The Ghosts of Christmas Past

I'm a bit out-of-sorts this Christmas Eve. Can't put my finger on it exactly--but it has something to do with the ghosts of Christmases past. Two college age kids are wandering the house at all hours, tucking me in at night and generally sleeping all day, and causing me to feel like the child in this Christmas of 2008.

In Christmases past, I was the one who stayed up past midnight (for obvious reasons), tiptoeing around the house and trying not to awaken "the children . . . all nestled and snug in their beds." Now I'd have to stay up until at least 3 a.m. to catch them snoozing--an absolutely impossible task at my age. Much more likely that I'll simply rise at dawn--and sit by the tree reminiscing about ghosts of Christmases past--the pitter-patter of little feet that once went to bed at 9 p.m. and woke me up bright and early and begged to head down the hall to see what Santa Claus might have deposited in the night.

I remember other ghosts from the Christmases of my own childhood, spent about six degrees off the equator in the Philippines. Obviously, no one had a chimney--so we made do. We had a fake chimney made out of plywood painted to look like bricks. Christmas Eve was generally marked by a constant progression of carolers, generally children, who sang for the gift of a few coins, rather like trick-or-treaters at Halloween in the US troll for candy. We'd stand on the porch and listen to group after group--"Maligayang pasko," they sang. It literally translates to something like "Merry Christmas" and is sung to the tune "Happy Birthday." "Maligayang pasko. Maligayang pasko. Maligayang, maligayang, maligayang pasko." It's so much part of me that I can't sing "Happy birthday" without thinking of Christmases replete with banana trees and rice paddies and beautiful Christmas stars hanging from nipa huts. I still hear childrens' voices every Christmas Eve, despite the years that separate me from them. Their ghosts sing on and on and on.

No--there won't be children singing at my gate this Christmas Eve or running down my hall on Christmas Day, at least not in the flesh. But they will be with me in spirit. They will always be with me in spirit.

I'm cheered by the thought that the ghosts of Christmas present have not yet come, though they lurk just around the corner. I should enjoy them while they are here in the flesh and not yet ghosts at all. One day in the not too distant future I will yearn for them--two college kids who might finally "nestle all snug in their beds" at 3 a.m. on Christmas Eve. Someday they'll be married or well into their own careers. They'll stop by for a day or two at most--not for the two or three weeks that they spend with us now.

Suddenly I'm not out-of-sorts at all. The ghosts have gone away. Tonight these two will stop by my bed and kiss me and tuck me in before heading out for the evening. The kiss and the tuck will be very real indeed--as will their voices and, if I'm lucky, I'll hear them exclaim 'ere they drive out of sight,

"Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad, and to all a good night."

Mumbai Musings

I know--you're wondering where I've been--perhaps both literally and figuratively. Literally--I've been hanging around places like Atlanta, Rome, Memphis, Prague, Dallas, Philadelphia, New Orleans, Oklahoma City, and other places large and small. I put a couple of kids in college in August, had an auto accident or two, and tried to stick more closely to home.

Figuratively, I've been tending to the pressing matters of the past seven months--keeping all the balls as high up in the air as I can get them. I've not been here (on this blog) much at all. The truth of the matter is that I really haven't had much reason to be in this place. Too much was going on around me--and too little was going on inside me.

Then I went to India.

Here is a picture of Guyeth and me--sitting in a swing in Mumbai. It's a beautiful little swing--sort of a traditional Indian swing with a beautiful Indian painting behind it. It sits just off the swimming pool in a gorgeous 5-star hotel near downtown Mumbai. We didn't stay there--we just visited.

It's one of those historic British hotels that dot the former British empire. I generally avoid these hotels. They are a bit too "high profile." You have to go through security just to get to the check-in desk in the lobby. And I follow the general rule of never staying in a hotel where I have to send my suitcases through an X-ray machine before I check in.

This one is called the Taj Hotel. I guess you've heard of it. This picture was taken just off the lobby of the hotel about ten days before gunmen seized the place and several other prominent sites in the city and killed some 170 people. We were there on a gorgeous early afternoon. We stood in front of the Gate of India and snapped some photos and then we headed into the hotel just to see the place. It is grand and beautiful--with an historic old section and a gleaming new tower. We strolled about the place--and then moved on.

I suppose the experience has caused me to reflect upon where I've been lately. It matters where we "are"--both literally and figuratively. It matters that I was literally at the Taj Hotel in Mumbai, India in mid-November and not on November 26. It matters that other people were there on November 26 and that their lives were destroyed or devastated as a result.

And it matters whether or not I am figuratively at the Taj now--reflecting on it. Trying to figure out what it means. Trying to understand what it was that brought terrorists and tourists and businessfolks all to that place at that time. Not to be there . . . is to truly be absent.

So wherever I've been . . . I'm back.

The Way Things Are

The Way Things Once Were:

1. World's Tallest Building--in the U.S.
2. World's Richest Person--in the U.S.
3. World's Largest Publicly Traded Corporation--in the U.S.
4. World's Biggest Airplane--built in the U.S.
5. World's Largest Factories--in the U.S.
6. World's Biggest Ferris Wheel--in the U.S.
7. World's #1 Casino--in the U.S.
8. World's Biggest Gambling Revenue--the U.S.
9. World's Biggest Movie Industry--Hollywood in the U.S.
10. World's Biggest Mall--in the U.S.

The Way Things Are Now:

1. World's Tallest Building--Taipei and soon Dubai
2. World's Richest Person--Mexican
3. World's Largest Publicly Traded Corporation--Chinese
4. World's Biggest Airplane--built in Russia/Ukraine
5. World's Largest Factories--China
6. World's Biggest Ferris Wheel--Singapore
7. World's #1 Casino--Macau
8. World's Biggest Gambling Revenue--Macau
9. World's Biggest Movie Industry--Bollywood in India
10. World's Biggest Mall--Beijing

This according to Fareed Zakaria in his newest book, The Post American World, published by W. W. Norton and Co., New York (see pp. 2-3). If you don't recognize the name, Zakaria has been editor of Newsweek International and a news analyst for ABC.

He issues a warning--that "just as the world is opening up, America is closing down" (48). He postulates that future historians might say that the US globalized the world in the 21st century, but "along the way . . . it forgot to globalize itself" (214). He insists the real test for the US is a political test--can it stop cowering in fear and move toward the kind of engagement and openness that is its greatest strength?

The jury is still out on this one.

All I can tell you is that most Americans I know eat Chinese food with a fork.

Oh, such a small thing, you say.

Okay, why don't the Chinese eat a hamburger with chopsticks?

We're in trouble.

Read the book.

Garbage in, Garbage out!

It's a good day when you win an argument with the guy who picks up your garbage.

The doorbell rings. I open the door.

Sanitation worker: "Now why'd you go and do a fool thing like that?"

Me: "Fool thing like what?"

SW: "Call my boss and tell 'em I didn't pick up your garbage yesterday."

Me: "Well, first of all, I didn't call your boss and, second of all, you didn't pick up my garbage yesterday."

SW: "Well, your cans weren't out there!"

Me: "Yes they were--I rolled 'em out on Wednesday night."

SW: "I swear to God, they weren't there."

Me: "Man, I promise you they were!"

(At this point, I'm expecting fisticuffs!)

SW: "What's your last name, buddy?"

Me: "Nash."

SW: "It ain't Johnson!"

Me: "Nope."

SW: "Sorry, man!"

Me: "No problem."

I pumped both fists in the air.

Right after I closed the door.

Those guys build some muscle lifting that stuff.

A Disastrous Week

One of my favorite morning rituals is the walk to the front of the driveway with my dog Nemo to pick up the newspapers.

Not any more.

I even have to steel myself when the alarm clock goes off because I know that the good folks at NPR will be sharing the latest news from Myanmar, where some 100,000 people or more have died in a cyclone, and in China, where the death toll is rapidly climbing into the 10s of thousands. We've had volcanoes erupting in Chile and tornadoes tearing across Arkansas, Missouri, Oklahoma, Georgia and other states . . . again.

In the midst of all of this, I've found myself reflecting some about my own response to disasters here in the US and on the other side of the world.

I'm not alone.

A friend sent me a blog from the New York Times. You might find it interesting.

I'm not surprised that we gave much more to Hurricane Katrina relief than we did to tsunami relief in Southeast Asia. What surprises me is the author's argument that we often let the media dictate how we respond to the sufferings of people all over the world and that we tend to ignore the disasters that the US media chooses to ignore!

I want to confess my own complicity in this. Mea culpa! I'm certainly not above it. We tend to read what our local newspaper wants us to read and we tend to listen to what our radio stations want us to listen to. And we tend to ignore whatever it is that they want us to ignore.

While this may be the reality, it certainly doesn't absolve us from the need to keep up with more than just the stuff that is force-fed to us each day.

Yes, there is a nomination fight going on in the United States--and an election will take place in November. And these realities will force the disasters off the front page of the paper and toward the end of the hourly news reports.

But this doesn't change the reality. The danger here is that disasters will become so routine in the world that we will cease to "connect" with the suffering and the pain and the grief. The danger here is that we will let others (the media especially) tell us what we want to hear instead of what we need to hear.

And that morning radio report and the trip down the driveway for the newspaper will become once again the soothing rituals that make life so nice and calm and that lull me into thinking that all is right in the rest of the world.

Newsflash--it's not!

Divine Twenty-Somethings

New York Times columnist David Brooks, a self-described progressive-conservative, addressed the Rome, Georgia intelligentsia last night at a lecture hall on a local college campus. Briefly stated, he described politicians as ego-maniacs, admitted his bias for John McCain, declared Hillary's campaign over, and indicated that he believed Barack Obama would be the next president of the United States.

Oh--and he pretty much deified twenty-somethings as the saviors of the world who might just manage to leave the globe better off than they found it.

I have to say that I agree with him.

I don't have a lot to go on, though I was glad to hear Brooks list his reasons.

My reasons are much more unscientific and are based upon absolutely no polling, no books, and no interviews with people who know.

I just find twenty-somethings to be genuinely nice people who are much more interested in relationships and in making a difference in the world than they are in getting a leg up on somebody else.

Like the young German guy who sat by me this week on a flight from Frankfurt, Germany to Atlanta. I'm sure we presented quite a comical sight, particularly as the two of us, seated in tight proximity (on an emergency exit row, thank God!) watched the movie, Enchanted. You know, the one about Giselle and Prince Charming winding up in New York City and the evil stepmother chasing them around town. We giggled at just the same moments and looked at each other as if to say, "That was a great line" or "What a cute little chimpmunk!"

It's really a sweet movie! My own wife couldn't get me to go see it--and there I was with a perfect (and male) stranger sitting closer than she and I would have sat if we'd gone to the local cinema. The flight attendant found it quite amusing and shook her head as she wandered by.

Afterward, my seatmate made his way to the back of the plane for a potty break. When he returned, he had two bags of trail mix--one for him and one for me. I hardly knew how to act! I've been traveling the world for years in close proximity to strangers--and no one ever bothered to bring me anything. I've never gotten water, peanuts, orange juice, or even those little fishy snacks they give you on Asian airlines. Nothing!

And then this twenty-something German guy hands me a bag of trail mix!

I know what you're thinking--and so I want to make it clear that I don't base my conclusions simply on this one little isolated experience. I find this younger generation to generally be about the task of making the world a better place. I know of a young woman in Ghana who has spent a considerable amount of time and energy engaged in HIV/Aids education among young girls and who spends some time in the markets doing domestic violence surveys. I've seen this generation hard at work in Chile and China, rural Alabama and rural Thailand. I've seen them digging wells and endorsing Millennium Development Goals and writing grants for Katrina recovery in New Orleans, and passing out mosquito netting in Kenya.

I like them! They know how to think about the other guy--to put themselves in other womens' shoes.

And they know how to pause just long enough in the flight galley to wonder if the guy seated next to them might be a little hungry.

So . . . maybe Brooks overstated it a bit and they aren't exactly saviors in the classic sense of the word--but I'm bending my knee a bit in their direction just in case.

On Ancient Athens and the Grand Scheme of Things

I wasn't prepared for the thoughts that gripped me, probably because I was much more focused on the meetings I had in Greece than I was upon the fact that I was standing on the Acropolis in Athens. For several hours this past weekend, I meandered around that ancient hill exploring the ruins, surprised to discover that the Parthenon had been temple, church, and mosque in its long and storied history, sitting as it does at the crossroads of east and west. Reflection didn't come easy--but I somehow managed to get there.

For about a half hour, I sat on the Areopagus Rock and considered this unique place of ancient Athens--its cosmopolitan character, its contributions to the way a significant portion of humanity understands and perceives its reality. My thoughts went to Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle and others among the philosophers and to their ability to think outside the box to such an extent that they essentially created the box for some of the rest of us as they struggled with the most basic question of reality: How do we know that a thing is real?

I was surprised to find myself thinking more about them than even about the Apostle Paul. It was into their world that he came when he stood at the Areopagus and presented a few audacious ideas about a tiny little cult out of Palestine. It was their ideas that he and others among the early Christians were up against. I found myself admiring the guts of a man who brazenly preached his new faith in such a context, finding in a statue to the unknown God some point of intersection between his little cult and the Athenian worldview.

But I am also quite aware that it was the Hellenistic world to which he and others among the early apologists had to appeal as they sought to communicate the Christian reality amid such a dominating perspective on reality. Jesus was risen indeed--but that resurrection needed a bit of interpretation in ways that conformed to the prevailing perspective on what was real and what was not real. After all, if the people who were hearing it couldn't receive it in ways that conformed to their understanding of reality, then what was the point really?

Isn't this the challenge for any faith that hopes to offer meaning and hope in whatever context it finds itself? It's not so much that a thing is true. It is much more essential that it resonates with the heart, mind and spirit of those with whom it is shared to the extent that it is made real for them. To put it another way, the only faith worth its salt is a faith that can be embraced fully by those to whom it is proclaimed because it speaks to them, to their reality, and in their language.

There, on that ancient hill, it came to me. I still live very much in the world of Socrates and Plato and Aristotle. They continue to frame the boundaries of my reality. I read the world through their lenses. Paul speaks to me in their language, due in large measure to the fact that, for centuries, theologians and philosophers have interpreted him for me in the context of my worldview.

But the vast majority of the world just doesn't wear those glasses. There are other ancient voices that shape their realities--philosophers of brilliance and stature, powerful storytellers, prophets and priests. They have their own hills and mountains, marketplaces and temples. Their sense of what makes something real and true is far different from my sense of what makes it real and true. And any faith to which they give their attention will be a faith that resonates with their reality and that doesn't have to pass the test of my philosophers and theologians in order to make some sense in their grand scheme of things.

A Pawley's Island Breather

I've just experienced a great reversal of the creation story in Genesis--6 straight days of rest with virtually no work accomplished at all! It was grand--indeed, rest is good for the soul--and it helps if you throw in an ocean and some beach and about six days of nothing but an NCAA basketball tournament and a couple of good books and some Scrabble.

We just spent a week at Pawley's Island on the coast of South Carolina. My wife and her family have been going there for at least a week every year for something like 50 years. I have to admit that the experience is hard to beat. We rented one of those old Pawley's Island houses right on the ocean and thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

Here's my top ten for the week!

10. That morning cup of coffee walking down the beach--and especially the last few cold swigs.

9. The New York Times read thoroughly with few interruptions--to the extent that you even get beyond the first section--and live for a moment with the illusion that you might finally finish the crossword puzzle.

8. A full moon directly outside your bedroom window and right over the ocean, with moonbeams playing off the waves.

7. Three cheap paperbacks with really good plots that are already forgotten.

8. A few hard-fought games of Scrabble and rummy.

7. Some great steamed oysters at Nance's in Murrell's Inlet.

6. An evening of shrimp and crab arond the dining room table.

5. Tossing the football around the beach while vainly compensating for the stiff breeze.

4. Turning "Out-of-office assistant" on knowing that it means you don't have to check email at all--for a week.

3. Louisville vs. Tennessee capped by a Louisville win.

2. Long bicycle rides from one end of the island to the other.

1. Good long talks that wouldn't happen otherwise and that are made special by the fact that it is the last Spring Break from high school that we will ever share with our children.

I wonder if the surf and sand don't grab something elemental deep within me. After all, God drew the lines between land and sea pretty early in the week and then he hung the sun and moon in the sky almost immediately thereafter. Perhaps this is why there is a certain peace that comes with standing on the beach with my toes in the water and the back of my feet on the sand while a full moon tugs gently at the water or a bright sun warms my face. Animals and people come along much later in the week--and they certainly complicate matters.

Oops--excuse me for a second! My cellphone is ringing.

It must be the seventh day.

Dinner--with Friends

I knew they were Filipino by the way they held their forks and knives and, I must confess, if I hadn't been dining alone, I probably would never have spoken to them. But there I sat in a restaurant by myself on a Saturday evening in Richmond, Virginia, more hungry for some good conversation than I was for the tapas that I had just ordered.

Twice I almost took the plunge--but then bailed out. It isn't easy to start a conversation with absolute strangers even if they are sitting just two feet away in a cramped dining room and even if you are convinced that you spent thirteen years as a child in the country that they hail from. We like our walls, after all--and separate tables generally mean separate conversations. It's just the way we're wired.

Finally, I caught the man's attention for the briefest moment and the words spilled out.

"Excuse me," I said (with as big a smile as I could muster). "Are the two of you from the Philippines?"

I was relieved when they smiled back--and covered their mouths with their hands as Filipinos always do when attempting to speak while chewing food.

"Oh, yes," they said in unison--and, of course, they wanted to know how I knew.

"I knew it by the way you were eating," I said, "You were pushing the food up onto your spoon with your fork." And I mimicked the action.

They laughed out loud--and covered their mouths again.

We talked for a long while--about old Filipino songs and television commercials, about Filipino food and friendliness, about what it is like to grow up in a culture far removed from home. They were newly-married--less than a year. And they wondered about the impact that growing up in the US context might have upon their children some day. Would they still appreciate the rich heritage of the Philippines?

I tried to reassure them. "It really is up to you," I said. And I encouraged them to give their kids the advantage of being bilingual. I admitted that my Tagalog was much poorer than it should be--and they complimented me on my accent when we did talk briefly in that national dialect.

Then . . . it ended. It was a single meal out of the thousands that I will share with other folks across my lifetime. But it was a dinner to remember.

It was such a small thing--the way they pushed their food up with their forks onto their spoons. But it was that small thing that enabled me to recognize them for who they were--and that encouraged me to take the risk of engaging them in conversation.

Such moments don't happen often. I've generally got plenty of people around to talk to at dinner. And there is very little reason to risk a conversation with strangers . . . who actually wind up not being strangers after all.

Remembering a Great Aunt

We buried my great aunt Dot on Saturday in Athens, Georgia. She was almost 97 years old and, for the past 33 years or so might as well have been my paternal grandmother. It seems strange to live in a world now that she does not inhabit. She has been a fixture in my life for 48 years--always just across the street from the Nash family farm in Athens. Always just across that street from the old home place--never anywhere else. Just always there. You could count on it as much as you could count on anything in life. A constant and unwavering presence--always ready to receive a hug and to walk with you into the living room where you could sit and talk about life and the weather and politics.

It was good to be family when it came to Aunt Dot. As my father said at the funeral, "If you were her friend, you were her friend for life; but if you were her enemy, woe be unto you." I was family--and so I didn't have to worry about whether or not I was her friend or her enemy. Family meant everything to her--so if you were blood kin, then you were in like flint. Everyone else was held at a distance until she could distinguish the friends from the foes.

She had a dry, biting wit that could somehow be sarcastic and loving all at the same time.

My father recalled the time that he and Mom accompanied Aunt Dot and Uncle Sid to the mall in Gainesville. Uncle Sid must have dressed in the dark because he had on one brown shoe and one black shoe. Aunt Dot was the first to notice (of course). "Sid," she said, "You got another pair of shoes like that at home?"

She and Uncle Sid had lived through the Great Depression and managed to survive. Like many of her generation, she saved 99 cents of every dollar that Sid brought home from the Athens hardware where he worked. I guess this was why she never understood why anyone would ever leave a tip at a restaurant that was more than 10 percent of the tab. Her reasoning--"The Good Lord only gets ten percent--and nobody in this world ought to get more than He gets."

It was hard to argue with Aunt Dot.

She demonstrated that careful blend of sarcasm and love in the final comment I ever heard her make. We went over to the hospital to see her this past Christmas. Our visits had become much less frequent over the last few years what with teenage children and work schedules. She waited until we were almost out the door before delivering the punch--"See you next Christmas," she muttered just loud enough for us to hear. I was almost to the elevator before I caught her drift!

My son calls her his favorite aunt (at least of the great-great aunt variety of which he has several). He says it's because you always knew where you stood with Dot. You didn't have to wonder--she let you know. And I count that as a real gift--in a world where lots of us wear masks and act lovingly toward each other when we really don't mean it down deep.

It's nice in life to bump into someone now and then who doesn't play the game.

I think we call that "integrity"--and I'm proud to have had an aunt who had it. She gave the rest of us in the family a marker to gauge ourselves by.

More Planeguage

I hate to keep picking on Delta--but I seem to be living on the airline these days, so I guess it's a bit like picking on family. My frequent flyer status has even started to earn me the coveted "upgrade" on occasion, especially on weekends when there are fewer business travelers. There's a bit of a trick to it, I'm learning. If you find yourself on the list of folks waiting on an upgrade, then make sure that you don't board the plane and take your economy seat until the very last minute just before the gate closes. Chances are that the other folks awaiting an upgrade will go ahead and board, and you'll get the seat with lots of legroom in the front!

Now--on to what is disturbing me about Delta! Last weekend I clambered aboard a flight to Dallas and was awarded a business class upgrade. I felt pretty good about it until I started overhearing the conversations around me and discovered that about seven Delta employees were sitting in business class. I was a bit astounded! Why would a company put its own employees in the best seats when there were lots of paying customers who were sitting in the cramped sections of economy class? I tried to imagine Walmart allowing its employees to park right in front of the store while its customers parked out in the boondocks!

It just didn't make good sense.

I decided to get a second opinion from the nice lady sitting beside me. We had become fast friends when I assisted her in placing her rather heavy carry-on in the overhead bin.

I leaned over toward her so that our conversation wouldn't be overheard.

"Is it just me?" I asked. "Or do you agree that it is a rather bad business practice for a company to move its employees to the front of the plane when paying customers are sitting in the back of the plane?"

Her eyes grew a bit wide.

"That's just a courtesy our company gives to those of us who work for Delta," she retorted.

Ooops!

Make that eight employees in the front of the plane.

And one of them didn't speak to me much at all for the rest of the flight.

Flying Over Suffering

I flew over suffering and death on Wednesday . . . literally. My Los Angeles to Atlanta "redeye" flight just happened to be in the air at just the time that dozens of tornadoes were setting down in Arkansas, Tennessee, Alabama and a number of other states. The pilot announced that there was a bit of weather off to our southeast and that we shouldn't be too concerned. He advised us to return to our seats and fasten our seat belts. It was a bit of inconvenience--but most of us complied.

I didn't pay much attention until I noticed lightning flashes outside the window. This got my attention. As I peered out, I saw a beautiful dark sky with twinkling stars above and a thick white cloud blanket below. The lightning splayed across the cloud blanket, bursting here and there all over the place. Occasionally a burst of lightning would rise above the blanket and create a brilliant flash. Generally though, the lightning was below the cover and the clouds would light up like some weird sort of neon cotton candy.

It was one of the most beautiful, awe-inspiring sights I have ever seen. The plane sailed peacefully on without a single bump while nature put on a dramatic show. We were somehow above it all--experiencing absolutely no effects--separated from the trauma below and at an altitude where we could simply watch and wonder.

Underneath, people were dying. I discovered this much later in the day after the flight had landed and I had started home. I tried to tell my wife about the beauty of it--and she began to share with me the horror of lives destroyed, of homes absolutely devastated, of communities in terrible pain and suffering.

It occurred to me that this is how it often is with suffering. Some of us endure the pain while others sail over it without even realizing that it exists at all. Our cocoons may not be metal tubes with windows--but they are cocoons nevertheless--shielding us from what life is really like for our brothers and sisters. The media tells us what we want to hear. Materialism is its own sort of cocoon, lulling us to sleep with full stomachs and lots of gadgets to keep us busy.

And the suffering passes underneath us virtually unnoticed, not so much because we don't care, but primarily because the stars in the sky and the cloud cover keep us from knowing all that is happening on the ground.

It occurs to me that it is so much easier to sail over suffering than to enter into it.

And it makes me deeply appreciate a God who decided to do just the opposite.

On Mountains and Valleys in Thailand

This past Saturday I found myself in a deceptively beautiful place right on the border of Thailand and Burma. The sight of gorgeous limestone mountains rising out of a green valley absoluted captivated my attention, and I quickly discovered that I was ignoring the realities of the fenced Karen refugee camp at Mae La that stretches five kilometers along the road. We had driven down from Chiang Mai, Thailand to listen to the stories of the Karen people who, over many years, have fled into Thailand to avoid persecution in Burma. Our hope was to gain a better sense of the challenges that they face and to consider ways to partner together with them in their struggle for justice.

Our guides were Duane and Marcia Binkley, two field personnel with whom I work, who have been busy over the last year or so assisting Karen refugees with resettlement in the United States. Also along on the trip were Greg Pope, pastor of Crescent Hill Baptist Church in Louisville, Kentucky and Doug Dickens, a professor of pastoral care at Gardner-Webb Divinity School in North Carolina. Crescent Hill is one among a growing number of congregations in the United States who have welcomed the Karen as Christian brothers and sisters and who are assisting in the relocation effort. Greg came bearing packages from some of his Karen church members for their relatives who still remain in the camp.

We paused along the way to the camp to visit with leaders of the Karen Refugee Committee, Pastor Robert Htway and Saw Tay Tay, who serve as representatives and intermediaries for the camp with the Thai government. Saw Tay Tay shared with us the story of the struggle of the Karen people for a homeland, pointing particularly to their oppression over the last 60 years. During World War II, the Karen allied with the British against the Burmese and the Japanese. As a result, they have suffered the wrath of the Burmese government, experiencing repeated attacks and brutality. Many have fled to Thailand. Others remain in the jungles of Burma, barely ekeing out a living. We met orphans whose parents had been murdered by soldiers in Burma and we walked through a special dormitory for people who had been blinded or maimed by land mines.

The plight of the Karen is not that different from many people around the world who live from hand to mouth, except that the Karen are displaced persons, unable to leave the camp without special permission. Resettlement is a relatively new possibility, and many Karen are struggling with the choice of leaving their own "place" and heading off to a new life in one of about nine countries that are willing to receive them. Families are often separated as some family members decide to resettle and others elect to remain in the camps (there are several along the Thai-Burma border that contain some 150,000 persons).

We spent the better part of the day at a Bible school on the edge of the camp and were privileged to hear from Saw Simon, the current director of the school, who captivated us with the prophecies of the Karen people and the stories of the camp and school. The school has been around for decades and has provided pastoral leadership to the many Karen churches in the camp and beyond.

One of the prophecies of the Karen insisted that one day a "white brother" would appear bringing a silver book. This brother is now understood to be Adoniram Judson, one of the first American Baptist missionaries, who carried the Christian faith to the Karen. The Karen national anthem alludes to this prophecy and to the belief that one day the Karen would take that same faith to the world. Saw Simon told us that this prophecy is now fulfilled in the resettlement, as Karen people (most of them Christian) now head off around the globe.

Resettlement is not as good as it sounds, though the Karen are certainly grateful for the opportunity to join hands with congregations in other parts of the world. As Saw Tay Tay said to us, "We now face the possibility of extinction." Such extinction is often the result of loss of "place." And when you factor in the orphans and the victims of land mines and the separation of families, well, it just becomes a bit much to consider.

I guess that is why my eyes were drawn to the limestone mountains as I entered Mae La Refugee Camp on the Thai-Burma border. It's just easier to see the beauty and to ignore the ugliness in the place. Before our eyes a people is held captive and a culture is threatened.

And sometimes all we want to do is look at the mountains.

Combatting Global Poverty

I wrote my US senator yesterday. I couldn't help it after hearing Kathleen O'Toole of Bread for the World talk about the Global Poverty Act that is moving through Congress. The Act requires the President of the United States to develop and implement a comprehensive strategy to further the US foreign policy objective of promoting the reduction of global poverty, the elimination of extreme global poverty, and the achievement of the Millennium Development Goal of reducing by one-half the proportion of people worldwide, between 1990 and 2015, who live on less than $1 per day.

You might say that the Global Poverty Act requires the United States to put its money where its mouth is. In the year 2000, some 189 heads of state gathered at the United Nations and put together the Millennium Declaration that said that the #1 threat to the world is poverty. The United States was among the signers of that Declaration. Some 8 goals were identified that have now become known as the Millennium Development Goals. These goals include:

1. Eradicate extreme poverty and hunger.
2. Achieve universal primary education.
3. Promote gender equality and empower women.
4. Reduce child mortality.
5. Improve maternal health.
6. Combat HIV/Aids, malaria and other diseases.
7. Ensure environmental sustainability.
8. Develop a global partnership for development.

The first seven focus on developing countries where these problems exist. But the 8th goal calls upon developed nations to do their part by improving the kinds and amount of aid that we offer to developing countries and by cancelling the huge debts that such countries owe. This is where the Global Poverty Act comes in. It compels the United States to work with developing nations to achieve the first goal.

It's not too difficult to grasp how the lives of people in developing countries can be transformed by more and better development assistance. We see it all the time in the global efforts of field personnel here at the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship and through the work of other entities like Bread for the World. One of my co-workers likes to say, "It's all about water!" He's right--a single well in Zambia provides for cleaning drinking water, thus helping to eliminate disease. It also enables women (who generally have to draw water far from home) to spend their time receiving an education instead of making a half-day trip to get water.

But much more remains to be done. Developing nations struggle to provide universal primary education because so much money goes toward debt payment. The forgiveness of the debt frees up funding so that free primary school education can be offered. Passage of the Global Poverty Act will make the elimination of poverty a consitutive element of US policy, thus legislating that we find solutions to the problem of global poverty.

I don't think its too much to ask of any of us. Pick up a pen and write your senator at US Senate, Washington, DC 20510. Say something like this (and I'm borrowing this example from Bread for the World):

Dear Senator:

I ask you to do whatever you can to provide more and better aid for the world's poorest countries. All nations agree--extreme poverty can be cut dramatically by 2015. Please do all in your power to increase poverty-focused development assistance by at least $5 billion in fiscal year 2009. And please work to ensure that Congress passes the Global Poverty Act.

Sincerely,

Your name

It's the least we can do. It means that we're backing up our desire to end poverty with action that can accomplish it. And we're demanding that our nation put its money to work so that it fulfills the promises it made when it put pen to paper and signed the Millennium Declaration.

Reflections on a King

This weekend's celebration of the life of Martin Luther King, Jr. is bringing back a memory for me that is at least ten years old. Sometime in the mid 1990s I found myself in Memphis, Tennessee. A church had asked me there to speak on some now long-forgotten topic. In an effort to be good hosts, church members inquired about what I'd like to do while I was in town.

"I'd love to go to the Lorraine Motel," I responded.

An absolute, stunned silence filled the church office. I suppose they expected me to say something like "Eat some ribs" or "Go to Graceland."

"Why in thunderation would you want to go there?" someone finally asked.

I remember being a bit shaken at the realization that I must have violated some sort of social norm with my request, though I did have the presence of mind to stand my ground and say that I really admired Dr. King for his courage and that I understood that the motel was now a memorial to his life and to the struggle for Civil Rights for African-Americans.

I was assured that such a visit was out of the question.

Then, later in the afternoon, one of the ministers pulled me aside.

"I'll be glad to take you to the motel," he said. "But please don't tell anyone that we went."

The next morning he picked me up and we made our way over. I don't remember much about the exhibits. But I do remember the fact that they had been set up in such a way that visitors ended up in the room that Dr. King occupied on the very last day of his life. It was made to look exactly as it must have looked just moments after he was assassinated in 1968.

I looked out across the parking lot to where his assassin pulled the trigger.

As I recall, the song, "Precious Lord, Take My Hand" was piped into the room. I listened to the powerful words--"Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me on, let me stand. I am tired. I am weak. I am worn. Through the storm, through the night, lead me on to the light. Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home."

My eyes filled with tears--at what had been gained and what had been lost. And at the fact that thirty years after his death, a church would wonder why I wanted to celebrate the life of such a man. As I looked at my minister friend beside me, I noticed that he was also crying.

"That was really powerful," he said as we walked back to the car.

I nodded my head--and I let the words of the song lift up over me into the clouds--"Through the storm, through the night, lead us on to the light."

Take our hands, precious Lord. Lead us home.

Planeguage

I learned a new word the other day thanks to Delta Airlines. The word is "planeguage" (pronouced like "language"). And customers are introduced to it via various cute little cartoons that are woven through the movies, news and video that play over the entertainment system. The cartoons mock the lack of legroom, trauma of sitting in the middle seat, and other challenges that often cause airline customers to leap out of the emergency exit doors at 30,000 feet.

For example, one cartoon depicts a man in the middle seat trapped between two screaming children. Obviously, he's had enough and he screams loudly and puts his elbows squarely on the armrests in a move that absolutely traumatizes the children. The words "middle" and "man" drop from the top of the TV screen and then come together at the bottom---"middleman."

I'm sure that it is hilarious to watch--when you are far removed from the horrific realities of air travel. But I must confess that the humor is lost upon you when you are actually sitting in the middle seat or don't have enough leg room and have paid about $2000 to endure the indignities.

This was exactly my experience about 24 hours ago when I found myself on an international flight on Delta Airlines. In an effort to get from Temuco, Chile to Tucson, Arizona, I flew Lan Chile from Temuco to Santiago, Delta from Santiago to Atlanta, and American from Atlanta to DFW and from DFW to Tucson.

I must say that this was my worst experience ever on an airplane--and I have logged about 1.5 million miles in the air (since my first 10,000 mile journey at the age of 9). For some reason, over the last few months, Delta elected to squeeze another row of seats onto this particular airplane, a move which resulted in my absolute inability to put my feet under the seat in front of me.

This wouldn't have been so bad if the gentleman next to me hadn't been of such size that his prominent right cheek precluded any possibility that said cheek could fit under the armrest between us. And then Delta had the gall to put a cartoon called "planeguage" on the TV screens to mock me as I endured the indignities of the experience. "Ha, ha, ha," Delta seemed to be saying. "Isn't air travel a pain? Look at all the words we can invent to make fun of you as you sit back, relax and enjoy the flight!"

I walked back to the rear of the plane on at least two dozen occasions--and, at one point, a Delta flight attendant decided to say something about my frequent trips.

"Having a problem with leg room?" he asked.

"Oh, no," I responded. "There's no leg room to have problems with. I think there used to be something called 'legroom' but it seems to have disappeared."

"Well," he said (and if I'm lying, I'm dying--he actually said what I am about to say)--"You know, we all get larger as we get older and that makes us think the legroom is disappearing."

I guess that is what we call "planeguage." Planeguage is nothing more or less than plain language when it comes to air travel.

I've got some "planeguage" for Delta.

How about "United" or "American?"

Table Talk in the Shadow of Seven Volcanoes

The conversation came at the end of a long day of celebration and in the shadow of seven volcanoes. Our hosts were Ricardo and Mary, a forestry engineer and a university professor respectively, who live in a beautiful Eden about 45 minutes outside of Temuco, Chile. Surrounding their home are seven volcanoes, one of which erupted in a blaze of fire and smoke on New Year's Day. We enjoyed walking around among the gorgeous trees and flowers and, of course, we shared a meal together.

The bulk of the day had been spent in El Cajon in celebration of the 100th anniversary of the Baptist Union of Chile, complete with a baptism of a dozen people or so along the banks of the very river where those first Chilean Baptists had gathered in 1908. The crowd was so thick that I couldn't even see the baptizands, so I held my camera up high over the crowd and clicked away in various directions hoping to get something approaching a decent record of the event. One guy thought it was a pretty good idea and asked me to do the same thing with his camera. We shared in the Lord's Supper, dined once again on charred asado or grilled beef, and even enjoyed some traditional dancing by a group from Concepcion.

Now at the end of the day, we were sitting around Ricardo and Mary's table reflecting together about life and faith. Ricardo and Mary shared with us their work among the Mapuche people, the original inhabitants of the Auracania region of Chile and parts of Argentina. When Ricardo and Mary moved to their new home in this part of rural Chile, Mapuche from the local church helped them to dig a well. Now Ricardo and Mary are working among the people, assisting with dental care and in many other significant ways. The Mapuche are subsistence farmers who barely eke out a living and who are experiencing the realities of extreme poverty.

Our conversation turned to the challenges of working together with a group of people to sustain themselves and their families without creating dependency upon what outsiders might bring to the table. We talked about assets-based approaches to meeting human need where the focus is on the assets of a group and not upon the challenges that the group faces. What do we have? How can we use what we have to improve our lives?

It's the same challenge that churches in the United States face as we attempt to assist with human need in the shadows of our steeples. Clothes closets and food pantries are good band-aid approaches to the challenges of poverty. But the real opportunity to transform lives occurs not with band-aids but in working together with people in the midst of poverty to identify the assets that they bring to the table, the strengths that come from within themselves that enable them to move toward a better and more sustainable life.

It struck me on the ride home across the beautiful landscape of southern Chile that the ministry that Ricardo and Mary are carrying on among the Mapuche is not a one-way street. They are in this thing together with the Mapuche as Christian brothers and sisters. I'd almost forgotten (at least for a moment) in my concern for the extreme poverty in which the Mapuche find themselves, that it was the Mapuche, after all, who dropped what they were doing and came over to help Ricardo and Mary dig a well so that they could have water in their new home.

A Chilean Street Demonstration

I found myself in the middle of a Chilean street demonstration today in the city of Temuco just a few hundred kilometers south of Santiago. It certainly wasn't your traditional demonstration, though this one did stretch for a couple of Temucan city blocks and consisted of about a thousand people waving balloons and carrying flags (I'll post a picture later). The demonstrators were Chilean Baptists who had gathered in Temuco to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the Union of Baptists in Chile, established in 1908 by 5 churches in the Temuco region.

As far as I could tell, the demonstration was arranged by university and perhaps high school students within the Convention's churches who wanted to showcase the Baptist presence in Chile and to bring the love of Christ to folks along the way who seemed stunned by such a large group parading in the middle of the day along the 3 kilometer route from the Baptist College to the central Plaza Anibal Pinto. The students wore clown faces and encouraged us to move along quickly in an effort to keep down the incessant horn-blowing of buses, trucks and taxis. In front were the flags of Chile and of the Christian faith. And lagging behind were my colleague Bernie Moraga and myself. Bernie kept encouraging me to blend into the crowd and then laughing uproariously at the prospect that my prominent 6' 4" frame and pink skin could ever accomplish the feat.

It was a great moment for the Baptists of Chile who have lived in the shadow of the Catholic church throughout the first century of their existence and who made the most of this opportunity to celebrate all that they have achieved since that first meeting in 1908. I felt an intense solidarity with them as a global Baptist myself. I couldn't help but think of those early Baptists in England who emerged out of the English Separatist movement and who experienced relative obscurity themselves in light of the power of the established church. I wondered if John Smyth and Thomas Helwys (among the earliest Baptists) ever imagined that Baptists in a country on the other side of the world that didn't even exist in the days of Smyth and Helwsy would some 400 years later parade a thousand strong down the central streets of a city like Temuco and celebrate their Baptist identity and heritage.

We arrived at the Plaza Anibal Pinto and I watched as the Chilean and Christian flags paraded in front of the La Auracania Monument (depicting the clash between the Mapuche people and the Spanish forces that, ultimately, the Mapuche lost). Music filled the square. We celebrated. Some of the students danced. And I just experienced it all.

I'm in Temuco at the invitation of Dra. Raquel Contreras, President of the Baptist Union of Chile. I've been to a traditional Chilean asado or barbeque of beef and lamb which lasted a full afternoon. I've listened to a magnificent performance by Baptist choirs and orchestra of Handel's Messiah. I've had good conversation about connections between the church in Chile and in the US. I've brought greetings in very poor Spanish to my brothers and sisters in Chile. And I've demonstrated, not about politics, but about faith and about the love of Christ that transcends the barriers that we're often all too quick to raise. I'm glad to report that religious freedom is alive and well in Chile.

Vaya con dios, la Union Bautista de Chile--and please know that your brothers and sisters in the rest of the world celebrate together with you! You give hope to all of us to fight the good fight of faith with confidence and courage.

Paul Gauguin and Life's Questions

We went to Boston's Museum of Fine Arts yesterday where I happened upon a painting that Paul Gauguin described as his masterpiece. You've probably seen it somewhere before--it's called "Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?" One source reports that Gauguin felt so good about it that he considered commiting suicide when it was finished, fully convinced that he could never come close to it again. That's what I call a masterpiece!

He painted it in Tahiti in the late 1890s, having gone there in 1891 to escape to a more "primitive" culture from the complexities of France. The painting, according to Gauguin, ought to be read from right to left. The three groupings across the canvas represent three stages of life: the three women with a child represent life's beginnings, the middle grouping represents young adulthood, and the third group depicts aging and death. The goddess at the top left of the painting directs our attention toward the next life.

I was intrigued by the title. How did Gauguin seize upon these three questions for the title of his painting? After some digging, I have at least one possible answer. It seems that, in his teenage years, Gauguin attended the Petit Seminaire de La Chapelle-Saint-Mesmin near Orleans in France. He took a class on liturgy there, taught by the Bishop of Orleans, one Bishop Dupanloup, who constructed a catechism for the class around three questions--"Where Does Humanity Come From? Where is It Going? How Does Humanity Proceed?"

Gauguin never cared much for the religion of his native France--but it is most interesting that his disdain for the Church didn't translate into disdain for the basic questions that give ultimate meaning to human existence. Far off in Tahiti, he found human beings struggling with the same questions--and his painting provides a connection between the questions that had been raised for him in France by an obviously good teacher and viewers like me who gaze now at the painting and find in it the common human search for answers.

Happy New Year?

I've just about had it with airports and hotels at the moment. My family and I traveled up to Boston yesterday morning--after spending the previous night at an Atlanta airport hotel. As we checked in, I specifically asked the hotel clerk about the airport shuttle.

"What times does the shuttle run to the airport?" I asked.

"Whenever you want it to run," she replied. "Just call us about ten minutes before you are ready to go over."

I was impressed. Wow! A hotel shuttle that ran when you wanted it to run--what a novel concept.

I slept soundly, though briefly, as my son and I stayed up late to watch the University of Georgia Bulldogs absolutely ravish and destroy the University of Hawai'i.

I climbed out of bed when the wake-up call came at 4:30 a.m. I took a nice, slow shower. I woke my wife and children up at the proper time.

Then I called the front desk to tell them that I expected a shuttle to the airport in 10 minutes.

"The shuttle only runs on the hour," said the woman at the front desk. Of course, the woman I had chatted with the previous night was sleeping soundly at some location absolutely unknown to me.

I protested that I had been assured the previous night that the shuttle ran whenever I wanted it to run.

"I don't know why anyone here would tell you that," said the clerk.

"Well," I said. "I don't either--but I'd suggest you go crank your car and start warming it up so you can take me over to the airport."

She informed me that she didn't take people to the airport.

We rushed around like crazy people and packed in 10 minutes--putting the entire family in a great mood for the flight to Boston.

The shuttle driver threatened to leave us when we were a bit slower getting there.

As we exited the shuttle at the airport, he said, "Happy New Year, sir!"

I didn't return the greeting.