The Rich Also Cry

Rachel writes:

I will warn you, just in case "thank you God for health, wealth and happiness" is as deep as you're prepared to go this holiday season. I'll admit, I want to go deeper. The way I see it, the holidays are all about joy. We so often become enslaved, especially on days like Black Friday, by the things we think will bring us joy and then it all turns out to be so counterfeit. I do not want counterfeit joy.

The other day, I came across something in my private notes and ended up fleshing out the memory for at least an hour or two: during the nine hour drive from Arua to Kampala, Uganda, I sank into the backseat as I surrendered myself to a place of real solitude. For hours, I stared emptily out the window, my eyes glazing motionlessly over savannah grasslands and villages engulfed in matoke trees. As the vehicle jostled violently through the red dirt, I was engrossed in thoughts about poverty. After all, we were withdrawing from one of the most devastating situations on the face of the planet. Rich noticed my silent tears as they came rushing out of nowhere; he's good about catching every teardrop. When you're processing things like these, it can become like a hurricane on the inside. As the crying subsided, the abolitionist in me raged invisibly against the slavery of starvation. I wrestled hard with American wealth; I still do. Believe me, I always will. However, just as my heart was beginning to move beyond the place of righteous anger and toward the ugly place of hardness, a Ugandan drove past us with a bumper sticker across his rearview window. It read, "The Rich Also Cry." Oh how I needed the reminder.

Believe it or not, this post isn't about global poverty or the current blind spot of American Christianity. I could, and likely will, write a thousand other posts in order to advocate for the poor of South Sudan. I actually just wanted to be real with you about my own poverty of spirit in hopes to provoke a sense of gratitude in you for yours. The rich also cry.

"I will restore to you the years the locusts have eaten" -Joel 2:25

I hope you all had a beautiful Thanksgiving. It's a deeply personal holiday for me. Maybe it's because I met my husband in Rome eight years ago on Thanksgiving night, in the line to get turkey. Maybe it's because my Aunt Barb's teenage heart broke for three families back in 1970, inspiring her to prepare a few extra turkey dinners in my Nana's kitchen. Maybe it's because her heartbreak blossomed into a community-wide movement of compassion, Thanksgiving Meals on Wheels, which just yesterday delivered 20,000 turkey dinners to needy families throughout the Twin Cities. Or maybe it's as simple as this: my dad told me as a kid that the key to everything was "gratitude."

I've been meditating a lot on the vulnerability of Jesus. He is the definition of vulnerability. To simply behold a crucifix, and look at it awhile, is to enroll in a class on love. The very posture of Jesus, with his arms wide open and his heart exposed, teaches us what love looks like. He bled. Can you think of anything in all the world more vulnerable than the slain Lamb of God? I long to be vulnerable like that for the sake of love. This Thanksgiving, I am most grateful for my deepest wounds. The rich also cry, and I've done more than cry. I've bled. I've bled hard. But that's not the end of my story. Jesus heals and gratitude has changed my wounds into scars. With invisible scars on my hands and a fresh heart piercing, I now set out to heal others.

I now know well that the Eucharist literally has the power to transform everything. As every theology student knows, the word itself stems from the Greek word "eucharistia" which simply means "thanksgiving." I'm now beginning to understand, not just inside my head but with the whole of my life, what my dad meant when he said this was the key. Saint Ignatius of Antioch said, "I am God's wheat, and I shall be ground by the teeth of beasts that I may become the pure bread of Christ." Jesus crucified has mysteriously taken everything I used to profusely hate and turned it all into my pot of gold.

In the words of Fulton Sheen, "Must not the seed falling to the ground die before it can spring forth into new life? Must not grapes be crushed that there may be wine to drink, and wheat ground that there may be bread to eat? Why then cannot pain be made redemption? Why under the alchemy of Divine Love cannot crosses be turned into crucifixes? Why cannot we use a cross to become God-like? We cannot become like him in his power; we cannot become like him in his knowledge. There is only one way we can become like him, and that is in the way he bore his sorrows and his cross. And that way was with love. It is love that makes pain bearable."

As I take a good hard look at the situation among the South Sudanese, I see the epitome of poverty. I see the epitome of human suffering. I personally see the bloodiest of humanity's wounds. While I will never quite know what it's like to be one of them, I understand in some capacity a number of their deep wounds because of my own experience of loss and injustice. Real service involves real solidarity and vulnerability that hurts. I'm ready to give that. As I seek to follow the way of love, the way of Jesus who poured himself out, I am now more grateful than ever to have my pot of gold.

No Fear on the Nile

Rich writes:

It's actually a pretty funny story. Rachel and I were with the bishop of northern Uganda and his security guards as we waited to board a boat that would take us for a ride down the Nile River. The bishop organized the boat ride as a thank you gift for us right before our return to the states. We were sitting on decrepit picnic benches eating lunch beside the Nile and since we had been in Uganda for about three weeks, I was used to eating with my fingers. I was carefully picking through the fish, so as not to swallow any bones, when I suddenly realized a large black object quickly approaching in my peripheral. Within seconds, a tremendous baboon came running at me, swiping his long arms and reaching out for my lunch. I immediately jumped off of the bench as the baboon, looking like Lebron James dishing a layup, managed to steal my lunch and knock the majority of leftovers onto the dirt ground.

"Richard!" the bishop shouted as the baboon was quickly gathering the remaining food scraps out of the dirt. "Take courage! You take fear!" His words hit me hard, and they still resonate. "Richard," he continued, "I saw the baboon running at you. I was coming to swat it away, but you did not stand your ground and face him! You ran away in fear, and now you have nothing to eat. Why did you do that?" I had no real response. For the entire boat ride, I couldn't stop thinking about what had happened. Until then, the bishop had never raised his voice. Although he was being slightly facetious, I could tell that he was truly upset. In an area of the world where a famine had been declared, a meal was just wasted. Whether he intended to admonish me or not, I was cut to the heart. I heard the voice of Jesus, "Richard, take courage. You take fear."

Since that afternoon on the Nile, I've been meditating a lot about courage. Naturally, it has brought me to the fourteenth chapter of Matthew where Jesus calls Peter to get out of the boat and walk towards him on the water. Jesus' words to Peter are almost identical to the bishop's words to me: "Take heart, it is I; have no fear... Oh you of little faith, why did you doubt?" Getting out of the boat and walking on water is more than an act of faith. It is also an act of obedience. It's just doing it. It's stepping into the squat rack and just getting under the bar. Real obedience requires real courage, not the kind you muster up all on your own. The kind you muster up all on your own isn't bad, but it won't move mountains. The key to courageous obedience in facing the impossible is locking eyes with the Master. Peter defied the laws of gravity and walked upon the waves of the lake with his eyes trustfully locked on Jesus. We all know what happened when his eyes became unglued.

If I'm being transparent with myself, I need to grow radically in the virtue of courage as Jesus asks me to get out of the boat, so to speak, and lead my family to northern Uganda. Classic moral philosophers define courage as doing what is right and good despite external threats. I would rather avoid all external threats and cling to what is safe and predictable. I would rather remain in the comfort of the boat or, in other words, the comfort of America. For the disciple, however, obedience isn't optional. He's either "Lord" or he isn't. I cannot deny that he is calling me to "come" and in my heart of hearts, I know that there is no safer place than outside the boat and inside the loving gaze of Jesus. Gazing on him, gazing on me, in the middle of raging waters - that's absolute safety.

Smarties and Peace in South Sudan

Rachel writes:

The Sweet Martha's jar in my Nana's kitchen was always full of smarties. The jar never moved. It stayed right to the left of the stove, and we all scooped smarties with sneaky hands and smirks on our faces. I think we thought we were smarter than Nana, but now I know that's impossible. There wasn't a safer place than Nana's kitchen nor a more familiar thing in all the world than that little glass jar. None of us grandchildren even liked smarties all that much, but we'd scoop them out by the handfuls. All of our little hands just kept scooping. I think Nana knew it had to do with something more than just smarties. I think she knew it was peace we were scooping by the handfuls whenever we were in her kitchen.

The exuberant cries of children echoed throughout the refugee settlement as Rich passed out hundreds and hundreds of smarties. Amidst the cries of joy, the world around me grew dim as I encountered this one particular child. The malnourished and traumatized little boy stared at the smarty in his frail hands, unsure of what to do with it. Tears fall from my chin and form puddles as I try to write about it. The real life encounter was impossible for me to process emotionally. It wasn't until I was back in the states showing iPhone photos to my brother in Houston that the ton of bricks finally hit. And it's still hitting. I encountered all of the sorrow of South Sudan right inside of this little boy.

The children in South Sudan long for peace. It's that simple. Then again, it always is, isn't it? Violence has forced nearly one million South Sudanese children from their homes. Violence has kept nearly two million of them out of school. More than a third of them are malnourished. All of this could be reversed by peace. And don't they deserve to scoop up peace in handfuls and thrive in it, just like I did in Nana's kitchen? Just like we all did?

Perhaps the peace that flooded Nana's kitchen was born of her silence and her prayer. After all, she would pray a rosary in that kitchen each and every morning before the break of dawn. In sheer silence, she'd end with a whisper as she begged God "for world peace." She may not have solved global problems, but the peace inside her kitchen solved problems in me. The peace inside her kitchen solved problems in all who gathered around her table. In the words of Mother Teresa, "The fruit of silence is prayer. The fruit of prayer is faith. The fruit of faith is love. The fruit of love is service. The fruit of service is peace." As we prepare to give our lives in evangelization and service to the South Sudanese, we invite you to join us in the place where it all begins. In the silence of your own heart, and perhaps even your own kitchen, please join us in praying for peace in South Sudan.