Where Two or Three Are Gathered…

This is also posted on a blog I write for United Methodist Communications.

Hearing the stories of the UMCOR and IMA executives trapped in the rubble of the Hotel Montana is to hear of conditions so horrifying they are unimaginable. Utter chaos. At times utter hopelessness. And always courage and more courage. Faith and more faith.

It is a profound gift that Jim Gulley and Sarla Chand give us when they tell this story, difficult as it is to hear. We need to know, to grieve and to hope. And they help us.

They help us to fill in the blanks. To understand the darkness and chaos. The silence. The pain. With their help, our heavy hearts can take solace in the strength of the human spirit and the power of faith. Through their words, we imagine the unimaginable – being trapped under tons of rubble in darkness.

Strangely, however, for me it’s harder to imagine singing. But sing they did. "I’ve got peace like a river, I’ve got love like an ocean, I’ve got joy like a fountain, in my soul."

Such strength and faith.

They help us to piece together the fragments of life in the darkness and silence, to assimilate order out of the chaos. Our minds are still troubled and our hearts still heavy, but we find a measure of peace, like a river, in our souls.

They are helping us to shape a narrative for a community of faith. We stand with Jim Gulley, who tells us, like Job of old, he has no answers about why some live and some die, some suffer and others don’t. But some questions have no answer, and there are times when we need each other more than answers.

And these brothers and sisters in Christ comforted each other, told stories and sang. They created community out of chaos. They cared for one another. Offered comfort, encouragement and stories.

We also hear from others like Pam Carter, who was evacuated unharmed on the outside but her heart was torn by leaving a friend who chose to stay. Their separation under such conditions haunts her. But she is tirelessly advocating for Haiti now more than before.

Asked if they will return to the place of their great personal pain, all answer yes. The tasks that brought them together remain unfinished. The work of redressing the inequities of the people of Haiti has not run its course. The challenge of empowering the women, improving the quality of life of the children, partnering with the church in Haiti all lie before us and even more so now. The search for justice and the fruitful life God intends for all will bring them back, and perhaps take them to other places in God’s world as well.

This is the narrative they are helping us to understand. We share a faith of deep conviction about the abiding, loving presence of God in our midst, wherever we find ourselves. And this faith is expressed in practical action that changes the world as we believe God calls us to partner with God for change.

And, for me, most profound of all: "Where two or three are gathered in my name, there I will be also." Even under tons of rubble in the darkness and dust and blood, I am with you.

And if this be true, and I believe it is, then we must be with people wherever they find themselves seeking a fruitful life because that is where God is and that is who we are called to be as followers of Jesus.

God, what a story.

Where Two or Three Are Gathered Together

Hearing the stories of the UMCOR and IMA executives trapped in the rubble of the Hotel Montana is to hear of conditions so horrifying they are unimaginable. Utter chaos. At times utter hopelessness. And always courage and more courage. Faith and more faith.

It is a profound gift that Jim Gulley and Sarla Chand give us when they tell this story, difficult as it is to hear. We need to know, to grieve and to hope. And they help us.

They help us to fill in the blanks. To understand the darkness and chaos. The silence. The pain. With their help, our heavy hearts can take solace in the strength of the human spirit and the power of faith. Through their words, we imagine the unimaginable – being trapped under tons of rubble in darkness.

Strangely, however, for me it’s harder to imagine singing. But sing they did. “I’ve got peace like a river, I’ve got love like an ocean, I’ve got joy like a fountain, in my soul.”

Such strength and faith.

They help us to piece together the fragments of life in the darkness and silence, to assimilate order out of the chaos. Our minds are still troubled and our hearts still heavy, but we find a measure of peace, like a river, in our souls.

They are helping us to shape a narrative for a community of faith. We stand with Jim Gulley, who tells us, like Job of old, he has no answers about why some live and some die, some suffer and others don’t. But some questions have no answer, and there are times when we need each other more than answers.

And these brothers and sisters in Christ comforted each other, told stories and sang. They created community out of chaos. They cared for one another. Offered comfort, encouragement and stories.

We also hear from others like Pam Carter, who was evacuated unharmed on the outside but her heart was torn by leaving a friend who chose to stay. Their separation under such conditions haunts her. But she is tirelessly advocating for Haiti now more than before.

Asked if they will return to the place of their great personal pain, all answer yes. The tasks that brought them together remain unfinished. The work of redressing the inequities of the people of Haiti has not run its course. The challenge of empowering the women, improving the quality of life of the children, partnering with the church in Haiti all lie before us and even more so now. The search for justice and the fruitful life God intends for all will bring them back, and perhaps take them to other places in God’s world as well.

This is the narrative they are helping us to understand. We share a faith of deep conviction about the abiding, loving presence of God in our midst, wherever we find ourselves. And this faith is expressed in practical action that changes the world as we believe God calls us to partner with God for change.

And, for me, most profound of all: “Where two or three are gathered in my name, there I will be also.” Even under tons of rubble in the darkness and dust and blood, I am with you.

And if this be true, and I believe it is, then we must be with people wherever they find themselves seeking a fruitful life because that is where God is and that is who we are called to be as followers of Jesus.

God, what a story.

Video
Sarla Chand: “I was their connection to the outside world.”

Sarla Chand: “We at IMA will do all we can to honor Sam and Clint’s legacy.”

Sarla Chand: “Until the very end, they were joyful.”

Jim Gulley: “I want you to tell my family how much I love them.”

Jim Gulley: “We are French firemen. We are here to take you out.”

Jim Gulley: “My last walk with Sam was tragically short.”

Audio
Pam Carter: “Haiti needed us before. Multiply this a hundredfold.”

Related Articles
Haiti quake survivor Chand recalls hotel rescue

Survivor: UMCOR trio kept faith in Haiti ruins

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The Digital Media Movement

As Haiti moves toward recovery and as Christians look at how faith is reflected in major issues confronting the world such as this one, I am interviewing knowledgeable people who can offer insight on the interaction between faith and culture.

These interviews may be in podcast format, video or Skype, depending on circumstances and our capacity to reach them.

You may have noticed that United Methodist Communications has moved into providing content through digital media in a big way. You can get updates on Facebook and Twitter, through email and online at umc.org, umcom.org and rethinkchurch.org.

The world is moving at breakneck speed to online distribution of meaningful content. And we are using cell phones, laptops and desktops among other tools to receive this content.

A recent study by the Kaiser Family Foundation reports that 8- to 18-year-olds are living their waking hours online. They pack in 10 hours and 45 minutes receiving and distributing media content every day, according to the Kaiser report.

In every age group, the movement to digital media is growing rapidly. On behalf of the church, we at United Methodist Communications seek to engage, inform and inspire—and we recognize we must do this with every tool at our disposal.

Digital media are about more than one-way information, of course. They are about conversation, participation and interaction. My hope is that the informed material we offer about Haiti will carry out these three goals.

I also hope you will give me feedback about what you would like to see discussed and persons you would like to hear from.

This ain’t Uncle Walter’s world

If there were even an iota of doubt that the world has changed because of digital technologies, it should be erased now and forever by the Haiti earthquake. As I listened recently to an official source tell me “off the record” information, I was reading that same information on Facebook, and I received a link from a colleague about an online newspaper article containing the information. My “source” wanted to keep this “under the radar,” but he couldn’t keep it off the Internet.

Today information moves at the speed of the Internet. “Under the radar” is a quaint colloquialism. This new reality comes as disruptive and threatening to established communications patterns and traditional command and control organizations because it introduces a new set of values and new ways of perceiving.

It means the gatekeepers have lost control of the gate through which information flows. They can’t move fast enough because there are just too many cell phones and laptops in the hands of too many individuals with data packages and wireless access. There are too many gates to control. Those institutions that try will break down under the strain or become irrelevant. We will simply go elsewhere for information.

In this superheated environment, if you do not contribute to the conversation, you cannot expect to influence it, and you are irrelevant to it – even if you are an official source. The conversation will continue without you, making up the story as it moves along.

Of course, this is uncomfortable. It is certainly frustrating. And it results in a crazy mix of fact and fantasy. Yet it happens and it won’t stop. Yearn as we may for yesteryear and news anchor Walter Cronkite telling us “that’s the way it is,” those days are gone and they’re not coming back.

As I have worked with staff of United Methodist Communications during this week of earthquake coverage, I have felt like the steel ball in an old pinball machine, buffeted in every area by new information, decisions or challenges. I move through one passageway and I get slammed backward and have to adjust because a new force has been exerted. Not just the news operation, but marketing, fundraising, technology infrastructure, web utilization, graphic design, and public information are all affected by these changes.

Add to this, input from Twitter, Google and Facebook – real-time conversation, reaction and utilization – and you have a rock ’em, sock ’em communications environment that is always on and always moving. And that, as Uncle Walter used to say, is the way it is.

Don’t Tell Me Love Ain’t Worth the Fight

This is a cross-post from a blog I write for the agency for which I work, United Methodist Communications.

It is a time of darkness and deep sadness. This morning I wrote a personal note to my colleague Sam Dixon telling him of my joy at his rescue. Around noon today as I sat in the newsroom at United Methodist Communications, my colleague David Briggs informed Tim Tanton and me that Sam was dead.

I exhaled loudly, as if I had been kicked in the stomach. Tim suggested we pray together, and we did.

I went to my office and listened to the song that’s the music bed for our television spot playing now. And a line caught in my throat. "Don’t tell me love ain’t worth the fight," by the band The Congress.

Sam fought the fight against poverty and disease. He fought against indifference to human suffering and the unequal division of the world’s resources. And I think he would say, "don’t tell me love ain’t worth the fight." He died fighting the good fight.

I was to be in a meeting with him on Thursday to talk about combating malaria. And we were inviting him to attend our board meeting for strategic planning next month. Now there is this void.

This past week has been a time of emotional highs and lows. And if I’m feeling this at a distance, how much more so must it be for families missing loved ones? They are heavy on my mind. They fight through these days, clinging to hope and seeing reasons for despair.

In times like this when our human vulnerability is so fully exposed, faith means the most to me. We stand in the gathering darkness utterly vulnerable, our pretenses laid bare, our arrogance humbled, our false sense of power brought low and perhaps most significantly, our hopes dashed. In this state, in some miraculous way, we experience God’s grace.

Thomas Merton wrote, "If nothing that can be seen can either be God or represent him to us as he is, then to find God we must pass beyond everything that can be seen and enter into darkness." In the darkness we find God. A mystery.

Through no action on our part, without justification or reason, it happens. We are encircled by a loving presence that affirms us, strengthens us, assures us and restores our hope. A great cloud of witnesses testifies to us that our vulnerability is not the whole story. There is more. It is the story of God reaching out to us because it is the nature of God to be with us in our darkest time.

The scriptures come alive. Those who wrote the sacred stories experienced life as we do. The passage of centuries does not diminish their authenticity. They knew pain as we know it, stumbled in the darkness as we stumble.

And in darkness they find themselves, even in their vulnerability, powerlessness and grief. "Once you were not a people, now you are God’s people," one writes. "I will gather the outcast, and I will change their shame into praise," another says of God’s promise. And a third says assuringly, "You will not fear the terror of the night." Yes, they know. They have walked where we have walked. Our humanness is their humanness.

In this I find hope. A connecting thread. A common humanity. "The Lord is near to the broken-hearted," they tell us. "Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning." A promise and hope.

Don’t tell me love ain’t worth the fight.

Don’t Tell me Love Ain’t Worth the Fight

It is a time of darkness and deep sadness. This morning I wrote a personal note to my colleague Sam Dixon telling him of my joy at his rescue. Around noon today as I sat in the newsroom at United Methodist Communications, my colleague David Briggs informed Tim Tanton and me that Sam was dead.

I exhaled loudly, as if I had been kicked in the stomach. Tim suggested we pray together, and we did.

I went to my office and listened to the song that’s the music bed for our television spot playing now. And a line caught in my throat. “Don’t tell me love ain’t worth the fight,” by the band The Congress. http://bit.ly/pE9ap

Sam fought the fight against poverty and disease. He fought against indifference to human suffering and the unequal division of the world’s resources. And I think he would say, “don’t tell me love ain’t worth the fight.” He died fighting the good fight.

I was to be in a meeting with him on Thursday to talk about combating malaria. And we were inviting him to attend our board meeting for strategic planning next month. Now there is this void.

This past week has been a time of emotional highs and lows. And if I’m feeling this at a distance, how much more so must it be for families missing loved ones? They are heavy on my mind. They fight through these days, clinging to hope and seeing reasons for despair.

In times like this when our human vulnerability is so fully exposed, faith means the most to me. We stand in the gathering darkness utterly vulnerable, our pretenses laid bare, our arrogance humbled, our false sense of power brought low and perhaps most significantly, our hopes dashed. In this state, in some miraculous way, we experience God’s grace.

Thomas Merton wrote, “If nothing that can be seen can either be God or represent him to us as he is, then to find God we must pass beyond everything that can be seen and enter into darkness.” In the darkness we find God. A mystery.

Through no action on our part, without justification or reason, it happens. We are encircled by a loving presence that affirms us, strengthens us, assures us and restores our hope. A great cloud of witnesses testifies to us that our vulnerability is not the whole story. There is more. It is the story of God reaching out to us because it is the nature of God to be with us in our darkest time.

The scriptures come alive. Those who wrote the sacred stories experienced life as we do. The passage of centuries does not diminish their authenticity. They knew pain as we know it, stumbled in the darkness as we stumble.

And in darkness they find themselves, even in their vulnerability, powerlessness and grief. “Once you were not a people, now you are God’s people,” one writes. “I will gather the outcast, and I will change their shame into praise,” another says of God’s promise. And a third says assuringly, “You will not fear the terror of the night.” Yes, they know. They have walked where we have walked. Our humanness is their humanness.

In this I find hope. A connecting thread. A common humanity. “The Lord is near to the broken-hearted,” they tell us. “Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning.” A promise and hope.

Don’t tell me love ain’t worth the fight.

“I Am With You”

Over the course of a lifetime, I have come to the conviction that we are closest to God when we are most vulnerable and exposed. When we are at our most human.

The events in Haiti bring this conviction to the top of my mind once again. I see children in the streets unattached to adult family members. I see the wounded, exposed on the sidewalk in front of broken buildings. I hear the stories of relatives in the U.S. yearning for contact with loved ones and instead experiencing the yawning silence of damaged communications systems.

I see workers digging furiously, sometimes with their bare hands, to free trapped people. I see others tending the wounded. I read prayers on social media, as if the world is raising its voice in a chorus of concern.

I see reports of a global response that is being mounted miraculously only hours after the tragedy.

When I am confronting situations like the Haiti earthquake, I hear this conviction as if it is a whisper, “God is here. God is with us. God is in our midst.” I cannot explain it. The logic of faith breaks down in the complexities of human suffering and the struggle to comprehend life and not give victory to death. I hear this whisper and I believe it. It is beyond logic and even beyond reasonable comprehension.

Because it is a conviction deep in the well of my soul, I speak of it carefully and quietly, if at all. Perhaps I think it’s so personal I should not impose it on others, and so deeply held it does not require my simplistic explanation because that would seem defensive. It is a conviction, neither platitude nor argument.

And a promise. “…remember I am with you always, to the end of the age.” (Matt. 28:20)

We exist in the embrace of God who weeps with us, comforts us, stands with us in the midst of our suffering, feels the emptiness of our silence and holds us in the palm of God’s own hand.

I repeated it last night in conversation with myself and in prayer as I thought of the lives lost, the colleagues and family members not heard from, the homeless, injured, dazed and traumatized.

“The Lord has comforted his people, and will have compassion on his suffering ones.
But Zion said, “The Lord has forsaken me, my Lord has forgotten me.”
Can a woman forget her nursing child, or show no compassion for the child of her womb?
Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you.
See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands… (Isa. 49:13-16. The Wesley Study Bible)

When you are most vulnerable and exposed. When you are most human, I am with you, always.

When God is Close

Over the course of a lifetime I have come to the conviction that we are closest to God when we are most vulnerable and exposed. When we are at our most human.
The events in Haiti bring this conviction to the top of my mind once again. I see children in the streets unattached to adult family members. I see the wounded, exposed on the sidewalk in front of broken buildings. I hear the stories of relatives in the U.S. yearning for contact with loved ones and instead experiencing the yawning silence of a damaged communications systems.
I see workers digging furiously, sometimes with their bare hands, to free trapped people. I see others tending the wounded. I read prayers on social media, as if the world is raising its voice in a chorus of concern.
I see reports of a global response that is being mounted miraculously only hours after the tragedy.
When I am in situations like the Haiti earthquake I hear this conviction as if it is a whisper, “God is here. God is with us. God is in our midst.” I cannot explain it. The logic of faith breaks down in the complexities of human suffering and the struggle to comprehend life and not give victory to death. I hear this whisper and I believe it. It is beyond logic and even beyond reasonable comprehension.
Because it is a conviction deep in the well of my soul I speak of it carefully and quietly, if at all. Perhaps I think it’s so personal I should not impose it on others, and so deeply held it does not require my simplistic explanation because that would seem defensive. It is a conviction, neither platitude nor argument.
And a promise. “…remember I am with you always, to the end of the age.” (Matt. 28:20)
God is with us. All of us. We exist in the embrace of God who weeps with us, comforts us, stands with us in the midst of our suffering, feels the emptiness of our silence and holds us in the palm of God’s own hand.
I repeated it last night in conversation with myself and in prayer as I thought of the lives lost, the colleagues and family members not heard from, the homeless, injured, dazed and traumatized.
“The Lord has comforted his people, and will have compassion on his suffering ones.
But Zion said, “The Lord has forsaken me, my Lord has forgotten me.”
Can a woman forget her nursing child, or show no compassion for the child of her womb?
Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you.
See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands… (Isa. 49:13-16. The Wesley Study Bible)
When you are most vulnerable and exposed. When you are most human, I am with you, always.

United Methodists stand with Haitians

This is the first morning of the Haitian earthquake tragedy and the devastation and loss of life in this impoverished neighbor are yet to be tallied. We know the suffering will be enormous. Material well-being was already lacking and now it will be even worse.

Our prayers and our commitment in the form of material assistance and our hands working with them to assess, relieve and rehabilitate the broken land will be needed into the long-term future.
No sooner had we at United Methodist Communications discussed our goal of providing United Methodists and others with timely, relevant information than this tragedy occurred. We assembled a team to provide coverage and they posted their first story shortly after the earthquake.

As I write early the next morning we are proceeding with relevant coverage. The United Methodist Church and its counterpart in Haiti have a long relationship of working together for the well-being of the people and the strengthening of the church. We are aware of mission teams from the U.S. who were in Haiti at the time of the quake and staff of the General Board of Global Ministries and its United Methodist Committee on Relief were in country for a meeting. And many of us have friends and relatives in the country, some of whom even after the long hours of this first night have not been heard from.

We will continue to develop reporting on the church’s relief, rehabilitation and long-term development efforts in Haiti. We invite you to help in the effort to inform others who are concerned by sending us pertinent information, photos, first person accounts and contacts.

We are on Twitter, Facebook and umc.org in addition to working the telephones. In tragedies such as this, the strength of the connectional system of The United Methodist Church stands out as a remarkably precious asset. Together we cannot only inform each other, but we can join hands with others to ease the great suffering that the Haitian people are certain to experience.

I invite you to follow our on-going coverage on umc.org and to share pertinent information with us so we may pass it along in this network of compassion and concern.
May we all keep the people of Haiti in our prayers.

Digital culture demands relevance, change

Can The United Methodist Church survive in the digital culture? If so, in what form will it exist? How must it adapt to be relevant to life in this new cultural reality?

We talk about this a lot at United Methodist Communications. We just spent a day discussing the challenges we are presented by the new digital culture in which we work, and how this new environment is shaping the church we serve.

Technology changes how we think, act and perceive the world around us. How we access, store and utilize information influences the culture. Perhaps influence is too mild a descriptor. It shapes culture.

That’s the thesis M. Rex Miller advances in The Millennium Matrix, a new book about faith and communications technologies. It’s a thought-provoking look at how technology affects culture and in turn shapes our perceptions about faith.

As communicators, we exist in an institution shaped by print technology, and cultural change is coming to it as a disruptive challenge that causes some to wonder if it can survive. In our day together, we didn’t pretend we could answer that question, but we did talk about how we can engage some of the specific challenges we face in the digital age.

We know the information we provide must be relevant to the needs and interests of the user – that it must go beyond merely the messages the institution desires to push out.

We understand that we are engaged in an interactive conversation and not in a one-way flow of information.

We believe we must reconsider how to make information more accessible in many different ways, from style of writing to format to placement on the screen to hyperlinked connections to multiple languages.

We know our audiences are global, and we must develop a more robust network of communicators who can tell the stories of the church and support its global conversation more adequately.

And we know that information flows continuously today. It is not limited to our timeline. It moves in real time and often it is unfiltered and unrefined-as when a passenger on a ferry in the Hudson sent cell-phone photos of the US Airways jet floating on the river before the tower knew it was down. In events like this, everyone is potentially a journalist.

We also discussed the intriguing word Jon Pareles cited in a New York Times article about how digital technologies have affected the music industry-“disintermediation.” He points out that no one must rely on an intermediary for approval or distribution of media or content. We can do it ourselves.

Digital technologies have empowered people to become producers, commentators and distributors without the need for gates or gatekeepers. The conversation will happen regardless of institutional controls or desires. The gatekeepers have lost control of the gate through which information flows.

The most critical challenge of the digital culture, I believe, is to engage in the conversation with relevant information, provide the deep support that we all need to live fruitfully in this atomizing and fragmenting reality, and to compete within a marketplace of ideas and messages that come at us as a cascade of appeals for our attention.

Whew! It was a busy, interesting, exciting day. I’ll be writing more about this in the next several posts. And I’m particularly hopeful that you will respond to these reflections with your own insights. I think this is both an exciting opportunity and a critical moment in history, and I invite your conversation.