Their fingers touched as they gathered the last few grains of rice from the bottom of the shared bowl. Eyes met and held, startling each in this new unity. Both lowered their eyes, embarrassed yet pleased in the recognition of the other’s awareness.
Still dressed in wedding finery, each sensed the other’s anxiety. He, the gallant bridegroom, left the last morsel for her. She smiled shyly and raised it to her lips.
He set the bowl aside.
"Minoi,” he said.
"Minoi," she echoed.
In the tradition of the Montagnard peoples of upland Vietnam, a married couple never refers to their spouse by given name. Instead, they use the pronoun “myself.” In each and every verbal exchange of their married lives, from the first ceremonial utterance to the day of their separation by death, they are reminded of the other as themselves--“Bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh,” in Adam’s oft-repeated but seldom-lived words.
In marriage, we see a high ideal-a joining, a merging of two into one—a beautiful representation of giving. Could we but see one another, not as “other” but as “self,” how easy giving would be. Are you cold; I shiver. Are you in pain; I hurt. Are you in poverty; I share what little I have with you. You are me; we are one. No longer would I look on another as an object, something to be used, exploited but as a part of myself for which I expend every effort to make comfortable and relieve of distress.
I know not how this might happen in me, in us all, but sense that, could it, then the world would be transformed into a vast field of sisters and brothers, with each of whom we are joined by gene and with whom we are delighted to share because they are us and we are them.
“Minoi” my sisters and brothers, “Minoi.”
Note: This story is taken from The Bamboo Cross, a book about Vietnam before, during and after the US invasion.
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Saturday, December 24, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Crushed Violet
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
-Jesus the Christ
Whether one believes Jesus a fraud or God; myth or fact, these, His final words, cry out down the centuries as the highest and noblest of all utterances. Few of us, including the world’s greatest thinkers and philosophers have ascended to such heights or plumbed such depths. Though we greet great forgiveness with great applause and recognition, most of us find it nearly impossible to live it.
What we do understand is vengeance; the inverse of forgiveness. It Is our all-too-human response to physical wounding, emotional suffering, property loss, hurt feelings and even of being short-changed at the cash register. Movies and television glorify, justify and temporarily satisfy us with the balancing of justice-an eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth. But the story always stops just short of the true ending. What the story does not show is the emptiness of revenge: the loss of integrity, of morality, of humanness. Retribution is foisted on us by a bankrupt society which itself has no conscience or values. It seeks to shape us in its own image; a pale parody of a real human.
So what is forgiveness? Is it denying a feeling of anger at the wrong? Is it letting justice slide and the perpetrator running free and consequenceless? Is it bringing the wrong into memory?
A pastor was wronged. His trusted comrade, in a public meeting, denounced him, calling him a fraud and alleging many untruths about him. The minister was stunned. He did not defend himself; a defense would only have served the purposes of the accuser. He stumbled off the platform, condemned in the eyes of his congregation. He wandered down the street, crying out “Why?” into the silence. Gradually, the words of Christ “Forgive them,” began to penetrate his rage. His anger did not abate, but he began to cry out “I forgive, I forgive.”
Over the following months, the forgiveness became real to his shattered mind. He truly accepted and loved the betrayer.
Then, a year later, the erstwhile friend called him in deepest distress. He himself had been betrayed. The forgiver invited his betrayer into his home and ministered to him for a year—true forgiveness.
From this and other such incidents, including being forgiven myself, I have formulated this definition of forgiveness: Forgiveness is consciously absorbing into oneself, the consequence justly due the perpetrator.
Christ’s murderers deserved death. He took the death. The minister would have been justified in accusing the accuser and working for his ousting. Instead, he loved the man back to full health. I have experienced this kind of forgiveness. It is terrifyingly real; it strikes at the very root cause of all betrayals, poverty, hunger and injustice-the selfish heart of mankind.
Giving and forgiveness; each is an act of generosity flowing from a generous heart. One is a tangible gift; the other an intangible but immeasurably greater gift.
Mark Twain said, “Forgiveness is the fragrance of a violet shed on the heel that crushed it.” In mind's eye, I see one fragile flower growing amid the random flora of a forest glade. A careless hiker, fully shod in hiking boot with swinging walking stick, striding oblivious of his footfall. Just there his heel crushes the flower, releasing onto his boot heel the aroma of its stored and ready perfume of forgiveness. May I so live; armed with forgiveness ready to spread its perfume at each, all and all provocation. Would I truly live that way; would we all live that way, what a happy world we would live in. Forgiveness as a norm would soon destroy poverty and injustice; the intangible would beget the tangible for a world of wounds and a world of need.
11/23/11
-Jesus the Christ
Whether one believes Jesus a fraud or God; myth or fact, these, His final words, cry out down the centuries as the highest and noblest of all utterances. Few of us, including the world’s greatest thinkers and philosophers have ascended to such heights or plumbed such depths. Though we greet great forgiveness with great applause and recognition, most of us find it nearly impossible to live it.
What we do understand is vengeance; the inverse of forgiveness. It Is our all-too-human response to physical wounding, emotional suffering, property loss, hurt feelings and even of being short-changed at the cash register. Movies and television glorify, justify and temporarily satisfy us with the balancing of justice-an eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth. But the story always stops just short of the true ending. What the story does not show is the emptiness of revenge: the loss of integrity, of morality, of humanness. Retribution is foisted on us by a bankrupt society which itself has no conscience or values. It seeks to shape us in its own image; a pale parody of a real human.
So what is forgiveness? Is it denying a feeling of anger at the wrong? Is it letting justice slide and the perpetrator running free and consequenceless? Is it bringing the wrong into memory?
A pastor was wronged. His trusted comrade, in a public meeting, denounced him, calling him a fraud and alleging many untruths about him. The minister was stunned. He did not defend himself; a defense would only have served the purposes of the accuser. He stumbled off the platform, condemned in the eyes of his congregation. He wandered down the street, crying out “Why?” into the silence. Gradually, the words of Christ “Forgive them,” began to penetrate his rage. His anger did not abate, but he began to cry out “I forgive, I forgive.”
Over the following months, the forgiveness became real to his shattered mind. He truly accepted and loved the betrayer.
Then, a year later, the erstwhile friend called him in deepest distress. He himself had been betrayed. The forgiver invited his betrayer into his home and ministered to him for a year—true forgiveness.
From this and other such incidents, including being forgiven myself, I have formulated this definition of forgiveness: Forgiveness is consciously absorbing into oneself, the consequence justly due the perpetrator.
Christ’s murderers deserved death. He took the death. The minister would have been justified in accusing the accuser and working for his ousting. Instead, he loved the man back to full health. I have experienced this kind of forgiveness. It is terrifyingly real; it strikes at the very root cause of all betrayals, poverty, hunger and injustice-the selfish heart of mankind.
Giving and forgiveness; each is an act of generosity flowing from a generous heart. One is a tangible gift; the other an intangible but immeasurably greater gift.
Mark Twain said, “Forgiveness is the fragrance of a violet shed on the heel that crushed it.” In mind's eye, I see one fragile flower growing amid the random flora of a forest glade. A careless hiker, fully shod in hiking boot with swinging walking stick, striding oblivious of his footfall. Just there his heel crushes the flower, releasing onto his boot heel the aroma of its stored and ready perfume of forgiveness. May I so live; armed with forgiveness ready to spread its perfume at each, all and all provocation. Would I truly live that way; would we all live that way, what a happy world we would live in. Forgiveness as a norm would soon destroy poverty and injustice; the intangible would beget the tangible for a world of wounds and a world of need.
11/23/11
Sunday, November 20, 2011
An Angry Giver
I am angry. Actually livid is a better word. I am heartbroken. I cringe in shame.
I’ve read my share of and books on our current wars, but none have touched me at the depth and stirred such emotions as Megan Stack’s book Every Man in This Village is a Liar. With horrific near-poetic language she tells stories-stories of her years as an LA Times correspondent in the Middle East. She tells of the terror of a young man and his girlfriend who were spotted and threatened prior to meeting with her. She was never able to contact them again. She tells of the time she spent in Southern Lebanon under the bombing of Israel. A rigged Egyptian election, observed up close and personal, fills another narrative.
My anger, shame and heartbreak are not just for the acts we humans inflict on one another, but for the red, white and blue threads that weave their American patriotic pattern through the stories. In the rigged election, for example, the tear gas canister lobbed at would-be voters said in block letters: “Made in the USA.” We don’t get it that what we do “over there” effects us directly and indirectly. As Ms. Stack says, “One war breeds another war. We create that which we try to kill.1”
You may well ask, “What does this have to do with giving-the stated purpose of this list?” Good question.
My initial response to the book, as I said at the beginning, was a mix of negative emotions. I wanted to do something, change something or somebody; make a difference. I wanted to be against war, I wanted to strike out at injustice and poverty. OK, I’ll be honest. I wanted to hurt somebody or many somebody.
Reality raised its ugly head and said, “And how much of a difference will that make?” I’m only one and not a very action-oriented one at that. What can I do or say that would make any real difference? The one time I wrote my congresspeople about Guantanamo, I received one reply, “I’m on your side in this.” But Guantanamo still exists.
Then the thought came to me, “But at least you’re one.” This was followed by another, “Do what you’re doing-make a little difference; love a little even though you can’t resolve the tensions in the Middle east.”
So I’m going to do the little I’m doing with a little more vigor, a higher sense intent, a desire for an influence bigger than these few words.
May the vast improbability of human greed which spawns wars be brought to its knees by the little Davids throwing their little stones against the weapons of mass destruction which we hurl around the world so freely. May we soften the hearts of those who have come to hate us for our wealth, our arrogance, our naïve assumption of our superiority, our glib pronouncements of simple solutions to complex millennium-long discords, our bully presence around the world. ,
My stone is etched with “Giving.”
1 Every Man in This Village is a Liar, Megan K. Stack P. 227
I’ve read my share of and books on our current wars, but none have touched me at the depth and stirred such emotions as Megan Stack’s book Every Man in This Village is a Liar. With horrific near-poetic language she tells stories-stories of her years as an LA Times correspondent in the Middle East. She tells of the terror of a young man and his girlfriend who were spotted and threatened prior to meeting with her. She was never able to contact them again. She tells of the time she spent in Southern Lebanon under the bombing of Israel. A rigged Egyptian election, observed up close and personal, fills another narrative.
My anger, shame and heartbreak are not just for the acts we humans inflict on one another, but for the red, white and blue threads that weave their American patriotic pattern through the stories. In the rigged election, for example, the tear gas canister lobbed at would-be voters said in block letters: “Made in the USA.” We don’t get it that what we do “over there” effects us directly and indirectly. As Ms. Stack says, “One war breeds another war. We create that which we try to kill.1”
You may well ask, “What does this have to do with giving-the stated purpose of this list?” Good question.
My initial response to the book, as I said at the beginning, was a mix of negative emotions. I wanted to do something, change something or somebody; make a difference. I wanted to be against war, I wanted to strike out at injustice and poverty. OK, I’ll be honest. I wanted to hurt somebody or many somebody.
Reality raised its ugly head and said, “And how much of a difference will that make?” I’m only one and not a very action-oriented one at that. What can I do or say that would make any real difference? The one time I wrote my congresspeople about Guantanamo, I received one reply, “I’m on your side in this.” But Guantanamo still exists.
Then the thought came to me, “But at least you’re one.” This was followed by another, “Do what you’re doing-make a little difference; love a little even though you can’t resolve the tensions in the Middle east.”
So I’m going to do the little I’m doing with a little more vigor, a higher sense intent, a desire for an influence bigger than these few words.
May the vast improbability of human greed which spawns wars be brought to its knees by the little Davids throwing their little stones against the weapons of mass destruction which we hurl around the world so freely. May we soften the hearts of those who have come to hate us for our wealth, our arrogance, our naïve assumption of our superiority, our glib pronouncements of simple solutions to complex millennium-long discords, our bully presence around the world. ,
My stone is etched with “Giving.”
1 Every Man in This Village is a Liar, Megan K. Stack P. 227
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Macaroni Salad
Macaroni salad-for me it doesn’t get much better than that in the food department. Something there is in me that could eat it every day and never feel like I was put upon. Over the years, I’ve put all kinds of strange ingredients in my own mac salad: peas, cheese chunks etc. But, while I love tomatoes, they shouldn’t be in mac salad. I don’t know why, it just doesn’t quite fit that image in my mind, tongue or stomach for an ideal salad. Yes, it adds zing and color, but it’s not my choice. Call me persnickety but don’t forget to call me when you’re having macaroni salad (unless you put tomatoes into it).
What does macaroni salad have to do with giving? I’m getting there.
My sister-in-law recently visited us. She’s a good cook. For a family picnic she offered to make macaroni salad. As she was cutting up the ingredients, she said, “I’m putting in lots of tomatoes”. I groaned inwardly.
She didn’t know I didn’t like tomatoes in my macaroni salad.
Lots of tomato make the perfect macaroni salad for her. It’s her recipe, her best offering. She, giving her time and talents and love to the rest of us, could give us no higher gift than her favorite. If she had chosen a different set of ingredients, she would have been giving us less than perfection. She would not have been giving us herself in the dish.
Giving is a two-way street. Giving and receiving; giver and recipient.
Given in love, a mud pie is delicious from a five-year-old’s oven.
May I be more aware of the love that makes the gift more than money, more than a valued object. May I recognize, even in an unwanted or less-than-perfect (in my eyes) gift, the intent of the giver. May I acknowledge that which is the true gift, the gift behind the gift-the heart of the giver.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Sacrifice
When
he has more than he can eat
To feed a stranger's not a feat.
To feed a stranger's not a feat.
he has more than he can spend
It isn't hard to give or lend.
It isn't hard to give or lend.
gives but what he'll never miss
Will never know what giving is.
Will never know what giving is.
win few praises from his Lord
Who does but what he can afford.
Who does but what he can afford.
widow's mite to heaven went
Because real sacrifice it meant.
Because real sacrifice it meant.
From: “Just Plain Folks
By: Edgar A. Guest
Note: Non-standard formatting is in the original.
Copyright:To the best of our knowledge, thisbook of poetry is in the public domain. Should this prove otherwise, we will remove it or seek permission from the copyright holders. Please advise if you have information regarding copyright status if other than what is assumed here.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Giving as Paradox
“He who preserves his life shall lose it; he who loses his life shall truly live,” so said Jesus; a paradox if ever there was one.
We humans, at our very core, seek to save our lives. WE diet, take medications, exercise, have surgery, pay for ambulance and police services, some carry weapons. We go to great lengths, often jeopardizing the lives of others in a desperate bid to outwit death; to prolong life. WE are not alone. The whole of the animal kingdom from amoeba to the whale defend or elude to preserve life. Even the plant kingdom seeks to preserve life with offensive and defensive strategies designed to preserve the life of the individual plant and its neighbors. If you have the time, it’s a topic worth reading into if you want to be amazed.
But, back to us humans.
In a sense, preserving something is holding it in reserve for the future. I possess something today which I think I might need for the future, so make arrangements to preserve it. When we were younger and much poorer, we canned and dried fruits and nuts against a day when they would not be available. In the same spirit, I want to have a nest egg against some future rainy day (I know, that is a mixed metaphor, but I’m not clever enough to think of an extension to “nest egg.” Would I preserve an egg against a future eggless day? Not in my taste inventory thank you.) So in times of plenty, I store up money, representing my labor, in a safe place. I hold it, preserve it for that sometime when I might need it. Money, perhaps, is a symbol of life in Jesus’ puzzling statement. At least it represents some portion of my life. Holding on to it is an allegory of life and at the same time, a potential life-preserving action.
What is there about giving, losing, surrendering something for someone else’s benefit that is life enhancing? If, instead of hoarding, I give, I seem to be acting against my own self-interest. I might need that money some day.
But the answering paradox is that it is in the very act of giving that I find my true self. It is in losing that I find; giving that I receive; laying down my life (my time; my money) that I truly live (become enriched).
I find this rule, then, that there is a life beyond living which only comes from voluntary loss of that which I value. When I give, I receive tenfold in a mystical realm where money does not exist and where the heartbeat and the breath are not moving physical blood and airy gases. The very spirit of this non-place place is a mirror universe in which the act of giving is in reality, receiving.
It is to my shame that I find this place so very rarely; that I surrender to the this-place-and-time reality and hoard and grasp at life and things and money. But in those once-in-a-while moments when I break through into that other I know I am truly home and am truly myself.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Our treat
My co-blogger ZipLip and I go out for dinner every few months at a local Mexican restaurant here in Portland, Oregon. A while back he said he had an idea: let’s pay for someone else’s dinner every time we eat out, and do it anonymously.
So, the next time we got together we came up with a plan: on our way out we’d stroll through the restaurant looking for our recipient, then hand the hostess some money and tell her to use it for that party’s meal. As we left our table after dinner we immediately homed in on a young couple with an adorable toddler. Judging by their clothes they looked like they were working class. Perfect! When we pointed them out to the hostess and handed her the cash she looked befuddled. “Why are you doing this?” she asked. ZipLip replied that we were paying a gift forward. I added “We do this because it makes us happy.” She seemed to get it, so we thanked her and hurried out before the young couple could see us. We were both giddy with the pleasure of our secret, and wondered how the couple would react.
The next time we picked out another young couple and gave the money for their meal to a fellow who looked like the manager. He looked a little shady to me, and as we left I wondered if he’d pocket the cash. My suspicion took some of the enjoyment out of our gift-giving.
A few weeks ago we picked out our latest recipients: an older couple, seemingly low-income, holding hands and engrossed in what looked like a somber conversation. The woman was in a wheelchair, and the man was holding her hand tenderly as they spoke. They looked like they were having a tough time and our hearts immediately went out to them.
This time we changed things around. We’d brought some business cards we’d printed up which read “The Society of the Muted Right Hand – the Art and Joy of Anonymous Giving”, with the address of this blog at the bottom. We put the cash, business card and a blank, hand-painted greeting card in an envelope and asked the hostess to hand it to the couple.
We both felt delighted as we left the restaurant, knowing we’d given a secret gift to total strangers. What would they think? Would their spirits be lifted just a bit? Would they pay it forward? We didn’t know, and we had absolutely no control. For us, this sense of mystery adds to the joy of secret giving.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Greg Mortenson
Greg mortenson is one of my giving heroes. His Book, Three Cups of Tea, is high on my giving must-read list. Giving-individual to individual, community to community binds disparate cultures, religions, nations; in this, Greg has stumbled upon a solution to much of the world’s division.
Just before the Afghanistan invasion, I was present when a pastor and his parishioner were discussing the prospect of the invasion. Both were excitedly in favor of Mr. Bush’s plan. The pastor turned to me. “What do you think?” he asked.
Now I’m a pretty staunch pacifist; I see little reason for war. But, perhaps as my nature might suggest, I’m also not much of a debater. I said I didn’t have much of an opinion. But that wasn’t true. I thought, as I still do, that it was a terrible mistake-costly in money and lives and very much a self-serving war.
Now, just because I hadn’t been able to debate the issue didn’t mean that I didn’t have an opinion-I just can’t put words together to make a coherent statement when opposing opinions collide. So, as usual, I turned to the trusty computer where my thoughts are free as birds and thoughts flow onto electronic paper with well-lubricated ease.
I wrote an Email something like this to the pastor: “It seems to me that being in favor of war is un-Christian. Jesus said, ‘Love your enemies;’ and ‘Do good to those who hate you;’ and ‘Pray for those who despitefully use you.’ We are going to war to punish someone whom we classify as an enemy. Afghanistan harbors those we blame for the loss of lives on 9-11. They are our enemies, then, by extension. George W. Bush, Christian by his own definition, now rattles his sword saying that we must punish those responsible. How is this Christian? More to the point, how can we, as Christians, be in favor of, condone or not actively oppose this kind of a war?” I suggested, rather, that we should be sending care packages and money for schools and hospitals to these we considered enemies if we were truly a Christian nation.
I never received a reply from the pastor.
Now, finally, to the main point of this post. Greg Mortenson has done exactly what I thought a Christian should do in this circumstance. I see no evidence in his book that he is a Christian, but he is truly living the principles of the Christ. No, he didn’t set out to solve the issue of Muslim enmity toward the US. He was merely being himself. At great personal expense and loss, he did something which has turned out to be the ideal thing to do in the circumstance. Recently I heard a Public Radio piece on the changes the US military is making in Afghanistan. They are now bringing infrastructure to the rural communities where the “enemy” has its strongholds--and they are winning their hearts.
How would things be different today if we had buried Afghanistan in gifts? Would Afghanis see us in a different light if we had spent the billions of dollars on food, clothing, shelter, education, medicine instead of on bombs and bullets? My guess is yes.
Today on the news I heard that Mr. Mortenson’s organization is under criticism for misusing money donated to it. Even if Greg Mortenson misused a lot of what is donated to him; even if he turns out to be a thief-enriching himself, I still know that he has it right: Give without expectation of return. But I don’t believe he is doing anything dishonest. A con artist does not go to all the trouble that he has--risking life, limb and relationships to cheat donors.
Now we can explore a broader view of the same issue. When I give, I hold something in reserve, perhaps Something to do with the worthiness of the recipient or the honesty of the receiver. “What will he/she do with the donation?” Is that my business? Should I not give generously, “good measure, packed down and running over” and let theconsequences of the gift be on the receiver? Have I not been blessed in the giving itself? I’m not saying we shouldn’t check the charities to which we give, but, at least for myself, I need to care less about the end as about my own giving.
Greg Mortenson, you are my hero. Even if tarred with a black brush by some, you remain in my constellation of good guys, of good givers who inspire me to greater creativity and generosity in my giving.
May you be cleared of this charge and go on to even greater influence in this divided world. Blessings on you.
Just before the Afghanistan invasion, I was present when a pastor and his parishioner were discussing the prospect of the invasion. Both were excitedly in favor of Mr. Bush’s plan. The pastor turned to me. “What do you think?” he asked.
Now I’m a pretty staunch pacifist; I see little reason for war. But, perhaps as my nature might suggest, I’m also not much of a debater. I said I didn’t have much of an opinion. But that wasn’t true. I thought, as I still do, that it was a terrible mistake-costly in money and lives and very much a self-serving war.
Now, just because I hadn’t been able to debate the issue didn’t mean that I didn’t have an opinion-I just can’t put words together to make a coherent statement when opposing opinions collide. So, as usual, I turned to the trusty computer where my thoughts are free as birds and thoughts flow onto electronic paper with well-lubricated ease.
I wrote an Email something like this to the pastor: “It seems to me that being in favor of war is un-Christian. Jesus said, ‘Love your enemies;’ and ‘Do good to those who hate you;’ and ‘Pray for those who despitefully use you.’ We are going to war to punish someone whom we classify as an enemy. Afghanistan harbors those we blame for the loss of lives on 9-11. They are our enemies, then, by extension. George W. Bush, Christian by his own definition, now rattles his sword saying that we must punish those responsible. How is this Christian? More to the point, how can we, as Christians, be in favor of, condone or not actively oppose this kind of a war?” I suggested, rather, that we should be sending care packages and money for schools and hospitals to these we considered enemies if we were truly a Christian nation.
I never received a reply from the pastor.
Now, finally, to the main point of this post. Greg Mortenson has done exactly what I thought a Christian should do in this circumstance. I see no evidence in his book that he is a Christian, but he is truly living the principles of the Christ. No, he didn’t set out to solve the issue of Muslim enmity toward the US. He was merely being himself. At great personal expense and loss, he did something which has turned out to be the ideal thing to do in the circumstance. Recently I heard a Public Radio piece on the changes the US military is making in Afghanistan. They are now bringing infrastructure to the rural communities where the “enemy” has its strongholds--and they are winning their hearts.
How would things be different today if we had buried Afghanistan in gifts? Would Afghanis see us in a different light if we had spent the billions of dollars on food, clothing, shelter, education, medicine instead of on bombs and bullets? My guess is yes.
Today on the news I heard that Mr. Mortenson’s organization is under criticism for misusing money donated to it. Even if Greg Mortenson misused a lot of what is donated to him; even if he turns out to be a thief-enriching himself, I still know that he has it right: Give without expectation of return. But I don’t believe he is doing anything dishonest. A con artist does not go to all the trouble that he has--risking life, limb and relationships to cheat donors.
Now we can explore a broader view of the same issue. When I give, I hold something in reserve, perhaps Something to do with the worthiness of the recipient or the honesty of the receiver. “What will he/she do with the donation?” Is that my business? Should I not give generously, “good measure, packed down and running over” and let theconsequences of the gift be on the receiver? Have I not been blessed in the giving itself? I’m not saying we shouldn’t check the charities to which we give, but, at least for myself, I need to care less about the end as about my own giving.
Greg Mortenson, you are my hero. Even if tarred with a black brush by some, you remain in my constellation of good guys, of good givers who inspire me to greater creativity and generosity in my giving.
May you be cleared of this charge and go on to even greater influence in this divided world. Blessings on you.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Gifting Time
It’s been a long (for us), cold (especially for us), wet (even for us), spring here in Portland. Those who don’t like rain have had difficulty maintaining their happiness. It’s not been pleasant for those who have yet to get webs between fingers and toes. But spring it is and thoughts turn to renewal even if it is a soggy renewal.
We are in the midst of Passover week for Jews; Holy Week for Christians. I think the Wiccans and pagans are left out of this one, but they had theirs at the Spring equinox. For all of us it could be a time of recognition of giving. For the Pagans and Wiccans, Spring sprung. For the Jews, the celebration of a gift of freedom 4000 years ago which still defines them; for Christian, the Ultimate Gift of spirit freedom.
I could turn preachy here and say things like, “We should…;” “We ought….” But I’m not going to. You carry enough guilt around as it is without me adding “You would be much better off if you were to give joyfully and freely.”
Spring, Passover, Easter—we’ve all been given marvelous gifts. Let’s celebrate and have a party in the joy of receiving wonderful things for receiving gladly and thankfully is the obverse of joyful giving.
Rejoice! Spring is here!
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Umbrellas and Gloves
I do a weekly volunteer job in the Skid Row section of Portland, Oregon, and last winter I began feeling a strong desire to reach out in some way to the homeless and destitute folks on the streets. I began noticing that many of these people walk around in the cold and wet without hats, gloves or umbrellas.
I believe I am genetically programmed to be a Jewish Mother (even though I'm a man). I want everyone I see to be warm, well-fed, and dry. So this really upset me.
I remembered that my wife and I had some extra umbrellas in our garage. And so, on my next rainy volunteer day, I put them in my car and kept my eye out for a few folks who might need one.
I spotted a down-and-out looking young couple hurrying down the street dragging a broken suitcase and plastic bags stuffed with their belongings. "I have an extra umbrella", I said, "could you use it?" They said they'd just lost one, thanked me, and hurried off. I handed another one to an older man in dirty clothes who was walking along dripping wet. And another to a sad-looking woman waiting for a bus.
I hoped an umbrella would help them be a little less uncomfortable, but I soon became aware that my deeper motivation was this: I wanted these people to see that a stranger noticed their struggles and cared about their well-being. And it felt good to make this connection.
So now I buy umbrellas on sale, and gloves too, and when the weather is rainy or cold I keep my eyes open for people on the streets who look like they could use a bit of kindness from a stranger.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Darwin's Dilemma
Radio Lab, a PBS radio program, for its May 2, 2011 show, dealt with the evolutionary problem of goodness. Simply stated, the issue is this: If nature is based in the survival of the fittest, then why are people nice to each other? Why do people risk and even lose their lives on behalf of total strangers?
One story was told of a man, standing with his two young daughters on a subway platform. Near him, another man started seizuring then fell onto the tracks. In a classic story-telling technique, the approaching roar and headlights of a train sharpened the drama. Our hero abandoned his daughters, jumped onto the tracks and tried to raise the man back to the platform. The train roared closer. Realizing he could not make it, he dropped the man between the tracks, covered his body with his own, grabbed the man’s arms and held him as the train shrieked over them. It came to a stop and the man regained consciousness. The rescuer explained what had happened then called out to his daughters to reassure them of his safety.
“What kind of evolutionary advantage is this?" the radio hosts queried. He abandoned his own genetic progeny to rescue a total stranger.
Unlike a number of other interviewees, this man had somewhat of an answer. He had been held up at gunpoint but the gun, held to his head, had misfired. From then on, he felt he was spared for a reason and, after this incident, said that he knew that was the reason. More than that, he had an inner assurance that all would be well just as he took the leap into danger.
Unlike a number of other interviewees, this man had somewhat of an answer. He had been held up at gunpoint but the gun, held to his head, had misfired. From then on, he felt he was spared for a reason and, after this incident, said that he knew that was the reason. More than that, he had an inner assurance that all would be well just as he took the leap into danger.
The program went on to other such instances in nature. For example, in some parts of Africa, an amoeba exists which, when conditions become difficult, sends out a chemical signal to other amoeba of the same type. They draw together and form a slug-like entity. The top 20% of the mass climb onto each other forming a stalk. These amoebae all die, leaving a hard column onto which the other 80% of the amoebae climb. At the top of the stalk, winds catch them and drift them to a new site with presumably better conditions. Twenty percent die that eighty percent may live. The genetic material of the 20% is lost - which flies in the face of the Darwinian assertion of fang and claw.
I’m not trying to argue evolution versus creation. Neither can be totally proven. But one must admit, along with the conclusion of the show’s hosts, that there is a mystery here.
I’m not trying to argue evolution versus creation. Neither can be totally proven. But one must admit, along with the conclusion of the show’s hosts, that there is a mystery here.
Bringing he question closer to the purpose of this blog, we might ask, “Why give?” A giver squanders his or her own resources which could go toward carrying on one’s own genetic agenda---again seeming to stare Darwin in the eye.
Even for a Christian, whose mandate is to give, must face the same issues. “Why should I give?”
Even for a Christian, whose mandate is to give, must face the same issues. “Why should I give?”
As Secret Giver and I have talked about the results in our own lives of our various giving experiences, we have reached one conclusion: it makes us feel good. Each of us comes from a different philosophical perspective, but we share a common experience in our giving. Perhaps this is enough; perhaps we will find deeper motivations and grander experiences over time. But for now, we leave the philosophical underpinning aside and bask in the warmth of the sun of a deed enjoyed.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
The gift of a lesson learned
My family is about as white as it is possible to be in this melting pot we call the United States. Known ancestors come from the British Isles, Germany, France and Holland. Though I’m brown-haired and hazel-eyed, my children are blond-haired and blue-eyed. In another era and in a different place, they could have passed for Nordic “Aryans” and would have been well within the norms for being thee Teutonic racial ideal. Not only do we tend to be white of skin, we tend to be Midwestern (Iowa and Colorado) and live in white neighborhoods. My ancestors also tend to be politically and religiously conservative. All this is to set the stage for an incident which my wife and I experienced in the late summer of 1971.
We were married in June, 1970 in San Diego - a white-only affair, in a white community---the church itself was actually stark white, perhaps emphasizing the whiteness of our lives. We moved to the Bronx in order to teach school during the 1971-72 school year. She taught first grade; I taught third (another lesson learned - don’t teach unless you have the calling - she does, I don’t).
1971 was a time not so far removed from the racially charged times of the late 1960s that we didn’t remember the fear and anxiety. I still remember the smoke rising from the Los Angeles Watts area during the summer of 1965. Skin color was a touchy issue, sometimes more than socially touchy.
Suddenly we were plunged into a racially and culturally diverse community. We lived on the Grand Concourse, just north of the Cross-Bronx Expressway. We walked about a mile to the school where we taught. Though the neighborhood was culturally and racially diverse, there were distinct lines drawn. The Grand Concourse was a thin white line where all the apartments were restricted to white residents. On the side streets there was a mixture of African American and Puerto Rican apartments. Housing was technically non-discriminatory, but we applied for an apartment in a building whose owner told our Puerto Rican principal that there was no vacancy. We got the apartment; she didn’t.
Prior to learning that NYC is not a place in which to own a car, we had our 1969 Pontiac Tempest with us. Mostly having it meant that before you parked for the night, you had to carefully check to see which side of the street would be swept. If you forgot, your car was impounded somewhere in New Jersey and there was no public transportation to New Jersey. But I digress.
One day, for some reason, we were driving the Pontiac on a parallel street to the Grand Concourse. It happened to be the street on which the Elevated ran. We stopped to shop and when we returned to our car, it would not start. Among my few talents, I cannot count auto repair or even good trouble-shooting skills. I understand the general theory, but even removing a bolt was and is a challenge.
I got out, had my wife pop the hood latch, and stared at the offending hunk of metal. I reached in and tugged at a couple of wires so my bride would think that I was actually savvy about this domain of the male ego. I asked her to try the ignition again. Nothing.
A cardinal rule of NYC streets is: Don’t Be Noticed. We stood out like a sore thumb: We were driving; we were in a disabled vehicle; the hood was up; I was scratching my head; we were white.
Suddenly, to my left, I felt a presence. I turned to look and found myself staring at the abdomen of a man. My eyes drifted up and then froze. He was black. I don’t mean brown; he was black as skin can get. I froze. All my whiteness was fully on display. Besides being in a distinct minority in that place and time, I felt half his height and certainly half his bulk — none of which was fat.
“Got a little trouble?” he said.
“Yes,” I gulped anticipating all the pain I was certain would follow.
“Let’s see here,” he said as he leaned into the engine compartment. “Go try the ignition,” he commanded. I slid into the driver’s seat, taking back one small part of the male domain. I turned the key. Not a peep from the engine.
He fiddled for a minute or two and said, “I see what the problem is.” Now I don’t know for the life of me how he knew. What magic is given to some people to know these things without tearing the whole engine down and putting it together again?
“I’ll be back,” he said, and crossed the street to the Elevated.
True to his word, in an hour he returned with a part in a brown paper bag. Removing and replacing the part, he said, “Try it again.” The engine roared to life. “How much do I owe you?” I asked with some trepidation (together my wife and I earned $1000 a month, of which fifty percent went to rent).
“Nothing,” he replied.
At least let me pay for the part,” I said, hardly believing my ears.
“No, I won’t take it.”
He closed the hood and stepped onto the sidewalk. I should’ve watched him walk away - he might have been an angel and I might have seen him disappear; but I didn’t.
A gift on top of a miracle smothered in kindness.
The gift I received was more than the five dollar part. I was wrenched from my comfortable white cocoon and thrust into a real rainbow world and found that people are nice on the other side of the color divide. I found heart, love, acceptance and giving--humanity, the commonality just under the skin. Every so often I bring my own heart back to this story to sit by the still-warm embers and bask in its heat and am inspired and challenged once again by an unknown man showing himself to be, for a moment, my neighbor, my brother.
We were married in June, 1970 in San Diego - a white-only affair, in a white community---the church itself was actually stark white, perhaps emphasizing the whiteness of our lives. We moved to the Bronx in order to teach school during the 1971-72 school year. She taught first grade; I taught third (another lesson learned - don’t teach unless you have the calling - she does, I don’t).
1971 was a time not so far removed from the racially charged times of the late 1960s that we didn’t remember the fear and anxiety. I still remember the smoke rising from the Los Angeles Watts area during the summer of 1965. Skin color was a touchy issue, sometimes more than socially touchy.
Suddenly we were plunged into a racially and culturally diverse community. We lived on the Grand Concourse, just north of the Cross-Bronx Expressway. We walked about a mile to the school where we taught. Though the neighborhood was culturally and racially diverse, there were distinct lines drawn. The Grand Concourse was a thin white line where all the apartments were restricted to white residents. On the side streets there was a mixture of African American and Puerto Rican apartments. Housing was technically non-discriminatory, but we applied for an apartment in a building whose owner told our Puerto Rican principal that there was no vacancy. We got the apartment; she didn’t.
Prior to learning that NYC is not a place in which to own a car, we had our 1969 Pontiac Tempest with us. Mostly having it meant that before you parked for the night, you had to carefully check to see which side of the street would be swept. If you forgot, your car was impounded somewhere in New Jersey and there was no public transportation to New Jersey. But I digress.
One day, for some reason, we were driving the Pontiac on a parallel street to the Grand Concourse. It happened to be the street on which the Elevated ran. We stopped to shop and when we returned to our car, it would not start. Among my few talents, I cannot count auto repair or even good trouble-shooting skills. I understand the general theory, but even removing a bolt was and is a challenge.
I got out, had my wife pop the hood latch, and stared at the offending hunk of metal. I reached in and tugged at a couple of wires so my bride would think that I was actually savvy about this domain of the male ego. I asked her to try the ignition again. Nothing.
A cardinal rule of NYC streets is: Don’t Be Noticed. We stood out like a sore thumb: We were driving; we were in a disabled vehicle; the hood was up; I was scratching my head; we were white.
Suddenly, to my left, I felt a presence. I turned to look and found myself staring at the abdomen of a man. My eyes drifted up and then froze. He was black. I don’t mean brown; he was black as skin can get. I froze. All my whiteness was fully on display. Besides being in a distinct minority in that place and time, I felt half his height and certainly half his bulk — none of which was fat.
“Got a little trouble?” he said.
“Yes,” I gulped anticipating all the pain I was certain would follow.
“Let’s see here,” he said as he leaned into the engine compartment. “Go try the ignition,” he commanded. I slid into the driver’s seat, taking back one small part of the male domain. I turned the key. Not a peep from the engine.
He fiddled for a minute or two and said, “I see what the problem is.” Now I don’t know for the life of me how he knew. What magic is given to some people to know these things without tearing the whole engine down and putting it together again?
“I’ll be back,” he said, and crossed the street to the Elevated.
True to his word, in an hour he returned with a part in a brown paper bag. Removing and replacing the part, he said, “Try it again.” The engine roared to life. “How much do I owe you?” I asked with some trepidation (together my wife and I earned $1000 a month, of which fifty percent went to rent).
“Nothing,” he replied.
At least let me pay for the part,” I said, hardly believing my ears.
“No, I won’t take it.”
He closed the hood and stepped onto the sidewalk. I should’ve watched him walk away - he might have been an angel and I might have seen him disappear; but I didn’t.
A gift on top of a miracle smothered in kindness.
The gift I received was more than the five dollar part. I was wrenched from my comfortable white cocoon and thrust into a real rainbow world and found that people are nice on the other side of the color divide. I found heart, love, acceptance and giving--humanity, the commonality just under the skin. Every so often I bring my own heart back to this story to sit by the still-warm embers and bask in its heat and am inspired and challenged once again by an unknown man showing himself to be, for a moment, my neighbor, my brother.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Nuclear Giving
Japan, the only nation that has felt the horror of atomic warfare, the only nation to taste the terror of nuclear destruction and radiation poisoning, is staring once again into the darkness created by subatomic particles--such a small nation to stare twice into the maw of a true Godzilla.
Many hero songs could be sung of those who risked their lives to save another from the watery grip of the tsunami. Many responded beyond their own known limits of courage to save. Now this bravery is of the enduring kind for most. But there is a small group, 55 reportedly, who dare enter that even-more-terrible terror inside the nuclear reactor. They do it repeatedly, routinely in order to keep a worse tragedy from befalling those they know and love and even those they don’t know.
They face almost certain death from radiation poisoning. Yet they return; these men who have the knowledge and skill to do that which is increasingly hazardous but so very necessary. Their deaths will not be pleasant. Their nation knows this well; 65 years is not too long a time for some to have known someone who died from it. Yet they go back into the curtain of invisible death.
They face almost certain death from radiation poisoning. Yet they return; these men who have the knowledge and skill to do that which is increasingly hazardous but so very necessary. Their deaths will not be pleasant. Their nation knows this well; 65 years is not too long a time for some to have known someone who died from it. Yet they go back into the curtain of invisible death.
Their giving is of an entirely different order of magnitude from mine. I am humbled by their gift. My paltry dollars, my few moments of giving cost me little and I’ve already spoken of the joy that is my reward. Their giving dwarfs mine, an Atlas to a microbe. Theirs is Christ –level giving. He said, “Greater love has no man than this: that he give his life for his friends.” (New Testament, Book of John, Chapter 15, verse 13). He gave the same way. He would understand these men. He and they walk the same road. Knowing what is before, they walk steadily away from safety to their own death, but into life for others.
It is not to shame you or guilt me that I think these thoughts; but rather to put all giving onto a continuum. Mine is a small gift; theirs larger than life. But we share this: that we are giving; that we know the contentment of giving and reap the reward of that peace that is beyond speech or comprehension—the experience itself. I can’t truly know their feelings and thoughts. But I can, from this small perspective and from this long distance, know for a certainty that they are doing this from the same heart as I; from the same well of caring. They could not do what they do with just courage. Their motivation must come from a deeper place, from love itself.
It is not to shame you or guilt me that I think these thoughts; but rather to put all giving onto a continuum. Mine is a small gift; theirs larger than life. But we share this: that we are giving; that we know the contentment of giving and reap the reward of that peace that is beyond speech or comprehension—the experience itself. I can’t truly know their feelings and thoughts. But I can, from this small perspective and from this long distance, know for a certainty that they are doing this from the same heart as I; from the same well of caring. They could not do what they do with just courage. Their motivation must come from a deeper place, from love itself.
May we who will survive this disaster be enriched by their gift and freed to give even dearer gifts.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Generosity and Ego
Many years ago a wealthy gentleman here in Portland, Oregon made an offer to the board of a large community center: I’ll donate $2 million to your building fund, but only if you name the center after me. The board debated his proposal and ultimately agreed. The donor’s name has been prominently displayed over the building’s entrance ever since.
This story has stuck with me, partly because it’s fun to see rich people look foolish, but also because I secretly want recognition for my own generosity. For example, I recall making a donation to a local nonprofit a few years back, then feeling disappointed when my name didn't appear on the donor page of their website.
Our egos crave recognition and approval. This isn’t “bad” or “wrong” - it’s just the way we’re wired. Anonymous giving is an affront to our egos. The ego says “Hey, wait a minute - look at what a generous person I am!” So, for me, anonymous giving is a powerful way to gain insight into the workings of ego. And, it helps activate deeper motivations than ego gratification: sharing gladly what I have with others; recognizing that we’re all interconnected; and feeling the delight which comes through small acts of kindness.
Joy
We usually think of fun, pleasure, happiness and joy as being nearly identical. Not being the editor of a dictionary, I’m not going to be held liable for an incorrect definition, so I’m going to venture out on a long limb and try not to saw it off behind me.
All four of these words describe a sense of well-being; all four share a common positive experience. Fun, pleasure and happiness, though, are usually considered products of exterior events. A roller-coaster ride is fun (well, for those with great intestinal fortitude, at least). Pleasure comes from a good meal, great conversation and other human activities. The butterfly of happiness alights on the flower of our senses for a moment with the advent of a new love. But another flower calls and the happiness departs; the meal ends and we are presented with the bill; the ride ends and a sense of queasiness overwhelms.
Joy, I contend, is not like these. It is not temporary; it takes much to dispel its sense; it can be present even in pain and sorrow. For example, the joy of love may not be quenched in the presence of death in having loved the beloved. Unjustly imprisoned, one can rejoice in a clear conscience.
So what does this have to do with secret giving? Good question. I have found that the result of secret giving is fun, is pleasure, is happiness. But more than all these, or perhaps the sum of them all, anonymous giving is joy. It is a joy of the abdominal sort, tucked up under the ribs next to the heart where we experience the fluttering of new love and the excitement of cresting the Disneyland’s Matterhorn. But it lasts longer than the temporary thrill and outlasts the waning
birth pangs of the discovery of love. In memory’s eye, it can ever be fresh, turned over and over, worn smoothed with the remembering but still carrying the weight of the original. It is the deep and the high of human experience, plunging one into the well of goodness and raising to the soaring heights of all that is it is to be human.
Welcome
Hello, welcome to “The Society of the Muted Right Hand.” We expect a great deal of puzzlement over the name of our group. This first message is an attempt to give just a bit of background and the reason we chose this name.
Keeping silent about giving is difficult. But secret giving is the most exciting and rewarding of all giving. It’s like having a delicious secret; one that can be held close giving warmth to the heart. So join in the fun. Find a way to give secretly and find that joy which comes from having and keeping a secret and knowing that the world is just a little better for that secret.
Giving is a part of the warp and woof of U.S. culture. Per capita, we give more than most, if not all, other nations. We are a generous people. Perhaps it comes from our religious heritage; perhaps from our self-reliant nature; perhaps from the inherited sense of being in this all together. But in our lifetime, we have moved from giving within the family or village circle, to corporate giving. We give to charities, to large institutions, to groups and organizations more than to the individual. Giving itself has become corporate - United Way, charitable runs and walks, food drives at work, group participation in charitable activities. In this kind of giving, we lose sight of the person to whom the gift is being given; we lose the ability to be anonymous in that gift.
We’re not saying this is wrong. But to this list we’d like to suggest adding one more element - giving anonymously. In the course of this interchange between us, we will share some reasons for this and some of our experiences. We encourage you to join in the joy of this type of giving and then share your experiences. Since the group can be anonymous, we will only know of your own joy and learn from your own artful way of giving anonymously.
A word about the title: Most of the world’s great religions have extolled giving in a way that does not reward the giver. Tibetan Buddhists have a training slogan, “Don’t expect applause.” Jesus said “If you give for reward, you are a hypocrite.” He also said, “Don’t let your right hand know what your left hand is doing when you give.” From this, the title comes: “The Society of the Muted Right Hand.”
Keeping silent about giving is difficult. But secret giving is the most exciting and rewarding of all giving. It’s like having a delicious secret; one that can be held close giving warmth to the heart. So join in the fun. Find a way to give secretly and find that joy which comes from having and keeping a secret and knowing that the world is just a little better for that secret.
About “us”: The “we” of the above paragraphs are two guys who over the last 25 years have met over a restaurant meal every two or three months. We were introduced to each other by one of our wives and have grown in friendship ever since. We are very different from one another: one of us is a searching Buddhist, the other a seeking Christian; one is from an East coast Jewish family, the other grew up in a fundamentalist group in San Diego; one participated in anti-war
protests, the other hardly knew the 60’s happened. We share a great deal, nonetheless. One of these shared values is that of giving. We have arrived at our mutual understanding of the joy of anonymous giving from our different paths, but have found great satisfaction in sharing our mutual joy.
protests, the other hardly knew the 60’s happened. We share a great deal, nonetheless. One of these shared values is that of giving. We have arrived at our mutual understanding of the joy of anonymous giving from our different paths, but have found great satisfaction in sharing our mutual joy.
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