, well being and safety. Whether it be inoculations, insect repellent, being alert to dangerous areas or just having a pair of good walking shoes, safety is important. We ready ourselves physically, but we usually pay little attention to our spiritual preparedness. As we travel through life the one preparation most of us neglect is inviting God along in the form of the Holy Spirit.
God gave me a gentle reminder of this last week. I posted a light hearted comment on my Facebook page. It read “Teresa and I head for Dandora, Kenya to do missionary work for 2 weeks. Got the inoculations, got the visas, got the bug repellent...what am I forgetting???” I received many equally light hearted “shares” but one response, posted by a friend from South Africa, got my attention. “Read Psalm 91 every day,” she wrote.
South Africa has endured very troubled times over the last 30 to 40 years, but particularly in the 80's and 90's. In fact, in 1995 and 1998 South Africa led the world in reported murders. Life was not only uncertain, it was just plain dangerous; people murdered, homes, banks and businesses robbed, cars hijacked and their drivers and passengers slaughtered. At the same time however, there was an upsurge in prayer as the Holy Spirit moved through the country. All religions, Christian and non-Christian alike, prayed for peace; for an end to the death and destruction. Many began claiming protection under Psalm 91. Homes and businesses erected signs which read “Protected by Psalm 91” instead of “Protected by Brink’s Security”. Amazingly, none of those who claimed the protection of Psalm 91 were targeted.
As Christian Stewards we know prayer is an important part of our lives. As we make our preparations, whether it be for the coming day, a business meeting or a trip half way round the world, an important part of those preparations should be prayer and Psalm 91 is a good place to start.
Dear God: send your Holy Spirit to protect me today; to give me guidance and direction.
"Because they love me, says the LORD, I will rescue them; I will protect them, for they acknowledge my name. They will call upon me, and I will answer them; I will be with them in trouble, I will deliver them and honor them.” ~Psalm 91: 14, 15
© 2010 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”© 2010 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 ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
Friday, July 2, 2010
The Perfect Man
“Were I to await perfection, my book would never be finished.” ~Chinese Proverb
“On your left!”
Diane was flying down the bikeway on a junk run. She had done her regular work out in the early morning hours. Now she was just packing on some extra miles for good measure. It was a gift to be alive. She was, after all, a cancer survivor. It hadn’t been that long ago she was lying in a hospital bed. A well meaning nurse had told her, “Even though you’re terminally ill the good news is you’ll have time to travel if you want.” A little time to travel was a blessing? She didn’t want to travel! Diane wanted to live! Her Dad had told her, “You don’t get out of this life alive, Diane,” but he was in his 80’s for God’s sake.
Now, in full remission, she was training for a 100-mile bike race. She had been praying as she pedaled. “Dear God, send the perfect man for me.” It wasn’t her “first rodeo” so to speak, but now she had her life back. There should be someone with which to share it. “Dear God, send the perfect man for me,” she repeated like a mantra.
Suddenly she realized she was coming up on a skater; fast, too fast. “On your left!” she yelled out. Instinctively the skater swerved to his left directly into her path. “The other left!” Diane screamed as she skidded to avoid him. This time he went right and she slid left. Catastrophe avoided they made apologies to one another.
His name was Kirk and, as it turned out, they shared a lot of interests. A date was made and others followed. Then came the engagement and the wedding planning began. Diane’s cancer had left her unable to bear children, so they started adoption paperwork as well. In the blank marked “Preferred Race” they wrote “HUMAN”.
Then, amidst the flurry of preparations, came the diagnosis: Kirk had terminal leukemia; a few months perhaps. In her moments of despair Diane asked God a simple question: “Why?” The answer came quickly. Kirk was the “perfect man for her.” He was a man she loved deeply and cared for. He in turn, loved her. More importantly he needed someone to walk “the path” with him. A path she too had walked once before. A path she knew all too well. They were in fact, “the perfect couple”.
The wedding date was moved up and the preparations accelerated. The wedding was held at the local Lutheran church presided over by Kirk’s step-father. There had not been time to arrange the Catholic wedding for which Diane had hoped, but it didn’t matter. Like Diane and Kirk the two congregations came together as one. They returned from their honeymoon and shortly thereafter Kirk died. His legacy? Their adopted son, Steven; a blonde haired, blue eyed picture of his dad.
Diane’s prayer had been answered two-fold.
Our version of perfect is very different from God’s version of perfect. Our version of perfection typically means flawless, untainted, unblemished, and perhaps even pure. We think in terms of the “perfect job”, the “perfect car”, or the “perfect body.” Our version of perfection is literally overrated and yet we are more than willing to use any means possible to attain versions of this so-called “perfection”. Sadly, the pursuit of human perfection can be a road to false satisfaction and ultimately disappointment.
On the other hand, God’s version of perfection is one of “rightness.” Therefore, like Diane, if one prays for perfection what one will receive is not a flawless remedy, but the perfect answer to our prayers. Case in point, God’s response to Diane’s prayer was not a flawless human being and yet she and Kirk could not have been better suited for one another.
We expect God’s responses to be convenient, uncomplicated and appealing from a human point of view. God, however, doesn’t seem to operate this way. When we come to realize God’s answers to our prayers are not what we perceive as flawless, simplistic resolutions, it helps us to understand why God’s gifts don’t always seem like gifts. We live in an imperfect world; imperfection of our own making. It therefore stands to reason the remedies for our hardships will also seem imperfect at first. They are rarely what we expected.
This confusion over perfection versus rightness is not a new issue. For several thousand years perfection, or what we might call holiness, has been equated with moral purity. In an effort to be perfected (holy) we feel compelled to execute life, faith, morals, etc. flawlessly. Such an approach is doomed to disappointment.
In point of fact, to be holy means to “rise above” these things. “To rise above” does not mean to become superior to others. Rather it is an ability to move to a place above the noise and confusion of life and, from this vantage point, see its gifts and blessings…just as Diane came to see Kirk and the path they walked together as a gift.
Dear God, give me your perfect answers to my imperfect prayers.
“People throw away what they could have, by insisting on perfection, which they cannot have, and looking for it where they will never find it.” ~Edith Schaeffer, Christian author and co-founder of L’Abri (b 1914)
© 2010 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”© 2010 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 ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
“On your left!”
Diane was flying down the bikeway on a junk run. She had done her regular work out in the early morning hours. Now she was just packing on some extra miles for good measure. It was a gift to be alive. She was, after all, a cancer survivor. It hadn’t been that long ago she was lying in a hospital bed. A well meaning nurse had told her, “Even though you’re terminally ill the good news is you’ll have time to travel if you want.” A little time to travel was a blessing? She didn’t want to travel! Diane wanted to live! Her Dad had told her, “You don’t get out of this life alive, Diane,” but he was in his 80’s for God’s sake.
Now, in full remission, she was training for a 100-mile bike race. She had been praying as she pedaled. “Dear God, send the perfect man for me.” It wasn’t her “first rodeo” so to speak, but now she had her life back. There should be someone with which to share it. “Dear God, send the perfect man for me,” she repeated like a mantra.
Suddenly she realized she was coming up on a skater; fast, too fast. “On your left!” she yelled out. Instinctively the skater swerved to his left directly into her path. “The other left!” Diane screamed as she skidded to avoid him. This time he went right and she slid left. Catastrophe avoided they made apologies to one another.
His name was Kirk and, as it turned out, they shared a lot of interests. A date was made and others followed. Then came the engagement and the wedding planning began. Diane’s cancer had left her unable to bear children, so they started adoption paperwork as well. In the blank marked “Preferred Race” they wrote “HUMAN”.
Then, amidst the flurry of preparations, came the diagnosis: Kirk had terminal leukemia; a few months perhaps. In her moments of despair Diane asked God a simple question: “Why?” The answer came quickly. Kirk was the “perfect man for her.” He was a man she loved deeply and cared for. He in turn, loved her. More importantly he needed someone to walk “the path” with him. A path she too had walked once before. A path she knew all too well. They were in fact, “the perfect couple”.
The wedding date was moved up and the preparations accelerated. The wedding was held at the local Lutheran church presided over by Kirk’s step-father. There had not been time to arrange the Catholic wedding for which Diane had hoped, but it didn’t matter. Like Diane and Kirk the two congregations came together as one. They returned from their honeymoon and shortly thereafter Kirk died. His legacy? Their adopted son, Steven; a blonde haired, blue eyed picture of his dad.
Diane’s prayer had been answered two-fold.
Our version of perfect is very different from God’s version of perfect. Our version of perfection typically means flawless, untainted, unblemished, and perhaps even pure. We think in terms of the “perfect job”, the “perfect car”, or the “perfect body.” Our version of perfection is literally overrated and yet we are more than willing to use any means possible to attain versions of this so-called “perfection”. Sadly, the pursuit of human perfection can be a road to false satisfaction and ultimately disappointment.
On the other hand, God’s version of perfection is one of “rightness.” Therefore, like Diane, if one prays for perfection what one will receive is not a flawless remedy, but the perfect answer to our prayers. Case in point, God’s response to Diane’s prayer was not a flawless human being and yet she and Kirk could not have been better suited for one another.
We expect God’s responses to be convenient, uncomplicated and appealing from a human point of view. God, however, doesn’t seem to operate this way. When we come to realize God’s answers to our prayers are not what we perceive as flawless, simplistic resolutions, it helps us to understand why God’s gifts don’t always seem like gifts. We live in an imperfect world; imperfection of our own making. It therefore stands to reason the remedies for our hardships will also seem imperfect at first. They are rarely what we expected.
This confusion over perfection versus rightness is not a new issue. For several thousand years perfection, or what we might call holiness, has been equated with moral purity. In an effort to be perfected (holy) we feel compelled to execute life, faith, morals, etc. flawlessly. Such an approach is doomed to disappointment.
In point of fact, to be holy means to “rise above” these things. “To rise above” does not mean to become superior to others. Rather it is an ability to move to a place above the noise and confusion of life and, from this vantage point, see its gifts and blessings…just as Diane came to see Kirk and the path they walked together as a gift.
Dear God, give me your perfect answers to my imperfect prayers.
“People throw away what they could have, by insisting on perfection, which they cannot have, and looking for it where they will never find it.” ~Edith Schaeffer, Christian author and co-founder of L’Abri (b 1914)
© 2010 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”© 2010 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 ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Explanation Fixation
“Only real love waits while we journey through grief.” Excerpt from The Winter Vault by Anne Michaels, Canadian poet and novelist (b 1958)
The four of them stood on the curb talking with their friend seated in his truck, the darkness gathering around them. The after prom party at their neighbor’s had been so packed with people they had chosen to wait out front till the crowd thinned. The music and the noise from the party masked the low rumble of the approaching black SUV and the electronic hum as the darkened passenger’s side window slid down. Erick heard four hard popping sounds and felt a puff of air pass his right temple. Then the screams started. Erick turned toward the sound and caught sight of one of his friends, blood pouring down his face. A bullet had creased his skull literally scoring a trail across the top of his head. Blood flowed profusely from the ugly scalp wound.
Realizing the wound was superficial; Erick felt a momentary sense of relief as he glanced around trying to locate his other two friends. Where was Mikey? Then he saw him. Michael McGuire lay on his back, a pool of blood gathering on the pavement underneath his head. Erick knelt next to him, but he was unresponsive. A cell phone flipped open, 9-1-1, but when the operator answered she put them on hold. Frustrated the boys loaded Mikey and their wounded chum into their friend’s truck and headed for the hospital. The ambulance would arrive on the scene 28 minutes later.
Erick cradled Mikey in his arms during the ride. At one point he sensed something more than blood draining from him. It was a kind of warm energy passing out of him. In that moment, he sensed Michael’s spirit leave him. They arrived at the hospital. Mikey was placed on a gurney and rushed to the emergency care unit, Erick still at his side. An ER nurse stopped him at the double doors to the unit with a traffic cop-like “palm out” sign and a grim half smile.
Stricken and stunned Mikey’s family arrived at the hospital. Friends gathered; wept together, prayed together, waited together. When it came, the news was bad. The bullet had severed the brain stem. He was on life support. There was nothing to be down. The painful decision was made to disconnect Michael from the machines which were keeping him alive. But then, a discussion ensued; a difficult discussion; a prayerful discussion. The family asked the doctor to meet with them. The life support would not be disconnected immediately. The family, with the support and encouragement of close friends, had elected to donate Michael’s organs.
He remained on life support for two more days while the transplant team was assembled and vital organs removed. His liver was divided between two babies. His heart, lungs and kidneys would extend the lives of five others. There would be life after death. Finally, five days after his clinical death Michael McGuire was disconnected from life support and his body sent to the morgue where a forensic pathologist would remove the bullet still lodged in his brain stem; evidence of his murder.
We live in a world which demands explanation. We approach life with a “News at 11” kind of mentality. All must be revealed. The truth will out. Whether it be from the broadcast media, on the internet or shouted from tabloid headlines in the check out line we assume somewhere within our digitized, media spun world all will be explained; the real truth will come out, whether it be a grave political gaff, the marital infidelity of a celebrity or an environmental disaster.
When we encounter the death of a good young man however, there is no explanation and we go wanting. The what, where, when and how are very specific, but we can find no satisfactory WHY. In our search for “the truth” however, we don’t need factual explanations, we need prayerful contemplation. In the rush of emotional pain it is easy to confuse the senseless, with the meaningless. Often we hear the media describe loss of life as “senseless and meaningless.” There are many deaths which make no sense, which are beyond explanation, but no death is meaningless.
Michael’s death was senseless, even tragic, but the circumstances surrounding it bear tremendous meaning. Whether it was Erick’s sense of his spirit leaving him as he cradled him in his arms, to the many who kept vigil through the night, to the family’s decision to donate Michael’s organs; all of these acts possess a special meaning and deserve our attention and contemplation.
As stewards it is meaning which makes a difference and hence we search for it. We contemplate the events in our lives harvesting the gifts of meaning. Facts are superficial, cold, sterile and vary by the commentator and in each telling of the tale. Meaning is deeply personal and ultimately enriching. Explanations are quick fixes. Meaning takes time to manifest itself; to come to fruition. Afterwards, we move forward in life with a deeper sense of awareness.
The death of a loved one can never be adequately explained. It can only be faced, felt, experienced, survived and contemplated. Death is scary, inexplicable, fearful and, even when it is expected, unexpected. And yet, there is no greater evidence of life than death.
Dear God: Guide me to search daily for meaning in my life.
“The great challenge in living your wounds through instead of thinking them through is this: it is better to cry than to worry. It is better to feel your wounds more deeply than to understand them. Better to let them enter into your silence than to talk about them. The choice is whether you are taking your wounds to your head or to your heart.” Excerpt from The Inner Voice of Love by Henri Nouwen, Dutch-born Catholic priest and writer (1932-1996)
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 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 ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message. Questions or comments may be directed to Jim Carper by return e-mail or at the contact information found below.
The four of them stood on the curb talking with their friend seated in his truck, the darkness gathering around them. The after prom party at their neighbor’s had been so packed with people they had chosen to wait out front till the crowd thinned. The music and the noise from the party masked the low rumble of the approaching black SUV and the electronic hum as the darkened passenger’s side window slid down. Erick heard four hard popping sounds and felt a puff of air pass his right temple. Then the screams started. Erick turned toward the sound and caught sight of one of his friends, blood pouring down his face. A bullet had creased his skull literally scoring a trail across the top of his head. Blood flowed profusely from the ugly scalp wound.
Realizing the wound was superficial; Erick felt a momentary sense of relief as he glanced around trying to locate his other two friends. Where was Mikey? Then he saw him. Michael McGuire lay on his back, a pool of blood gathering on the pavement underneath his head. Erick knelt next to him, but he was unresponsive. A cell phone flipped open, 9-1-1, but when the operator answered she put them on hold. Frustrated the boys loaded Mikey and their wounded chum into their friend’s truck and headed for the hospital. The ambulance would arrive on the scene 28 minutes later.
Erick cradled Mikey in his arms during the ride. At one point he sensed something more than blood draining from him. It was a kind of warm energy passing out of him. In that moment, he sensed Michael’s spirit leave him. They arrived at the hospital. Mikey was placed on a gurney and rushed to the emergency care unit, Erick still at his side. An ER nurse stopped him at the double doors to the unit with a traffic cop-like “palm out” sign and a grim half smile.
Stricken and stunned Mikey’s family arrived at the hospital. Friends gathered; wept together, prayed together, waited together. When it came, the news was bad. The bullet had severed the brain stem. He was on life support. There was nothing to be down. The painful decision was made to disconnect Michael from the machines which were keeping him alive. But then, a discussion ensued; a difficult discussion; a prayerful discussion. The family asked the doctor to meet with them. The life support would not be disconnected immediately. The family, with the support and encouragement of close friends, had elected to donate Michael’s organs.
He remained on life support for two more days while the transplant team was assembled and vital organs removed. His liver was divided between two babies. His heart, lungs and kidneys would extend the lives of five others. There would be life after death. Finally, five days after his clinical death Michael McGuire was disconnected from life support and his body sent to the morgue where a forensic pathologist would remove the bullet still lodged in his brain stem; evidence of his murder.
We live in a world which demands explanation. We approach life with a “News at 11” kind of mentality. All must be revealed. The truth will out. Whether it be from the broadcast media, on the internet or shouted from tabloid headlines in the check out line we assume somewhere within our digitized, media spun world all will be explained; the real truth will come out, whether it be a grave political gaff, the marital infidelity of a celebrity or an environmental disaster.
When we encounter the death of a good young man however, there is no explanation and we go wanting. The what, where, when and how are very specific, but we can find no satisfactory WHY. In our search for “the truth” however, we don’t need factual explanations, we need prayerful contemplation. In the rush of emotional pain it is easy to confuse the senseless, with the meaningless. Often we hear the media describe loss of life as “senseless and meaningless.” There are many deaths which make no sense, which are beyond explanation, but no death is meaningless.
Michael’s death was senseless, even tragic, but the circumstances surrounding it bear tremendous meaning. Whether it was Erick’s sense of his spirit leaving him as he cradled him in his arms, to the many who kept vigil through the night, to the family’s decision to donate Michael’s organs; all of these acts possess a special meaning and deserve our attention and contemplation.
As stewards it is meaning which makes a difference and hence we search for it. We contemplate the events in our lives harvesting the gifts of meaning. Facts are superficial, cold, sterile and vary by the commentator and in each telling of the tale. Meaning is deeply personal and ultimately enriching. Explanations are quick fixes. Meaning takes time to manifest itself; to come to fruition. Afterwards, we move forward in life with a deeper sense of awareness.
The death of a loved one can never be adequately explained. It can only be faced, felt, experienced, survived and contemplated. Death is scary, inexplicable, fearful and, even when it is expected, unexpected. And yet, there is no greater evidence of life than death.
Dear God: Guide me to search daily for meaning in my life.
“The great challenge in living your wounds through instead of thinking them through is this: it is better to cry than to worry. It is better to feel your wounds more deeply than to understand them. Better to let them enter into your silence than to talk about them. The choice is whether you are taking your wounds to your head or to your heart.” Excerpt from The Inner Voice of Love by Henri Nouwen, Dutch-born Catholic priest and writer (1932-1996)
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 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 ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message. Questions or comments may be directed to Jim Carper by return e-mail or at the contact information found below.
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