The Power Of A Whisper Part 13

As I pondered up those promised blessings-blessings of G.o.d's constant guidance, of satisfaction and strength-I sensed G.o.d handing me a dose of hope: "Bill, you can opt to live this way. The choice is yours."

EVERY HONEST PERSON OF MEANS I KNOW CAN POINT TO A half-dozen moments along life's journey when G.o.d opened up a door or brought along the right person, the right creative idea or the right opportunity, and it saved their financial hide. It was certainly true for those of us who started Willow. From 1975 until 1980, both personally and corporately we lived within one week of financial extinction. You don't forget an experience like that. You don't forget the feelings of constant shortage, the worry over lack of provision, the stress of payments you can't make, the embarra.s.sment every time the church phone rings and another angry creditor waits for you on the line.

We didn't get through those days on our own power. G.o.d whispered to some adults in our congregation-people who actually wore suits that fit and had "real" jobs and homes that they owned-and moved them to pitch in and help us keep Willow financially viable.

During those years of being under-resourced, I experienced time and again how it felt to be on the receiving end of help. I developed a deep level of grat.i.tude-a humble realization that my life would not be the same, were it not for the doors G.o.d has opened for me and the people who responded to his whispers on my behalf.

n.o.body reaches well-resourced status alone. It always takes the help of another.

In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus announced that a distinguis.h.i.+ng mark of his followers would be their concern for those who were hungry and naked, shelterless and impoverished.10 As a young pastor, I wanted to bear this distinguis.h.i.+ng mark of Jesus. But what was "concern" supposed to look like? What was my role supposed to be?

As opportunities presented themselves, I began traveling to parts of the world where life seemed unbearably broken. I had witnessed poverty in American cities, but this level of societal decimation cast the term "poor" in a whole new light. G.o.d began to reveal to me the difference between poverty and extreme poverty, and that the latter was something I could actually help fix.11 Let me explain what I mean.

Of the more than six billion people alive today, three billion-approximately one half of humanity-live on less than two dollars a day. What's more, these people have virtually no access to capital that would allow them to start a business or buy an acre of farmland that would dramatically change the trajectory of their lives.

That is what is called extreme poverty, something most Americans know nothing about.

I watched a short doc.u.mentary recently about a reporter from CNN who was studying the effects of hunger on the poor. During the creation of the film, the reporter interviewed a man who had lived with pervasive hunger his entire life, a reality that inspired the reporter to boldly state, "Well, I'm going to live your life with you for thirty full days."

The reporter planned to eat exactly what the impoverished man ate-and no more-for one month straight. By day twenty-one he had to bail. The CNN reporter was so dizzy that he nearly fainted and so lethargic that his mind all but shut down. His body began wasting away until finally, he said, "I'm done."

Imagine living your entire life in that kind of poverty.

Once a year at Willow, during the Celebration of Hope experience I mentioned to you earlier, our entire congregation is invited to eat nothing but rice and beans for five days-a full work week-and to drink nothing but water from the tap. It gives you a whole new respect for poverty's devastating effects when you start to cave on the morning of day three.

People in extreme poverty experience a constant state of hunger, but their plight certainly doesn't end there. Another tough reality they juggle is not having a place to call home.

I was in Cairo, Egypt, some time ago, and as I walked down the street, I took in the atrocious living conditions all around me. I saw a burned-out automobile lying upside-down on the sidewalk and fleetingly wondered why city workers hadn't come by to drag the eyesore away-until I saw the answer, plain as day: an entire family was living inside. I shook my head and fought off tears that were determined to flow.

While in India a short time after that, I noticed that a construction crew was putting in a new sewage system in one area of Mumbai. Giant pipes, probably eight feet in diameter, lined the road, waiting to be installed. And until those pipes were laid in the ground, they served as home to hundreds of families in need. When a temporary sewer pipe serves as the best shelter around, we can be sure G.o.d's ire is stirred.

One night recently I was watching another doc.u.mentary, this one on worldwide homelessness. In addition to detailing troubling statistics, the film explored what happens in people's psyches and souls when, for whatever reason, they are forced to exist in a tragic, shelterless state. It was a difficult ninety minutes to take in.

Images of gaunt, desperate people enduring cold, windy rainstorms that washed right through their stick huts-and of children who didn't know what it meant to not be muddy and wet-flashed across the screen. And then there was a commercial break.

During that four-minute interlude, I channel-surfed through a few stations and stopped when I saw the camera panning a multi-million-dollar mansion. The host introduced the show-Cribs, it was called-and then began enumerating the overkill features of the fifteen-bedroom, twelve-bath celebrity home being featured on this week's episode.

The juxtaposition of those two images nearly did me in. More than one hundred million people will sleep huddled on the earth's dirt floor tonight while others rattle around in their nearly empty but luxurious "cribs."

The next day, when I pulled into my own driveway, I stopped and considered my place on the privilege pyramid. "G.o.d, I don't understand all of the reasons why blessing has come my way like it has," I prayed, "but by your grace I'm among the most privileged people in the world, especially as it pertains to having food and shelter. Thank you for blessing me this way."

I opened my eyes after praying and caught sight of a torn window screen that had been nagging at me for some time to be fixed. Somehow in the light of that moment, a little tear in a window screen didn't seem like a very big deal.

EXTREME POVERTY INVOLVES OTHER ISSUES AS WELL. SANITAtion is a vital concern-how would you like to wear the same dirty, threadbare clothes each day and never take a warm shower again in your life? The need for clean water is among the top issues on the extreme poverty list. A child dies every fifteen seconds from water-related diseases,12 some of the easiest maladies to prevent and cure.

Limited access to medical treatment and education top the injustice chart in many parts of the world. With governmental corruption at the highest levels, and violence, abuse and dissension at every turn, I often feel overwhelmed by the level of need. It can be tempting to become numb to these problems because the need for change is staggering. How can I make a difference when the challenges are this complex?

"Spend yourself on behalf of the hungry," that verse in Isaiah had said. "Spend yourself..." I decided to start here.

I began to ask G.o.d to show me ways that I could spend my talents differently by leveraging relational networks on behalf of the poor. He brought to my attention people who could net big kingdom gains in the battle against poverty. I began challenging construction guys who could build affordable housing, medical people who could staff free clinics a few times a month and computer wizards who could head to Africa and teach entire villages how to navigate online tasks.

I asked him to show me how I might spend my time differently. What prayers did I need to pray on behalf of the poor-both in the United States and in far-off lands? What books did I need to read? What service opportunities did I need to invest myself in, so that my eyes and my heart would be further opened to the plight facing so many people around the globe?

I also wanted to know how to spend my money differently. Even little expenditures could make a difference. If I'm going to drink coffee every day, for example, it might as well be coffee of the fair-trade variety.

As G.o.d provided definite promptings for large and small ways I could effect change, I began sharing those insights with the broader Willow family, who quickly caught G.o.d's vision for justice among the poor. And with each stride made-orphans rescued from loneliness in Africa, ministry partners.h.i.+ps forged in Latin America, food banks stocked to the ceiling in the Chicago area, earnest prayers uttered, offerings collected, heartfelt songs sung in thanksgiving to G.o.d-I marveled a little more at the incredible people and means and circ.u.mstances G.o.d has used to make good on a whispered promise to a Dutch teen in a Nairobi slum, forty-something years ago.

James 1:9a10 says, "Believers who are poor should take pride that G.o.d has made them spiritually rich. Those who are rich should take pride that G.o.d has shown them that they are spiritually poor" (NCV). As I look back on the first fifty-eight years of my life, one of the things I'm most thankful for is that G.o.d has revealed the power of this truth. I may be well-resourced compared to the vast majority of the world, but am I ever spiritually poor! But for the grace of G.o.d, I'd be a sinner left to fend for myself.

The next verse in that pa.s.sage says this: "The rich will die like a wild flower in the gra.s.s. The sun rises with burning heat and dries up the plants. The flower falls off, and its beauty is gone. In the same way the rich will die while they are still taking care of business" (NCV). Even as I read those words now, I am refreshed in my belief that given the brevity of life, there is no better way to spend my days than on behalf of under-resourced people who desperately need care.

It was in the midst of my doing a deep dive into the subject of extreme poverty that G.o.d began to rock my world on another front as well. I began to sense his whisper on the topic of racial injustice.

It was April of 1999, and I was ready to head out on what was sure to be a picture-perfect vacation-just Lynne, the kids and me; ideal sailing conditions; and the prospect of countless hours of uninterrupted snorkeling and windsurfing. Even as I reflect on it now, the words sheer bliss come to mind.

I was more than ready to unwind from what had been a taxing season of ministry. I expected a relaxed pace, agenda-less days and hours of great conversation as I caught up on what was new in my kids' lives. What I didn't see coming was that I was about to be the direct-hit target of a ma.s.sive spiritual tsunami, courtesy of G.o.d himself. What you read in the coming pages may be a spiritual tsunami for you, as well, as I invite you to walk alongside me on an eye-opening journey that still leaves me shaking my head.

The day before I was to leave for my vacation, one of Willow's leaders handed me a book and mentioned that if a rainy day snuck into the scheme of things-perish the thought-at least now I'd have something to read. Thankfully, it didn't rain. But there was a night when everyone else went to bed early. I wasn't sleepy, and having no one to talk to and nothing else to do, I reached into my briefcase, found the recommended book, leaned back in the c.o.c.kpit of the small boat we were borrowing for the week and turned to page 1 of Divided by Faith13-a book written by a couple of sociology professors.

Fifteen pages into the book I realized this would be no light read. I had done research on racism before. I had been to seminars and even had given a talk on the subject once. But for some reason the content of this book sneaked into crevices of my consciousness in new ways. I flipped page after sobering page and, for the first time in my life, saw my country's history for what it really was. Now, I absolutely love my country-there is nowhere on the planet I'd rather live than in the United States. But as the authors exposed the historical truths of the early days of America, I couldn't help but feel embarra.s.sed and saddened by the ugliness of it all.

FOR MANY DECADES, MOST WHITE GRADE-SCHOOL KIDS HAVE been fed a glorified notion that when the British came over to occupy American territory, they befriended all of the Indians and then bellied up to a giant Thanksgiving table to enjoy a feast. But the truth, according to historical doc.u.ments from this era of U.S. history, is a far cry from that.

When British citizens first settled onto American soil, they did so by annihilating the hundreds of thousands of Native Americans who rightfully owned all of this land. The overtakers intentionally introduced smallpox and other deadly viruses into certain Indian villages with intent to kill, even resorting to distributing blankets from virus-infected people to Indian children and then essentially telling them to go home and enjoy a good night's rest.

Once the genocide was successful enough to free up sufficient land on which to establish this country, our ancestors went in search of strong backs. They built s.h.i.+ps and sailed them to the Ivory Coast of Africa, where entire clans of families-men, women, grandparents, even children, in total numbering more than ten million people-were kidnapped, chained, dragged to sh.o.r.e, packed like sardines onto boats and s.h.i.+pped off from their homeland to the colonies of America, today proudly referred to as the "land of the free and home of the brave."

About one-third of these first "African Americans" died en route in the holds of those s.h.i.+ps. Their inhumane treatment even in death was an indication of what was to come. Rather than being given a proper burial, they were tossed overboard in full view of their spouses and families, left as shark bait in the dark seas below. The two-thirds of that original population who made it to the other side didn't fare much better. Upon arrival, they were cleaned up, sprayed off, stood on auction blocks and sold to the highest bidder. I cringe even as I type this. Who would allow injustice like that?

I found myself thinking that if this abhorrent scheme had lasted a few months, a few years or even a few decades before being righted, then perhaps I would feel less shame than I did. But in reality, the slave-trading practice, which was started elsewhere but was really "perfected" on American soil, lasted more than 350 years. With G.o.d's eyes watching the entire time.

G.o.d saw white men working black men into a state of exhaustion on their farms, beating, maiming or even killing them if they slacked off. As night fell, G.o.d saw white men rape the wives and daughters of the slaves they had abused all day long. G.o.d saw slave owners-our early forefathers as well as many pastors of local churches-salve their consciousnesses with lies: African Americans were "less than fully human, did not possess souls, and were incapable of learning."14 In short, G.o.d saw as abhorrent injustice pervaded his beautiful earth-and his Bride, the church.

The raging injustice before his eyes kindled his pa.s.sion. And the more I read, the more it kindled mine.

IN THE c.o.c.kPIT OF THAT SAILBOAT, I WAS REMINDED OF A portion of Scripture in Mark 11 that I'd read dozens of times before. As the story goes, one day Jesus decides to travel all the way to Jerusalem to wors.h.i.+p G.o.d in the temple. He enters the temple area, expecting to find people wors.h.i.+ping the living G.o.d. Instead, he sees slick salesmen who have turned the holy place into a shopping mall. Understandably, Jesus is incensed. He overturns the tables of the moneychangers and the benches of those selling trinkets and doves, and then he forbids anyone from carrying merchandise through the temple courts.

According to the text, he wrapped up the events of the day with these well-known words, "Is it not written: 'My house will be called a house of prayer for all nations'? But you have made it 'a den of robbers.'"

When I was young, I was told in Sunday school that Jesus cleansed the temple because he didn't think greedy people's practices had any place in a church setting. But with an increased awareness of racism floating around in my mind on the boat that April night, I began to reflect on the pa.s.sage with new eyes. It became obvious to me that there was another form of injustice that needed to be resolved in the temple that day. In addition to the economic corruption unfolding before Jesus' eyes, biblical scholars describe a subplot to the story that involved the Jews squeezing out people of other races-people from "other" nations. Their arrogance and superiority complex didn't sit too well with Jesus, who said in response, "My house will be called a house of prayer for all nations."

For all nations.

The One who wore justice like skin essentially said to the Church, "Mono-cultural, mono-ethnic and mono-racial do not fit the dream my Father and I have for you. I want my house to be a house of prayer for all races. For all cultures. For all ethnicities. For all nations!"

On that night of my "picture-perfect" vacation, more than enjoying the gentle rocking motion of a boat anch.o.r.ed in a moonlit bay, I experienced a powerful, divinely appointed world-rocking experience I won't soon forget. In a flash of insight G.o.d brought to mind everything I had learned throughout my life on the topic of injustice-and of racial injustice in particular-and said, in effect, "Bill, it's time to up the ante on your involvement in this regard."

People matter to G.o.d. All people matter to G.o.d. And there are structural injustices in our generation that need to be torn down in order for G.o.d's love for his people to flow through those of us who claim the name of Christ. In not-so-subtle terms G.o.d was whispering to me a challenge: "I want you to step up, Bill. And preferably, to do so now."

The reason G.o.d's whisper was so jolting to me is that I've never before considered myself racist. For as long as I can remember I have had friends of all ethnicities and backgrounds and have made a point of embracing people for who they are, regardless of the color of their skin.

My mentor since my college days, Dr. Gilbert Bilezikian, had spent part of his life as a refugee in World War II and had seen his beloved grandparents wiped out by racism's evil ways. Because of his experience, he made it a point to drill into his students' minds Scriptures like Galatians 3:28. "There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, neither male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus," it says.

"The church is the one place in the world where all of these superficial delineations are left at the door!" Dr. B's heavily accented voice would declare. "It does not matter if you are rich or poor, if you are educated or uneducated, if you are successful or unsuccessful, if you are athletic or clumsy. Whether you are black or white, man or woman, young or old, you are welcomed in the church. In this place, all are family!"

Since Willow's founding, we have tried to preserve that type of radical acceptance as a core value-not out of obligation, but because it reflects the heart of G.o.d.

My respect for people of all races and backgrounds also stemmed from the beliefs of my father. When I was growing up, my dad was determined that his wife and kids would defy the stereotype of our rather h.o.m.ogenous community and instead have open arms to welcome every person from every stripe.

When I was just a little guy-four or five years old, maybe-I used to go to work with my dad. His firm s.h.i.+pped fresh fruits and vegetables from all over the United States into a central warehouse and then distributed them to various places within our community. Truck drivers would load their trucks and then go to the stores, the restaurants, the hotels-and often times, they'd do all this with me in tow. During their deliveries, I was their helper-well, as much of a helper as a preschool kid can be.

One morning, my dad proudly introduced me to a staff member named L.V., one of the firm's African American drivers. He said, "Billy, this is L. V. Perry, one of the finest drivers in the entire company. I want you to spend the next two or three days making deliveries with him. You are in good hands with L.V., Billy. Very good hands."

L.V. was the most honorable man you could ever hope to know. He was a friend of our family's for the better part of thirty years-actually, he was a member of our family...or at least that's how Dad treated him.

Later on, during my high school days, I would hear people refer to African Americans using the n-word or other shameful, derogatory names, and it all sounded so foreign to me. "Obviously, they've never met L. V. Perry," I'd think-or any of the other black people I knew, for that matter. How could they make those blanket statements about an entire group of people? I couldn't get my brain around the insanity of the comments I'd hear. I could dispute every single slur, based solely on the black people I knew and loved.

During those days, it was as if G.o.d said to me, "Bill, don't you dare lose your memories of L.V. He-as well as every other person on this planet, whether black, white, red, yellow or any combination thereof-is my kid. I want them treated equitably, with exactly the same tender care as you yourself would want."

So, while I figured I'd enjoyed a decent track record regarding treating all people with respect, I knew upon reading Divided by Faith that G.o.d was asking for something more. Although my att.i.tudes and actions had not added to racial tensions that seemed to abound, it was equally true that I was doing nothing to tear down the systemic inequalities that kept the scales tilted to the white man's side. I happened upon a quote that week that said that most of us weigh a hundred-and-some or two-hundred-and-some pounds, but it's the six pounds of skin on each of us that makes all the difference in the world. What a heartbreaking reality.

The superficial six pounds of skin: that's the part G.o.d was asking me to help others learn to look past.

Ireturned from that nonrelaxing (but spiritually rich) vacation and couldn't shake the whispers I'd received. I reread Emerson and Smith's contribution two times through, and I picked up everything I could find on the subject of racial reconciliation, opening my eyes to a side of reality of which I had not been fully aware, and immersing myself in the truth. Additionally, I began involving myself in more and more relations.h.i.+ps that crossed racial lines, and my wife and I started a small business with a family of a different race, in order to get some graduate-school-level training on the challenges involved in being people of color in a world that favors white. But despite how worthwhile all those efforts seemed, G.o.d wanted to further refine my approach.

ABROAD DEFINITION OF BIGOTRY IS A NEGATIVE Pa.s.sION toward an entire group of people. It is the tendency to impute to the collective the negative characteristics of the few, and it is something that, sadly, both you and I do. Here's a little proof: bigotry is flying to Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, being transported from the airport to the hotel by a cab driver who has a case of the "nasties" that day, then coming back to the States and saying, "French people are jerks!"

There is something evil in us that wants to feel superior and that wants above all else to be big. We want to be seen as smart and strong, as "in" and "with it" and cool. And the cheapest way to accomplish these things is to make others feel "less than" and inferior.

The late British author C. S. Lewis referred to this dynamic as the phenomenon of the "inner ring," and describes its power this way: "I believe that in all men's lives at certain periods, and in many men's lives at all periods between infancy and extreme old age, one of the most dominant elements is the desire to be inside the local Ring and the terror of being left outside."15 In picking apart the phenomenon, Lewis exposes humankind's depraved desire to form themselves and their approved list of friends into an exclusive club that derives a sick and sinful pleasure from keeping other people out. In the final a.n.a.lysis, it is what the Bible calls a pure manifestation of sin.

Let me show you how it works.

I was traveling in Europe many years ago and, after having missed a couple of flight connections, wound up in Heathrow Airport in London. A group had flown me to Europe to do some teaching there, and because they were trying to cut costs, I had a bargain ticket in hand-one that is utterly worthless once you've accidentally missed the flight. Trouble was, I was due to preach at Willow that weekend and sort of needed to get home.

I remember explaining all of this to the disinterested ticketing agent, who stared back at me with a look that said, "Where'd you pick up that ticket? At a garage sale?" He told me that I didn't have a prayer for resolving my situation, since there was only one flight back to Chicago that would get me there in time to teach, and that the flight in question had been completely booked for well over a month.

He asked me to take a seat in the gate area and offered a noncommittal, "We'll have to wait and see."

A few minutes later he began boarding the flight. After everybody else was loaded in, he turned and walked my way, boarding pa.s.s in hand. "There is one seat left. If you want it, it's yours," he said.

I thanked him and rushed down the jetway, stepped into the plane and looked for the seat number on my boarding pa.s.s. Any guesses as to where my designated seat was located? First cla.s.s! Who says there is no G.o.d?

Now, on some domestic flights first cla.s.s seats are identical to every other seat except for the curtain that says you're big cheese. But international first cla.s.s is a whole 'nother deal. The seats are more like sofas, and from the moment you reach cruising alt.i.tude, it's champagne and caviar for you-until the serious food is served.

Halfway through the flight, while I was enjoying my five-course dinner and stimulating conversation with all the affluent people up front, I noticed a couple of economy-seat people from the rear of the plane infringing on our s.p.a.ce. Evidently their a.s.signed lavatories were full, and they thought they'd just borrow ours. As I saw them walk past, I felt a strange urge to summon the first-cla.s.s flight attendant and say, "You'll want to get that riffraff out of here."

How's that for mature Christ-follower behavior?

But this is the stuff of the inner ring. Something evil lurks in us that wants to hold a privileged place in the world-and we'll push other people down to obtain it.

I'm all for civil rights legislation and for increased education on subjects that really count, but neither of those solutions can cure bigotry's root cause. What keeps racism alive and well is the old-fas.h.i.+oned sin in you and me. First John 4:20 says, "If we say we love G.o.d yet hate a brother or sister, we are liars. For if we do not love a fellow believer, whom we have seen, we cannot love G.o.d." Translation: You won't see past the six pounds of skin until love overwhelms your heart.

I had been taking some worthwhile actions toward racial reconciliation, but my motivations were still a little skewed. And by giving me fresh awareness through his Word, G.o.d in essence said, "I don't want the changes that come courtesy of your hands to outpace what's going on in your heart."

Every author I read on the subject of ending racial strife agrees that ethnic walls will most quickly crumble as cross-racial friends.h.i.+ps are formed. When I first started speaking on this subject nearly a decade ago, many people in our mostly white congregation cast a suspicious glance. They wondered about my agenda and wanted to know where all of this "race talk" was headed. But throughout those years I have noticed a major s.h.i.+ft in perspective. Not only has Willow embraced the importance of espousing these ideas, but they also have begun forging relations.h.i.+ps across racial lines. Today, when I look out into our auditorium on any given weekend, I smile at the diversity I see. Red and yellow, black and white, they all are precious in his sight. And I'm determined they must be precious in our sight too.

Admittedly, there is still a long way to go before the playing field is level for people of color. For example, if a black child and a white child are born in America on the same day, the black child is more than two times more likely to die by his or her first birthday than the white child, mostly due to the lack of prenatal care and the lack of adequate medical facilities in the parts of town where black babies are born.16 It's the exact opposite of "just."

Here's another reality: African Americans fall below the poverty line more than three times as frequently as non-Hispanic whites.17 And one more: while the median net a.s.sets for college-educated whites are nearly 20,000 dollars, for college-educated blacks, median net a.s.sets are a miniscule 175 dollars.18 So, yes, we have a long way to go. But based on how fervently many Christ-followers are praying-and how devotedly they're taking action these days, I believe we'll see the day dawn-and soon-when all nations are welcomed home.

I've heard G.o.d trumpet this all-life-is-valuable idea through other firsthand whispers as well.

When I was a kid, my hunter-type brother talked me into taking down a bird with my BB gun. It was the middle of the afternoon, and the bird was minding his own business, causing no one any harm. Because of my shortsighted willingness to follow my brother's advice, within a few brief seconds a bird that had been happily flitting through the air had unexpectedly nosedived to my feet.

Whatever thoughts I'd had about death to that point were theoretical at best. But now, this helpless creature I'd shot with my gun was bleeding badly, gasping for air and gyrating in unnatural ways. Then all movement stopped, and it was dead. As I stood there looking at the bird's small body, a feeling of deep regret swept over me. I thought, "I never want to cause death again." And in that moment of childhood recognition, I determined that my role was to help protect life.

Because of that experience, the Bible verses dealing with the value of human life stuck to my soul like Velcro strips. I memorized Genesis 9:6, which says, "Whoever sheds human blood, by humans let his blood be shed" (MSG), and wrote 1 Peter 3:9 on my heart. "Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult, but with blessing," that verse advised, "because to this you were called so that you may inherit a blessing" (NIV).

Do not repay evil with evil-I must have replayed those words in my mind ten thousand times as I grew from boyhood to manhood. Although implementing them in my life was slow progress, eventually I got to the point where I could be cut off in traffic and still maintain my cool. "Wave at the guy and say a prayer," G.o.d would whisper. "Then go on about your day."

I delighted in the fact that the values of preserving life and promoting peace were being forged in my spirit. I was unaware that they were about to be challenged one day-big time.

On a particular Friday, I found myself in a concourse at Logan Airport in Boston, waiting for my flight to board. I was standing at one of those countertop coffee bars, drinking a cup of coffee and reading a sailing magazine, when I heard the roar of laughter from a restaurant thirty feet away. The culprits were four twenty-somethings who were clearly liquored up, despite it being barely noon.

I kept a watchful eye on the foursome and looked up when one of the men bolted from his table, walked into the coffee bar and shouted with a slur, "Who stole my sandwich? I want my sandwich!"

He stormed from table to table. "I left a sandwich over here, man. Now tell me who stole my sandwich!"

Instinctively I decided that now would be a very good time to focus on the fine print of my magazine. "The last thing I need to do is get involved with this guy," I figured. And so I squinted my eyes in deep concentration, praying silently that his sandwich miraculously showed up.

Moments later, while the inebriated guy was still terrorizing the cafe clientele, a busboy appeared from the back room and began clearing garbage from vacated tables. I glanced up and noticed that he suffered from some sort of emotional or mental impairment. No sooner had I made the observation than the twenty-something punk approached him and aggressively grabbed him by the arm.

"Listen, idiot," he shouted into the young man's face, "I know you took my sandwich, and I want it back. Do you hear me? I want my sandwich back. Now!"

"I didn't take a sandwich. I promise, I didn't take it...," the bewildered busboy sputtered. As this scene unfolded, my heart grew increasingly sick. "I should do something," I told myself.

Unrelenting, the aggressor reached down, picked up the boy's full garbage bag and spilled its contents all over the floor. "You get on your knees and find my sandwich now!" he bellowed.

I knew I had to act. With the Bible's clear instructions about defending the defenseless and considering others' welfare as more important than your own in mind, I put down my cup of coffee and walked toward the busboy, who was now on his knees picking through the garbage, the bully towering overhead.

"Hey, Joe!" I heard the bully's three friends yell from the bar. "We've got your sandwich, you moron! It's been over here the entire time!"

They erupted in another round of laughter as the bully made his way back to his friends, shouting expletives at the busboy all the way.

I bent down and began helping the young man pick up sticky cinnamon-roll wrappers and half-eaten turkey wraps. "You know, I'm really sorry for what just happened here," I said. "You didn't deserve this-I saw the whole thing, and I feel terrible about what you've just endured."

He offered a half-smile. "We get all kinds in here," he said.