* Wealth without Work
* Pleasure without Conscience
* Science without Humanity
* Knowledge without Character
* Politics without Principle
* Commerce without Morality
* Worship without Sacrifice

My version goes something like this:

Lord, You know we’ve seen it
Wealth without the work
And pleasure with no conscience 
Both plagues upon the earth

We are overwhelmed; we are overcome
And yet we live in expectation

Lord you know we’ve lived it 
Religion with no cost
Worship that means nothing
Because it does not bear a cross

 We are overwhelmed; we are overcome
And yet we live in expectation

 Science with no heart
Knowledge with no character
Politics without a sense of place
And we’re selling things without a thought
For what we need
And what really cost.

We are overwhelmed; we are overcome
And yet we live in expectation 

Bob and Carol Lenz had brought along a bag full of small gifts to give to the kids, each gift identical to the others.  There were nearly 300 kids packed into the small room.  The gift required a small bit of explanation for use and so Bob began to walk through the steps, aided by a translator.  But the more Bob explained the details, the more the kids and the translator looked puzzled.

“We do not understand.” explained the Compassion staffer.  “These words are difficult to translate.”  You see, not only does English not smoothly translate into Hindi (India’s legally-established, national language), not all Indian’s speak Hindi. In fact, only Indian’s from the Northern regions speak Hindi.  Indian’s in the Southern regions mostly refuse to accept Hindi as the national language on political grounds and won’t even attempt to learn it.  More often than not, Indians in rural areas use regional, tribal dialects to communicate. 

So, in order to rightly offer the gift Bob and Carol brought, we were each going to have to show each child how to unwrap, assemble and use the gift individually. This posed another obstacle: The room was so densely crowded that there was no foot-space between children. Should we try to access the kids in the middle, we would trample other kids on our way.

One of the Compassion staff took a gift from Bob, knelt on the ground in front of one child and showed her how to unwrap it, assemble it and use it. He then handed her another gift, still in the wrapping and gestured her to teach the boy behind her what to do.  We followed suit, showing the kids we had access to, the ones directly in front of us, how to unwrap, assemble and use the gift in such a way that they could then turn around and to the same for the child behind them and so on and so on.

There are 1.4 Billion people living in India. That’s one sixth of the world’s population in an area roughly one third the size of the U.S.  A large percentage of Indians live in desperate conditions which generally include a lack of education, lack of access to job opportunities and the utter absence of basic medical care.  Not only are the particular issues plaguing Indian’s overwhelming, the obstacles for Westerners wanting to help are equally overwhelming.

This is why I am so thankful for the way Compassion International works; partnering with already established local churches to assist their particular work among the particular people in a particular place.  Because Compassion works the way it does, our role (yours and mine) does not include wrapping our minds around all the intricacies and complexities of the “Problem” and trying to “Fix It.”  Instead, we get the blessed privilege and honor of caring for a particular child and doing so with the hopeful knowledge that kids who learn to read teach their families to read; kids who learn how to avoid water-borne illness teach their families to do the same; kids who discover the love of God in Christ pass that discovery on to their families and friends. 

The gift you and I get to offer has deep impact on the lives of kids because of the wonderful benefits child sponsorship affords (education, medical care, community, etc..).  But the deeper and more powerful impact is that, in Compassion partner churches, these kids are taught to see themselves as far more than people in need who receive the gifts of generous people.  They are taught that they are agents of healing, health, ingenuity and love themselves. They become gift-givers in their own neighborhoods for whom language and access are not obstacles at all. 

Deephalder is five and a half years old and lives with his grandparents. He also lives with a rare blood disease called “Thalassemia” and requires a blood transfusion every six weeks. Each transfusion costs 1600 Rupee which is 80% of his grandparents’ household income. The expense of treating thalassemia is the primary reason why, upon receiving the diagnosis when Deep was only five months old, both parents left him. 

When Deep’s grandmother had finished telling us about the disorder, the cost of transfusion and the day of work either she or Deep’s grandfather has to miss when they take the four-hour bus ride to the hospital, we asked how they were able to afford the other necessities of life on top of Deep’s treatment.  She glowed as she told us that Compassion had picked up the cost of the transfusion.  That means that, somewhere in the U.S., a young man or woman is sacrificing $1.23 a day to ensure that, along with basic medical care, an education and food, Deep can continue to receive his treatment.

Money enough to buy a daily cup of coffee is quite literally saving the life of a five-year old child.

This is why I partner with Compassion; their work through local churches in the poorest areas of the world puts children from those places within arms reach on you and I. And because our small sacrifice is has such deep and lasting impact in the hands of the church partners Compassion assists. 

If you don’t already, consider doing so yourself by sponsoring a child. 

—-

During the months and years following September 11, 2001, one of the more prominent sentiments was a kind of national solidarity.  Our common sense of injury and offense bound us together as Americans.  “We” had been attacked and “we” would respond, “we” would recover and “we” would remember together. We had good reason to lock arms with American neighbors of every stripe and consider more deeply the brotherhood of US citizenship.  But reflection on the event also provides entry to a broader form of solidarity. On Sept 11 2001, we had a stark and tragic look what it is like to live somewhere like Bosnia, Northern Uganda or any number of places where events of quite similar offense and terror are more regular features of life.

We did suffer a terrible and reprehensible act of violence. Similarly, Bosnians suffered the a reprehensible act of violence when nearly 30,000 Muslim brethren were exterminated in 1995.  We were made to feel vulnerable and unsafe, just as Rwandans in 1994 suffered the slaughter of over 800,000 fellow Rwandans (nearly 20% of their population), many of them children, in less than 100 days.  I do not at all mean to lessen our own national tragedy.  I only want to set in the context of others in the hope that, as we reflect this weekend, we might allow our injury and offense to move us past nationalism to a wider value of human life.

While the tenth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks is certainly a time to reflect on what it means to be an American and therefore a member of the American family; it can, and perhaps ought to, also be a time to reflect on what it means to be a human; to share the same fears, hopes and needs and fragility as every other blessed soul on the planet.  To put a finer point on it: allowing our reflection on this great tragedy to end only in a deeper sense of national pride and ownership will not be a mistake.. but it will be sadly short-sighted.

…because I’m pretty sure it’s not Judgement Day.

I’m trying to be funny.  Funny is how I deal with things like embarrassment or sadness. And I’m definitely fighting off a bit of both embarrassment and sadness today.

I’m sad for the folks who believed Harold Camping had discovered something that even Jesus said he didn’t know.  I suppose it’s not at all funny (in fact, it’s downright heartbreaking) to believe something so strongly as to be happy facing ridicule over it only to find out it was untrue.

I’m also sad for Harold Camping because, regardless of whatever good he’s done in his life, this will be the most prominent moment of his public legacy.

I’m embarrassed that such a thing gets more attention than IJM’s rescue of 500 slaves last month… More attention than the 1000 clean water wells the Blood:Water Mission recently celebrated… More attention than the hundreds of thousands of child-sponsor relationships facilitated by Compassion International and the 1-million-plus children whose lives have been dramatically changed because of those relationships.

I’m saddened and embarrassed that this stunt will color the way my faith is seen by those who already find it odd… because I think (better yet, I know) that the christian faith is made up of far more substantial stuff than this.

So, perhaps today isn’t Judgement Day the way Harold Camping thought it would be… But for those of us who haven’t quit calling ourselves ‘christians,’ (even when it means standing arm-in-arm with Camping and his sect as part of the family) it sure as hell is something very like a day of Judgement.

Today is a day when it really does cost something to say I believe in Jesus Christ.

Because believing in Jesus means believing some pretty odd things to be true. And today, many of those odd things I believe are tangled up with things that are equally odd and tragically untrue.  The challenge is to continuing believing these odd things regardless, rather than throw out all oddities from my worldview in exchange for something much safer.

These odd things I believe make me the person I am. They move me to make art.. To be a better husband and friend.. To keep working, in the name of Jesus, for the rescue of children from extreme poverty… To keep working, in the name of Jesus, for the rescue of people from slavery and indentured servitude.. To keep loving, in the name of Jesus, the actual neighbors I live among,.. To, in the paraphrased words of St. Peter “Live such a good life that, though they mock me, they would yet see my good works and glorify God.”

So even though the Judgement doesn’t show up today the way Family Radio has described it.. It has shown up the way it has for christians since the first days of our movement.  And I hope, as I am judged, right alongside brother Harold, for believing some very odd things, that I will be found faithful to the things I believe and to the person those beliefs make me into.

Harold Camping’s stunt makes my job harder. But it’s still my job and I am still honored to do it.

Here is the original video blog (vlog) I’d planned on posting before writing it out…

Click here to view the embedded video.

I was in a particularly immobilized audience recently and noted the frustration building in me as I heard grumbles of resistance among my fellow listeners at the call to action.  Speaking with the presenter afterward, she said “I really hope they have something else or find something else that makes their hearts beat.”  She was concerned for the hearts of those she was speaking to as well as those she was asking them to care for.

Just as there is compassion for those who live in dire circumstances, there is compassion for those who are unmoved by the dire circumstances of others. Coldness of heart is a dire circumstance of it’s own.

As an advocate, if I am driven by the accomplishment of “the task,” then the people I am speaking to can very easily become only instruments in a different kind of machinery; they become only a way something important gets done.  In so thinking, I can make them less than human.

I’ve written elsewhere, “It is never the case that the strong rescue the weak out of their strength. Instead, we are drawn to one another by our weaknesses and both saved.”  Much of my soul has been “saved” in my engagement with the poor and oppressed.  Truth is, I am moved to do the work of justice and compassion as much for my own sake as for the sake of those who (God willing) benefit from my work. I want to be motivated by a compassion for those I am speaking to as well as those I am advocating for. I want to call men and women to a life-work that rescues poor people from the dire circumstances associated with their poverty, but also rescues us from ours.

.

My time with Re:Generation church on Sunday was such a time.  I was there to share a few songs and tell some stories about the work Compassion is doing in the lives of children living in poverty.  But in all honesty the best stories told on Sunday night in Oakland were not stories I told. They were stories folks shared with me or stories I was witness to that evening; stories that are part of that peoples’ larger story.

Here are 2 of them.

The first is was from a family whom I will refer to as the “Jetsons” in order to preserve their anonymity.  As their three children were growing up, the Jetsons sponsored three children through Compassion; one for each one of their children.  Among the three was a beautiful young girl from The Philippines with whom they really connected.  We will call her Judy Jetson. Judy wrote well in English which allowed the Jetson kids to really know her.  When she turned 18 years old, Judy graduated and moved on from the Compassion program.  The Jetsons hoped, as do all sponsors whose kids graduate, that her path would be made straight into a healthy and fruitful adulthood.

Years later… this year in fact,.. the youngest Jetson boy received a message over Facebook from Judy. She’s living in New Jersey and doing extremely well.  She had been searching for her Compassion family since arriving in the US and, thanks to Facebook, finally found them. She expressed her deep thanks for the years of faithfulness and wanted the Jetsons to know that her path was in fact made straight in great part because of their love and faithfullness.

The Jetsons sponsored another young girl from The Philippines Sunday night.

The second story  is about a young girl who grew up right there in Oakland.  A dancer and an athlete, this young lady (whom we will call Shakira) was struck by encephalitis just about a year and a half ago.  The past 18 months have been an emotional and physical challenge like none other for both her and for her family; grand mal seizures, loss of memory and on and on..

Sunday night was Shakira’s first evening out in a long while, since most of her seizures happen at night.  She stood at the table for a while and finally turned to her parents with a packet for a younger girl in hand, saying “I want to sponsor her.”

“You’ll have to use your allowance money” her mother warned, kindly.

“I know” Shakira said “but I’d just be spending that money on myself.”

Shakira receives $40 each month as an allowance.  Sunday night, on one of her her first nights out after months of suffering, she chose to invest $38 in the the Kingdom of God, supporting, encouraging and loving another young girl in her time of need.

These are the kinds of stories that sustain me.  Sure, I am moved by the fact that over 1 million kids have been rescued from poverty by the love and faithfulness of Compassion sponsors. But more and more, it is the new life I see in those sponsors themselves that inspires me.

If you would like to sponsor a child with Compassion International, the process is very easy, the organization is trustworthy and the sacrifice you make sincerely changes the life of a child as well as your own.  Click here to sponsor a child.

** (If you live near the SF Bay area or on the West Coast anywhere feel free to contact us here to book a show or speaking engagement.)

Click here to view the embedded video.

Once we did land in Kenya, I found that my little joke about Nashville being hotter than Africa was, in fact, accurate.  Weather in Nairobi, Kenya was hovering between the 70s and 80′s; it was quite refreshing.  In fact, my whole experience of Kenya was refreshing in every way.  Amy and I met Zablon; a young man we’ve been sponsoring for over a decade now.  We’d exchanged letters for years and had become family.  The pictures had led us to believe that he was going to be much taller than he was.  I must honestly confess that I was pleased to learn that this was not the case..

That’s right, I TOWER over my sponsored child.  Woot.

With about twenty other Compassion advocates, we journeyed to Uganda to visit several of the projects in that devastated nation.  Time and time again, I saw faces like these:

(Amy had the time of her life dancing and singing with this choir of young ladies.)

…and it was only a few days after I returned home that it struck me.. why these images and these smiles were so powerful; so life-altering.  The devastation of Uganda after years of war, oppression and political corruption was not present in these faces; what we saw in them was the confidence of hopeful and loved children whose future had been re-written; this is what the Resurrection looks like in everyday life.  This is why I love Compassion as both a sponsor and an advocate.

Consider sponsoring a child with Compassion International here.

“All that is great” the detractors would say.. “but you don’t get a meal.. just peanuts.  Other airlines provide a meal on flights.”   Which is something akin to saying  “Your dog is nice and all but mine came with all these fleas for just $150 more.” I’ll take the peanuts, thanks.

“Funny comparison there, Frodo.” the detractors might say, referencing my height as they always do.. “but you still don’t get an assigned seat.”

This is true.  With SWA, each person is left to choose a seat for his or her own self.  Now, I’m  far more interested in a system that celebrates the freedom of each person to choose their own seat than one in which the Man chooses a seat for me.  I mean, if you want to go the way of the Soviets, you can but I choose Freedom; I fly SWA.  Not to mention the joyous adventure of sitting next to you-don’t-know-who for a few hours.  Just this past year, I sat next to David Spade on a flight.  We had a very nice conversation that went something like this:

Me:  Hey, man…
Spade: …hey…

It was great.

A far better encounter with a fellow SWA passenger took place on a flight home from Chicago.  I was returning after a good-but-tiring run of shows in the Midwest (located a few clicks north of Texas) and was looking forward to shutting down for a bit.   You see, even though I’m a “people person” I have found that I do eventually hit a ceiling, at which point I look to hide for a while.   In this case, the ‘hiding’ started once I got on board that flight for home.  Having been among the first few to board, I chose a window seat on the right side of the plane, put my headphones in my ears, cranked up the “Album Leaf” and leaned against the window to at least pretend that I was asleep.

That’s when Joe sat next to me.  Now, I don’t make a practice out of knowing the names of people who sit next to me ( or at least, I did not before this ).  So, how did I know that this young man’s name was “Joe?” It was because he told me.  You see, only a few short moments after Joe took the middle seat next to me, he broke one of the unspoken rules of commuter travel:

“Thou shalt not strike up conversation until decent”

The beauty of this rule is that it ensures that any conversation you strike up is sure to end in about 20 minutes when the plane lands; protecting both parties from having to pretend for any serious period of time to be interested in one-another’s lives.  Perhaps Joe had not traveled much, but for whatever reason, he was entirely unfamiliar and un-committed to the keeping of this rule.  In fact, Joe was not simply talking to me, he was leaning across both his seat and mine and from a firing range of only a few inches, riddling me with a barrage of words that shook me from the meditative state my music had lulled me to…

“Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, sorry, pardon me, hey there, excuse me, sir, um, hi, sorry, excuse me, buddy, pardon me, excuse me, excuse me, sorry, pardon me, um, hey there, excuse me, sir, um, hi, sorry, excuse me, pardon me, excuse me, excuse me, sorry, pardon me, hey there, excuse me, sir, um, hi, sorry, excuse me, pardon me, um.. Hi.”

I stirred, pulled by headphones out of my ears and mashed-up a few words to greet him with the now irreplaceable man-speak ‘heymanwassup?”  Joe smiled and perked up as if he had suspected I was dead at first.  “What’s your name?” he asked.

“My name is Justin” I replied
“Hi, Justin. My name is Joe.  Can you help me with my seatbelt?”

Just as he said it I was noting that he held both ends of his seat-belt in his hands and was stretching them as far as they would go towards me.  He had been sitting in that seat for probably 3 minutes wrestling with the belt and clip.  As it turns out (in conversation with Joe and his parents who were sitting elsewhere on the plane) Joe is autistic.  Because he’d never used this kind of belt before, he was confused as to where to begin.  I showed him how to clip the belt and tighten it.  At which, he undid the belt and repeated the steps I’d shown him several times, each with increasing interest and a larger smile.

Just as I began to lean back against the window (having done my christian duty for the day), Joe energetically turned to me and asked…

“Who’s your favorite baseball team?”
“Um.. Well, I’m an Oakland A’s fan.” I told him.

He booed.

And not just that comical “just kidding” boo.  It was the kind of boo that says “your team has traded away more good talent in the last seven years than it could wisely afford to lose, has blown 2-game playoff leads to both the Red Sox and Yankees in recent years and will probably never get out of the first round of the playoffs.”  er… maybe that’s just the way I heard it.

“I take it you don’t like the A’s, huh?” I asked him
“No, I like the Cubs.”  (we can all appreciate the irony of Cubs fans booing anyone.. I mean, really?)

We went on talking for most of the flight about baseball, comics and a smattering of other topics.  At one point the SWA flight attendant handed out those beloved peanuts.  I tore a pair of bags open with my patented McRoberts Double-Peanut-Bag Tearing Method.  Joe, on the other hand couldn’t quite get the bag open.  Without asking, he handed both bags of peanuts to me and waited for me to open them.  Now, in many instances this might be considered inappropriate or even rude.  But Joe doesn’t see the world the way most folks do.  In fact, Joe sees the world a bit more clearly than most folks do.

To Joe, our proximity comes along with responsibility/opportunity.  In fact, that proximity (the simple fact that I was sitting next him) meant to Joe that when he ran into trouble of any kind (seatbelt use, snack access etc..) I was responsible for providing him help.  To Joe, we weren’t just in the same city together (Chicago), we were at the same airport (Chicago-Midway), in the same terminal (B) at the same gate (14) and on the same plane headed to the same destination (Oakland)… In Joe’s mind, these things don’t just happen.  These things are not just chance.  In Joe’s mind, these things at least add up to responsibility if not opportunity.

Now, you may not buy this whole “we’re all connected” stuff; but then again, you may not buy soap.  In my own journey, the more I learn about the “root causes” of tragedies like extreme poverty, human trafficking or the abortion epidemic the more I see that these things are not so much the product of evil deeds by evil men as they are products of the absence of action/love.  Certainly, there are bad people doing bad things in dark corners of the world, but they don’t actively keep clean water out of the reach of the 1 billion who live without access to it.

As evidenced by my self-characterization in this story, I generally live under the impression that I can ‘do good’ when I choose to (and likewise, evil) but until that point I’m just living.  I’m beginning to learn that’s not the case.  What I do and what I don’t do have repercussions far beyond my control and intention.  What is more… the folks I cross paths with as I go about my life are not just scenery.. they’re not just ‘there’; often they are the woman who can’t stop bleeding and needs the healing of intentional proximity; often they are in possession of the healing I need myself and just as likely both things are true at the same time.