Those of you who’ve been reading this for a while know that I don’t have a lot of patience for many religious organizations. Maybe I”m just cynical, and maybe I focus too much on the bad examples, but all too often, especially in the popular religious culture, I see people who are just out to make a buck in the name of the Lord.

One is not one of these groups.

Bono, who makes me laugh because he’s an Irish Evangelical with a potty mouth, co-founded the group, and it was through one of his speeches that I learned some of the following:

In 2007, two million, two hundred thousand people were killed by the AIDS virus.
In that same year, one million, seven hundred thousand people died from tuberculosis, and almost nine hundred thousand people were killed by malaria.

Across the world, more than one billion people lack one of the most basic elements of life: clean drinking water. Nearly three times that number lack basic sanitation facilities. These two things together kill more children every year than any other cause.

In 2003, the United Nations reported that twenty-five thousand people died of starvation every day. In 2001, the World Bank estimated that one million, one hundred thousand people lived on less than one American dollar per day, and nearly three billion lived on less than two dollars per day.

One’s goal is simple: to work until these statistics are no longer true. Through awareness, through activism, through individual charity and through government reform, they air to make these statistics lies.

True religion, it has been said, is this: to care for the widow and the orphan. To neglect those who have so little, when we have so much, is a crime. We don’t realize how blessed we are in this nation; our economy may be in turmoil, our confidence may be shaken, but very, very few of the people reading this went to bed hungry last night. Very, very few have to decide between putting food on the table and buying medicine to save their child’s life.

I went into this meeting wondering if Bono was a Christian, and I walked out in tears, wondering if I was.

-Pastor Frank Jewett

That’s religion I can get behind.

One resources: about One, issues, blog, get involved.

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that makes me as angry as sexual abuse. Rape, in my mind, is the most violent, horrible crime one can commit, and when that is done to a child… I’m not even really capable of thinking about it rationally. That the perpetrator of such a crime should be killed isn’t even a question to me, it’s a simple statement of fact. I take an almost personal offense when I hear about something like this.

I know I’m not saying anything shocking; there isn’t a very large “pro-rape” crowd.

Except that there is.

Over one million children are trafficked in the sex industry every year. Over one million children who are bought and sold for the evil pleasures of others. Over one million children who have had their freedom, their personhood, stripped from them. Almost two children every minute. Almost thirty-two billion dollars every year.

“Rape” is second only to “drugs” in profitability. The worst crime I can imagine is also one of the most popular.

Love 146 is a great organization that is dedicated to ending this tragedy, through efforts to prevent more children from falling prey to sex traffickers, and by rescuing children who have already been victimized.

When I first heard of this group, I assumed that they were named for a Bible verse, and flipped through my mental rolodex, trying to figure out what passage they were referring to. But it turns out that they weren’t named for a Scripture; they were named for a little girl.

When they began this ministry, the founders of Love 146 actually visited a brothel. Rob Morris recounted his experience, telling of how it felt to be standing in that place, standing next to men who were buying children for sex.

The girls were kept in a room, watching children’s shows on a small television, until their services were required. They didn’t even have names; they were all referred to by numbers.

Morris says that their eyes were haunting, dead. The life they had been forced to live had destroyed whatever was supposed to be inside of them. All of them except one. One of the little girls wasn’t staring at the television; she was staring back at the men who were arguing over her price. There was still life, still fight, in her eyes.

Her number was 146.

It must be daunting, so discouraging, to be fighting a battle that you know you will never win. No matter how effective Love 146 and similar organizations are, the sex industry will still exist. But that doesn’t stop them from fighting on, doesn’t stop them from touching one life here, one life there.

You can donate to Love 146 on-line.

Henry Cloud is a psychologist, speaker, and author that has become rather popular in the Evangelical world. I was introduced to him by our Pastor, who suggested we read his book Changes that Heal. I’ve written pretty extensively about my reactions to this book, but I wanted to mention it again here.

Cloud goes through some mental gymnastics to get past the whole “evolution vs. creation” debate, but I can forgive him for that, because the things he talks about are so right. I am very self-aware, and I have a pretty good sense of what I’m doing, and why I’m doing it, but I also tend to doubt that anyone has any kind of insight into me as an individual.

Which made reading Cloud’s book somewhat unnerving, because it often felt like I was reading a very accurate, very articulate description of myself.

Cloud writes about boundaries and relationships. He writes about learning to say “no,” and learning to say “yes.” He writes about learning to trust people, learning to reach out to people, learning to allow yourself to become vulnerable. His “three stages of isolation,” anger, depression, and detachment, were something of a frightening mirror into my own life.

I have been isolated, to one degree or another, for most of my life. Cloud was one of the first people to suggest to me that that might not always need to be the case. I haven’t claimed victory in this, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m thankful to Cloud for suggesting that victory is even possible.

–

My Changes that Heal series:

Object Constancy
The Mechanism
Healing Hurts
Distorted Thinking
The Care and Feeding of a Taciturn Man, not directly related to Changes, but useful for understanding how I, and people like me, see the world.

One of the recurring themes in the Gospel is that of Jesus touching someone.

Today, when a single mother manages to provide food for her kids, or a hardened criminal has a change of heart, or a busy executive realizes he needs to dedicate more time to his family, or someone is unexpectedly healed of an illness, you may hear them say that they were “touched by God,” but that isn’t what the Gospel stories are talking about. When the Bible says Jesus touched someone, it’s talking about real, physical contact, an up close, personal connection, flesh pressing against flesh.

People get excited about meeting their favorite celebrities, and if they get to shake their hand, might say “I’ll never wash my hand again.” People pay money to shake hands with politicians, and have photographs taken to commemorate the moment. Touching someone like that makes you special, elevates your status. “I was good enough to touch them,” it says.

But Jesus wasn’t interested in touching the famous or the powerful. When the Bible says Jesus touched someone, it talks about him touching a leper, a prostitute, the body of a dead little girl, a woman with an issue of blood. People no one wanted to touch, people who were unclean.

That was his mission, his legacy. “Touch people no one else will touch.” James, one of his Apostles, wrote that “true religion” was to “care for the orphan and the widow,” the most helpless of their society.

This is how Mother Teresa of Calcutta lived. When she was sent out to care for the poor her city, she faced crushing personal poverty. She had no means of support, and had to beg for food and shelter. She experienced firsthand the pain of those she was supposed to care for, but, unlike them, had a means of escape. She could have easily completed her assignment and returned to the relative comfort of her convent.

Instead, she chose to stay, to live among the poor and the dying, to share their pain, and to try, in some small way, to alleviate it. She chose to minister to “the hungry, the naked, the homeless, the crippled, the blind, the lepers, all those people who feel unwanted, unloved, uncared for throughout society, people that have become a burden to the society and are shunned by everyone.” She chose to touch those who were untouchable. Today, the organization she founded, the Missionaries of Charity, operates in one hundred thirty three nations, and their vow is a simple one: to give whole-hearted and free service to the poorest of the poor.

I’ve volunteered at the Rescue Mission and written checks to various charities, and felt, perhaps justifiably, good for doing so. But those few moments, those small sacrifices, pale in comparison to a life lived almost entirely for the sake of others, to a person so moved by suffering that she took suffering upon herself.

Let the first act of every morning be to make the following resolve for the day:
I shall not fear anyone on Earth.
I shall fear only God.
I shall not bear ill will toward anyone.
I shall not submit to injustice from anyone.
I shall conquer untruth by truth. And in resisting untruth, I shall put up with all suffering.
- Mahatma Gandhi

Most Americans have a very Christian worldview, even if they don’t realize it. Even those of us who don’t take religion very seriously live in a culture that is the direct result of two thousand years of Christian thinking, writing, singing, and living. I don’t want to rehash the arguments over whether or not America is a Christian nation, but it is undeniable to say that Christianity has had a profound impact on the Western world.

For myself, I have been rather tightly coupled to the Evangelical/Pentecostal subculture from which I draw most of my friends. When I talk about morality, I do so from a Christian perspective. When I talk about philosophy, I’m more likely to quote Scripture than not. When I think about God, I’m picturing a Jewish carpenter, not a ten-armed demon goddess of death.

Because of this background, it’s very easy to forget how much there is of value in other cultures. It’s very easy to assume that our American culture, or our particular subculture, is somehow “right” or “better” simply because it’s familiar. It’s easy to look at other peoples are simpletons and savages. It’s easy to forget that Eastern cultures were developing gunpowder and astronomy before our ancestors were even bathing regularly, or that the first legal codes were carved into stone tablets in the desert sands.

The above quote is one of my favorites; it’s really a treasure trove of things that I respect or wholeheartedly agree with.

I don’t believe in Gandhi’s God, or Gods, or whatever his particular belief system entailed, but I can respect the fact that he identified with a cause bigger than himself, and found strength in that. And more to the point, I respect the fact that this drove him to seek peace and freedom, while so many others have sought violence and oppression.

His twin statements, “I shall not bear ill will toward anyone” and “I shall not submit to injustice from anyone,” fascinate me. It neatly solves the problem I have with the Amish way of thinking. Gandhi saw forgiveness as a way of life, but that didn’t compel him to lay down in the face of injustice. He believed that he had a very real, very important role to play in his own destiny. He didn’t leave things up to chance, or to fate, but was an active agent for change. His peacefulness was actually his weapon.

“I shall conquer untruth by truth, and in resisting untruth, I shall put up with all suffering” may be one of the most profound things I’ve ever read. Truth is very important to me. As I’ve written before, one of the very few things of which I am absolutely certain is my own ability to be wrong. As arrogant as I am, I am not arrogant enough to believe that I have all of the answers, and I am always reevaluating my beliefs and my assumptions, trying to get closer to the truth.

That truth will conquer untruth is a simple and beautiful statement. That, really, is my great hope. I believe, fervently, ardently believe, that the truth will win. It may not happen in my lifetime, it may never happen entirely, but I believe that people are, at their core, hungry for truth, and that means the truth will always be gaining ground.

It’s painful to learn that we were wrong. It’s painful to change cherished beliefs. It’s painful to lose friendships and love because of what you believe. But the truth is important, important enough to suffer for. For Gandhi, it was important enough to suffer all things.

As I was finishing my workout this afternoon – Chins, Overhead Press, and Deadlift, if you care – I noticed a guy setting up near the squat rack. He was doing snatches with an empty bar – which is a fine warm up, so whatever – and wearing a full-on compression suite. Every inch of the guy, from ankles to neck, was wrapped in bright blue neoprene. “This,” I thought to myself, “is either going to be hilarious, or awesome.”

Much to my surprise, it turned out to be kind of awesome.

First, he was using chalk, which made me want to dance a little. Sissy gyms hate chalk, and I get a kick out of watching someone stick it to them.

Second, he was doing Olympic lifts, which are on the short list of Best Lifts Ever, and which maybe three other people do at my gym. Well, more, when the girls that train with me drop by, because they’re awesome, too.

He was Snatching 95, and Clean and Pressing 135, which aren’t great numbers, but they aren’t insignificant, either, especially when you don’t have a platform and bumper plates. His form was also much better than mine, but that isn’t a real surprise, since my knees are shot and my hips are about as mobile as an I-beam.

What really surprised me, though, was when he asked me to leave my deadlift stuff set up for him when I was done.

He warmed up with 225, but after a few quick reps, was doing 315 for sets of five. In other words, he was doing the same workout I had been doing a few minutes earlier. This is impressive because he weighs about one hundred pounds less than I do.

Pound for pound, the guy is stronger than me. I probably max out higher than him, but seeing him pull close to twice his body weight was definitely impressive.

I am not, generally, the type to hold a grudge. I don’t really see the benefit or the need to hold on to an offense, and I’m willing to let bygones be bygones, as it were.

But I have my limits, and two of them in particular are strong, hard lines. If you hurt a child, or you hurt someone I care about, the game changes. Holding a grudge doesn’t even enter into it; my protective side takes over, and my only real concern is removing you as a danger.

That protective streak makes pacifism quite fascinating to me. I have a hard time – a very hard time – understanding the worldview of a people who will not lift a hand to defend themselves, or even to defend their loved ones.

On October 2^nd, 2006, a man by the name of Charles Roberts the Fourth took a group of Amish schoolchildren hostage. Before the day was done, he had murdered five girls, ranging in age between six and thirteen, and then turned the gun on himself.

I can only imagine what an incident like this would do to me. The rage, the helplessness, the despair, the fury that his suicide had robbed us of either justice or revenge… it would almost certainly be a race as to which overwhelmed me first.

This community, though, acted in a way which I find amazing; they forgave – chose to forgive – the man who had so injured them, and reached out in love and support to the murderer’s family. Their leaders warned them against bitterness, against hatred. One of them visited killer’s father, holding him for nearly an hour while he wept, offering him comfort and solace. Thirty members of the community actually attended the gunman’s funereal, and the community established a charitable fund to provide support for the perpetrator’s wife and children.

In their darkest hour, in the moment when they themselves were most in need of support, these people were most concerned with the needs of others.

I know quite a bit about theology, and I can say without reservation that these people are living out the Gospel message. They aren’t concerned with proving themselves right, they aren’t concerned with forcing people to live as they do, they are simply dedicated to becoming more like the God they worship, secure in the knowledge that “they will know you by their love.”

To these people, “turn the other cheek” isn’t a nice saying, or something to live by when it’s convenient. It’s a command, a way of life, a decision they make even when – especially when – it hurts to do so.

I don’t know what the world would look like if more of us tried to live like that. Would it be a utopia? Or would it be a utopia for those eager to take advantage of those who will not resist?

I don’t know, and I’m honestly afraid to find out. I see the value of forgiveness, but I also see the need for war. Sometimes, good men must resist evil. This is so plain to me as to be axiomatic.

The Plain Folk don’t see things that way. They believe that their God is in control, and that His will will prevail. Matters of good and evil, even life and death, are best left to him. They live simply, and love broadly.

I don’t – in all honesty, I can’t – have that kind of faith. But they do. And that, I think, gives them more right to call themselves followers of Christ than I have ever had. I don’t necessarily agree with them, but I certainly do respect them.

A few weeks ago, I was watching some friends prepare for the church’s Christmas special. One of them was performing O Come Emanuel, and the version she had put together was haunting; it was low key and slow moving, and completely conveyed the sense of a world lost in darkness, yet holding on to the hope there would be a better day.

She was having trouble figuring out how to end it, and I was trying my best to offer my suggestions. The problem is, while I knew what I wanted to say, I had no idea how to say it. I ended up saying things like “twinkling” and making hand gestures, hoping that that would get the point across.

Then her husband spoke up, and started naming off chords, talking about half steps and rises and other things that I don’t really understand. They talked about how the song was mostly in minor keys, and how a major key would be an unexpected, uplifting climax.

I knew what I wanted to say, but they knew how to say it; they spoke the language. To them, music wasn’t an intangible, emotional thing, it real, it had structure and rules and a vernacular. They were able to describe precisely what I could only hint at.

I tend to be impressed by people who do something that I can’t, and that’s why I generally have a lot of respect for musicians. I understand the amount of work that must have gone into their skill, and I’m fascinated by the fact that they can listen to the same piece, but look at it in an entirely different way.

I’m also impressed with songwriters’ ability to convey complex emotions quickly and simply. I’m kind of proud of my ability with words; I know how to write to convey a point, and I know how to write to provoke a particular reaction in my readers. The thing is, it often takes me a while to get there. My arguments tend to be nuanced, the pictures I paint complex. Songwriters, on the other hand, are able to convey the same complex themes in just a few verses. That’s a skill I wish I had.

Sarah McLachlan is probably my favorite artist, for precisely that reason. The subjects she addresses range from the light hearted, like Ice Cream, to the deeply personal, like Hold On. Possession, particularly the acoustic version, is one of my favorite songs. If you simply listen to it, you would take it to be a beautiful love song. When you know the tory behind it, however, you get a lot more insight into it; the song is based on a man who was stalking Sarah, who broke into her home and left a note on her bed, containing many of the words to the song. That song was simply her way of dealing with a terrible, terrifying experience.

I appreciate that duality. I appreciate her ability to take something dark, something dangerous, and to make something beautiful out of it. That’s actually why Tori Amos appeals to me, as well. Many of her songs are almost a celebration of the pain she’s experienced. She refuses to be beaten by the people and things that have hurt her, and her songs are a defiant rebellion against them.

On the other side of the spectrum, I’m also a big fan of Metallica. I don’t know where this sits in your personal boat, but when I’m in a bad mood, happy music just makes me angrier. Sometimes, I just need to listen to someone who is as angry as I am.

What I like about Metallica, though, is that there is actually quite a bit of introspection in their music. While there is a lot of anger and energy in their songs, they also have a tendency to look forward, to examine the eventual outcome of that way of life.

The best example is the Unforgiven trilogy of songs. The first talks about being a young man facing a cold, uncaring world which demands conformity, and the fight to maintain one’s free will and identity. The end of the song, though, talks about an old man, preparing to die and full of regrets, and says “that old man there is me.” Unforgiven II is more personal, talking about a girl that may, just may, understand and accept the singer, but ends with the realization that she, too, is “unforgiven,” and a declaration that the singer is burying the key that he was prepared to offer her. Unforgiven III brings the series to its conclusion, reflecting on the life the singer has lived, and finally asking “how can I blame you, when it’s me I can’t forgive?” James Hetfield, the singer/songwritier, understands the consequences of unforgiveness, and his songs are not just cathartic rants, but almost cautionary fables.

A few days ago, a friend of mine told me that a third party found me rather arrogant. My response was fairly simple: “well, I am.”

It’s kind of funny; people generally either think of me as very humble, or infuriatingly arrogant. In a sense, both are true.

I tend to be rather introspective, and that makes me a bit more self-aware than the average person. As a consequence, I also tend to have a pretty good sense of what my strengths are. When I tell you that I’m intelligent, or that I have a way with words, or that I’m physically strong, I’m stating a fact, the same way I’d be stating a fact if I told you I was tall or had blue eyes. This does make me arrogant; I know what I’m good at, and I probably know if I’m better at it than you.

Oddly enough, it also makes me kind of humble, in as much as I realize that my strengths come from a mix of genetics, fate, and luck. I didn’t do anything to become intelligent; I was born with a good mind, and I had parents that read to me. I can’t really take credit for that. If I’m hard working, its because of a genetic predisposition more than anything else. My strengths are no more to my credit than the color of my hair, when you look at it from that point of view.

Finally, because I’m introspective, I also know what I’m bad at. I know that I’m bad at making small talk, I know that I have deep seated trust issues, I know I have a tendency to procrastinate, and I know that I can’t sing.

Things That Make Me Angry is my most popular series (aside from the Thread That Would Not Die, back when I was doing political commentary), mainly because I have a twin gift for sarcasm and rage. But a friend recently suggested that I try to write about the things that make me happy, as a change of pace. She also suggested that this might be a good way to reach out to the fairer sex, though I remain dubious on that point.

Anyway, I don’t know if I’m quite up to doing an entire series about things that make me happy, for one because I don’t know how much entertainment value it would provide, and for another because the things I find beautiful are often ineffable. It’s very hard to find the words to describe something so elegant that it’s almost painful, so fleeting and precious that it becomes haunting.

So, I’m going to try and strike a balance. I want to spend the next few days talking about people and groups that impress me, in particular because they are very good at something I am very bad at, or because they have made a choice that I find fascinating and challenging. I want to spend a few days talking about people who are, for one reason or another, Better Than Me.

There will probably be a bit of “well, duh,” in this series; saying Mother Teresa is better than me isn’t going to incite a lot of incredulity. And I don’t agree with everything these people do or say, either. But all of the people I want to talk about have facets of their lives that stand in stark contrast to the way I think and live, and make me question the way I think and live. All of them have facets of their lives that we can learn from, admire, and perhaps even emulate.