Transformaion and Easter

Transformation is a sticky topic no mater what realm you happen to be dealing with - leadership, personal growth or spiritual. By its very nature and definition, transformation engages one at an entirely different and deeper level. But more important than that, transformation involves the most elemental of living processes - the death/rebirth cycle. The old way of being, when it no longer works to handle the newer challenges, must die to make room for the new/next way of understanding. It is as basic a process as spring and conception. Just as the seed dies to give birth to the shoot, so must a part of our being die to give birth to the next level of our functioning.

But that means pain, sometimes real, intense pain - not just your run of the mill old headache - gut-wrenching, breast-beating, up-chucking pain. And that is a problem for many of the people I deal with in my day job. I might be so bold as to say that is a problem with our culture. The general popular reaction to pain is to ask, "Isn't there a pill I can take for that?" "Ask your doctor if Xantac, or Prozac or (fill in the blank) is right for you." Since the advent of the information age, we have cultivated a culture wherein patients can research symptoms and drugs and go in to their doctor's office deeply informed (unfortunately about what they think they see or need) and "suggest" a recommended treatment. But often that course of action is not to listen to the pain - let your body speak its wisdom - it involves ignoring or squashing the feeling.

Transferring that same discussion to the experience of transformation, we get requests regularly from both companies and their employees and leaders to speed up the transition. "Instant Karma gonna get you, gonna hit you in the face, better get yourself together darlin', join the human race." (O Johnny-boy I miss you!) I can't say that I ever heard someone request a coach who would lead them into and through their pain point! Life isn't that way! But transformation is. Transformation is like an Easter experience.

Prior to Good Friday/Easter things were looking good. Hey, hanging out with the Messiah must have been great! Sure there was the danger of arousing suspicion from the centurions or the government officials, but this guy seemed to have some special charm. And then, WHAM, the whole thing came tumbling down, and in rapid fashion, too. And what is worse, the charmed one was executed - killed! Dead! Gone! I cannot imagine the fear and pain his followers must have felt. But in that darkest hour, the transformation of their beliefs began. It's like that!

Transformation does not happen without death and pain and aloneness. The old MUST die in order to make way for the new. The problem for us seekers however is that we don't go around seeking those painful experiences. Rather, we seem to want to know more about that which we already know. It is a rare person who walks down the street thinking "what is it that I don't know, that if I was aware of would make me pass blood through my pores, that I need to take on?" Transformation does not come from the inside. It comes upon us like the tsunami, like an earthquake, without prediction, without warning and often in the middle of the night. I don' think for a moment that Peter really thought that Jesus was talking about anything real (it must have been metaphor) when he said "you will deny me, three times."

But transformation has a nasty habit of being more than real - to be stark and harsh. It is in our faces. Like the crucifixion. Like the feedback I recently got about my win rate in coaching "bake-off's" (oh did I mention that the numbers suck?) So isn't it just perfect that in this season of transformation I am faced with a bit of pain that just might be the impetus for my next transformation. I must, I will stick my face into it.

I will feel the pain. And let it speak to me. I will...

say tuned, this might not be pretty

Another one bites the bust

The other night I met with my men's group and the obvious topic was Mr Spitzer's fall from favor. But the discussion quickly veered away from prostitution (as well it should have) since prostitution was not the issue! Prostitution is as old as sex itself and like alcohol, its prohibition only serves to drive up prices and proliferate its use. No. Prostitution is a symptom of a societal and human ill, and Elliott Spitzer is only a symbolic representation of how we want to pretend this disease is someone else's problem. If I/we can focus on him (as he apparently focused on others) and the speck of dust in his eye, then perhaps wee can somehow ignore the log lodged in our own.

But what is the problem? is it simply the greed of wanting more than the other guy has? Or is it the deep spiritual vacuum we have created in "modernizing" our life that allows us to live under the pretense that an Afghan or Iraqi or Mestizo or a woman or a gay are not as human as ourselves. It appears as though we would believe that others are just so much livestock inhabiting the planet without which we all would somehow be much better off.

Nonsense. When I talked with the border crossers, whose drive to feed their children was so deeply rooted that they had no other choice, when I saw the fear in the eyes of the border guard telling us of having to go into situations without "backup", when I played with the kid on the other side of the wall, I felt their humanity - no, read that more like I felt their souls.

What allows a Spitzer to lie to his wife and his constituents? Not his lack of soul but his denial of theirs. What makes us think that putting up a wall or banning a practice will alter the inequities already present in every fiber of the fabric of society; it's our thought that we can legislate problems away because we don't see the souls and faces of the people involved.

Years ago I dreamed of starting a business practice and calling it the Rehumanization Project. I am more convinced today that that is what we need. We (and I do not exclude myself from the masses) have lost our humanity, we have lost our souls, and we need desperately to find them again. Perhaps we should thank Mr Spitzer for the stark reminder that we are all suffering this disease.

Weigh In

I have to admit that I have waffled on this presidential election campaign more than any ever before. In my younger years there was either only one logical (from my perspective) candidate or none! The last time I got drunk was when George Bush, the II was elected (I couldn't even do that upon his re-election as alcohol does not mix well with depression). But for this one, I have to admit I struggled with two and was mildly interested that the Republikan party even had people of some character, despite not agreeing with their platform.

I have always been swayed by strong articulate women, and Mrs. Clinton is certainly that. She is brilliant, articulate and deeply knowledgeable. On most of her stands I seem to agree (a very difficult thing to admit for an aging leftist, ex-hippie). Her years of experience and campaign work while the First Woman (Lady?) is strong. But then there was that debate back in January where she was downright vicious and catty, and I waffled.

Mr Obama, on the other side, is slick and articulate. His way with words and poise in front of a crowd is beyond critique. His politic of change is refreshing and the media campaign behind him is seductive (did you watch the YouTube video of "Yes We Can?") and I was seduced - to say nothing about the fact that here is a contest between a woman and a man-of-color; two firsts at this level.

I even was reveling in the fact that Mr. McCain had character, was from the borderlands and had a somewhat thought out border policy. Then this week happened and the veil was lifted.

Someone threw a mudball and smacked John McCain and, I don't care if it is truth of fiction, exposed me to the realities of political campaigning in this country. Politics in the US is all about positioning and image - not substance and character. How good can you look? How many babies can you shag a photo-op with? Are you seen in church with your spouse looking contrite and pious? And if you are really good, can you surreptitiously smear, discredit or cause a shadow of doubt to fall over your opponent? I suppose I should give someone in Huckabee's camp credit for the mudball. Who cares?

And wen the veil was lifted, I had heard the promise of change (so sincerely spoken, yes indeed) spoken one too many times without the backup. Do you notice that answers are seldom, "this is what I have done about that, and you can take it to the bank that I will continue" but rather another promise of hypothetical results-orientation? Sorry, Mr. Obama, I want to believe, but I am too disheartened by history. Thanks Mr. McCain for giving us some substance beyond rhetoric, pork-barrel positioning and thinly-veiled economics that lines the pockets of the wealthy.

And when the dust settles, Mrs. Clinton is still standing. Standing not because I am seduced by powerful and brilliant women, but of her own and on her own - Bill be damned! I want to hate her because she didn't dump the philanderer for what he and so many of us arrogant masculinist bastards have done. She stood firm, and took the high road that I didn't even see. She is still standing, despite going on the attack against her opponent. And she is still standing on her record of tireless work that she has done.

I like Barack Obama, He seems to be a good man, but it is time for a change; he's right! It is time that we seek a leader who does unpopular things out of commitment and convictions, not because they look good. The groundswell of popularity that Obabm has enjoyed in recent weeks opened my eyes - we Amerikans love our look-good politicians - sorry.

I am weighing in. And the truth is that in the primaries I voted for Obama. Okay. I was falling for it. I cannot remember a time when I actually respected a candidate or political official. And I respect him. ButI think I am coming to respect Hillary Clinton even more.

Nine Year Old Minds

So I have a 9-ear old boy - it's like having a perpetually renewing edition of Calvin and Hobbes as a live-in guest (nobody in their right mind would actually sign up for this). Jesse and I have just finished our evening ritual of reading before lights out and the book we concluded tonight was entitles Beetles, Lightly Toasted - a little midwestern ditty about a bunch of fourth graders who are in a creative writing contest.

Andy, the protagonist, wins with an essay on how to enhance your diet and save on grocery bills by using beetles, grubs and worms in cooking, the title coming from his use of toasted beeltes in brownies as nuts. Jesse is enthralled and tomorrow we will no doubt be looking up recipes that we will try here at Chez Girrell. Oh yum! But far be it from me to stifle his creativity and investigative mind!

Now the only problem with all of this is that Jesse is certain that the only insects that are kosher are locusts and they are pretty rare around these parts in February. So we have to look further into some kosher websites to get clearance on grubs and beetles. (I might explain that another element of the joy of my life is that I am married to a Jew and therefore am bringing up our son in both traditions, the bulk of which right now is formal Hebrew schooling).

See it's a lot easier to be a Christian. First of all we have John the Baptist who ate that kind of stuff (but we all know he was a few bricks shy of a load anyway). But there was that dream that God tells the (oh heck who was it Peter or Paul who was about to have dinner the next day with the Roman centurian) writer to sit and eat all of these unclean things. So there it is right there in the good book for all to read, that you can eat lobster and bugs cuz God made 'em.

Then again maybe I'll convert to Judaism and limit my choices to fried locusts!

Still Too Much

Andover, MA
Saturday, February 2, 2008, Groundhog Day, one day before the Superbowl - and all I can think of is "I wonder if they made it?" Any of the men and women we met. They had to try, as one said to us, "I would rather die trying than stay at home and see my family suffer because I hadn't." So they kept on throwing themselves at the border.

I have been trying to sort all of this out and to be able to answer the questions I undoubtedly will get at church tomorrow, "So what did you learn - how was it?" And I haven't had it all fall into one nifty trim little sentence yet. Maybe that's because it isn't neat or tidy. It is a broken mess - a failed border policy that doesn't work - a failed treaty that ends up hurting more than it ever helped - an economy so dominated by old arcane Conquistador hierarchies that it produces both the richest man in the world and many of its poorest. How do you put that into a sentence, let alone discerning what God would have me do and say and be as a result of having gone there?

Encounter at the Wall

A few days ago, after returning from our deepest penetration of the trip into migrant-land, we were at the Nogales wall. We were on the Mexican side of the border and viewing this monstrous steel structure of 20 plus feet of recycled landing strip (courtesy of Desert Storm). Cecelia (our wonderful Mexican guide), who originally hails from Nogales was telling us that before the wall, the residents of the twin city would come together for fiestas and events. She said that that they would dance and party back and forth across the little fence that marked the border, and when it was over, they would each go home. But the families on either side could visit and have holiday meals together at any time.

Now looking at the impenetrable steel barrier, you could see no one and no thing. It felt inhuman and divisive. How could you have a relationship with anything you could not see? It was about then that through a little crack under the steel I saw some movement. I went to have a better look and saw two boys playing along the drive the Border Patrol use to police the wall. So I stuck my hand through and called to them. Nothing happened and we figured that they were scared of what might be over here, or afraid that they might get in trouble with the BP. So I gave up, but just as I was turning to go I saw a little chunk of rusted metal shoved through the hole.

I knelt down and pushed it back to the edge. It got pushed back to my side. And the game was on! Back and forth like the game of "football" we used to play in the cafeteria with folded triangles of paper. He stopped for a minute and I thought he had quit. Then the hand came through holding a dirty silk flower! I was stunned - a gift from a boy, a thank you for momentarily dissolving the wall. I took the flower and put my hand through to wave to him, and said "thank you, I have to go now."

My most prized memory of the day - perhaps of the whole trip - was this (maybe) 5 year old hand pushing through the hole waving goodbye to me.

Walls are constructed from fear, but children and families know that once you reach out to the other side you don't need a wall to protect you from the "other." There is no other in brotherhood and love.

Mass in No Man's Land

January 27
We just returned to Casa Misericordia from our trip to Altar. I am so filled with images and thoughts. There was undeniably a sinister air about Altar though the CCAMYN center for refugees, where we stayed, stood out like an oasis in the desert. The accommodations for the migrants were clean and new and the meeting/meal room itself was beautiful and spacious.

This morning we went to the Catholic Church (the only church in town) for mass and the children were the choir and the lectors. It was a ray of sunshine to hear their beautiful and powerful voices in this church when only moments before we were interviewing migrants and watching out for the coyote in the square outside. It was one of the strangest things I have ever seen. Picture this town only a few blocks square with a central square at the hub. On one side of the square is a church and on the other three sides are openfronted shops selling either ready-to-go food or hats, coats and rucksacks (all black for heat absorption and cammouflage). Roving the square are small groups of migrants (all men and boys that day and due to the cold and rainy weather, not as many as the 1200-1500 usually passing through). The coyotes carefully watch their groups from fixed positions on the corner or nearby. They eye us with a mixture of scowls and distrust.

When we walked around the square telling the migrants about CCAMYN and asking them questions, I was watching for the coyote. Brita (our professor) asked me how I recognized them and I told her about how they stayed fixed to one place and would go over to the group we had talked with and then returned to their position. I also said I had noticed their energy.

And then, at 10AM the church bells began to ring and everyone filed into the church. Regular members, children, migrants, coyotes and our band of seminarians and professors. Truce! It was miraculous - for that entire hour everyone was Catholic and prayerful. The children sang like angels, the priest gave a lighthearted but spirit-filled sermon, people commmuned - and there were no borders, no migrant or resident, just God's children gathered together as one family.

When it was over, the priest introduced us to the parish and we went up front to speak to the congregation and they applauded us. But we all felt that they deserved the applause for keeping a faith in such a place.

Afterward he escorted us to a boarding house where the migrants stay in their short time. It was horrific and he said that this one was one of the better and cleaner (there are no "ratas y cucarachas" there). The accommodations weren’t much better than the Amistad bulkhead.

Traveling so much and so far in this cramped van has really taken a toll on my back and legs. There are three of us who have L5S1 problems and we call each other the L5 club. We are all taking care of each other but it is hard. Our only consolation is that we know that the migrants have to travel in rougher conditions than we have, sometimes 20 or 30 in the same size van as we cram the 14 of us and our equipment.