Eat and Wake Up

Christmas budgets are most likely a bit higher in France than other places in the world. Not because shopping at FNAC, which is France’s answer to Best Buy, is any more expensive to purchase that iPad or bluetooth speaker. It’s because while other people are putting out only cookies and milk for Santa on the night of Christmas Eve, the French are spreading the table with some of the most expensive stuff you can find in the grocery store.

When the clock strikes twelve and a lot of the world is hunkering down under the covers to get a few hours of shuteye before the kiddos rouse themselves at the crack of dawn, in France, the party’s  just getting started. The Christmas Eve meal is the culinary highlight of the year for most French families. This is when they celebrate Le Reveillon, meaning "awakening" or "wake up", because it starts sometime close to midnight and normally goes on until the wee hours of the morning.

The whole family is expected to come together (historically after the Christmas mass - back in the day) to slowly and methodically plow through course after course coming out of the kitchen. And they really know how to flash their gastronomical savoir-faire, those French. A sampling of what eventually makes it’s way onto your plate before the night is done would be:  

Appetizer: caviar and oysters;

First course: foie gras (think really expensive and unbelievably fatty Underwood liverwurst spread)  and lobster;

Second course: escargot and scallops (also known as Coquille Saint-Jacques - just because it sounds more cool);

Main course: roast turkey with chestnut stuffing and some other type of wild bird; (like goose, pheasant, quail or guinea fowl);

Cheese course:  a variety of expensive and beautifully aged bleu, hard, soft and goat cheeses served with bread and nuts; and

Dessert: Buche de Noel - the traditional Christmas dessert which is basically a rich chocolate cake wrapped up into the shape of a Yule Log.

If you ask me, finding a roll of Tums in your stocking late Christmas morning might be a necessity after a meal that rich. But it’s also true that good food and great memories go hand in hand in the land of Oh la la. And I think they may have got something right here.

A meal that long and that diverse is bound to have all sorts of great conversations, laughter and memories attached to it. It can maybe even bring a greater and truer satisfaction than any floor strewn all too quickly with ribbon, torn boxes and hastily shredded wrapping paper. In other words, big budget or not, it’s probably worth every penny (or sous, as the case may be).

When Giving Thanks is Costly

This year I had the assignment of going to our friendly supermarket to order a turkey. This was in preparation to host all the field staff working with our mission in France for a big Thanksgiving meal. There is no frozen turkey section in the grocery stores here, so.turkeys must be ordered in advance for them to come whole - and they don’t come frozen. Usually they come wrapped loosely in plastic and placed in a cardboard box. This is probably just as good, because I remember once years ago when we were rookie turkey chefs and we we didn’t begin thawing the frozen turkey early enough. It eventually would come out of the oven nice and done, but not before our hands were raw, and would be for days afterward, due to our vigorous massaging of the turkey under water in order  to get it to soft enough to cook.

My main goal this time in ordering the bird was to make sure it would yield enough meat to feed all our guests.  Satisfied that I chosen well, I left the store last week with my pink copy of the order slip. Unfortunately, I never thought to check the price per kilogram, just glad that we would have a bird in time. So yesterday when I returned to pick up the turkey, the butcher put it on the scale and rang it up. I did a double take and about doubled over when I saw the price - 75 euros!  That’s right folks. The privilege of asking for white, dark or drumstick this year is going to cost us about the price of a hotel room.

I remember another Thanksgiving where having a turkey on Thanksgiving was probably even more costly to someone. When we were living in Bangladesh, turkeys were not something available in stores. This particular year,  a pastor was coming to visit and decided to bless us by bringing a turkey in his suitcase. He packed the bag with dry ice, put the turkey inside and hoped it would stay cold all the way through the 22 hour flight from the U.S. His hopes of sneaking the meat product through customs seemed to be dashed as he watched his suitcase come down the baggage claim belt and noticed a layer of frost had formed on the outside of his suitcase because of the dry ice. He imagined a scowling customs agent tipped off by his frosty suitcase, fining him for having commited a "fowl". He tried not to look suspicious as he exited the airport and fortunately, the turkey did not get confiscated and made it safely to the Thanksgiving table that year.

It’s amazing what lengths we will go to have the trappings we associate with giving thanks. But the reality is that I don’t need a turkey to be thankful. And there are many other things we might enjoy or think we need to adequately thank God.  Polished worship bands, expensive presentation software, complex lighting systems, and even smoke machines in many churches help set the atmosphere for thanking God in worship. But the most costly thing in giving thanks is not the stuff we do it with. It’s always when we pay the price necessary for getting our hearts into an attitude of humble and sincere gratitude. That’s still the price God sees as a worthwhile investment.

Call Waiting

On July 14th, France’s National Day, better known as Bastille Day, we were trying to enjoy an impromptu picnic at Grenoble’s Parc Mistral. A handful of us had gathered on the dry cement of a local  monument, playing cards as we waited for the fireworks to start. It had been raining off and on all day, and a recent break in the weather had given us hope that the annual municipal  “feu d’artifice” display would go through as planned. But as we waited, a last minute deluge just before dusk sent everyone scurrying for cover.  We reluctantly headed home, disappointed that after hours of waiting, we would not see any fireworks this year after all.

Little did we know, that 380 kilometers away in Nice, there would be those that evening whose enjoyment of fireworks would end in something far more horrible than disappointment. A different kind of dark cloud loomed over this gathering of families and children, that would also see people fleeing for cover but cast a sickening and horrible dark pall over the festivities of an entire nation. Ironically, if the fireworks in that city had been cancelled as it was in ours, a tragedy might possibly have been avoided.  But instead, as the smoke of the last fireworks dissipated in the clear coastal skies over the Promenade des Anglais, hatred in the form of a man and a large rented truck prematurely ended the lives of 84 innocent people and seriously wounded scores more.

The carnage was nearly incomprehensible. As many bodies lay motionless, strewn here and there in the wake of the attack, one off-duty paramedic instinctively tried to get to those who urgently needed medical care. But he was held back by police who had created a perimeter around the scene, fearing that the vehicle which had just torn through the crowd could be full of explosives and go off at any time. He shared how he began hearing a faint chorus of unanswered cell-phones, the blue light from their screens eerily illuminating the darkness from the pockets and purses of the deceased.

One can only imagine the feelings of desperation and dread of family and friends, quickly having been alerted by the media of what had just taken place, on the other end of those unsuccessful phone calls. As I thought of these loved ones, I also couldn’t help but make the comparison to God’s attempts in these trying days to reach out to France. Like a loving Father, he too is desperate to connect with those who are exposed to the attacks of an enemy. But too often, those He loves and wishes to speak to are unable to hear His call because the events of life have rendered them unresponsive and spiritually dead.

What is it that holds me back from rushing to the aid of those who lay numb and immovable in their personal pain and agony?  During danger and crisis, many people run away as they go into self-preservation mode. But for those called and trained to rescue and heal, there is no place for fear, indifference or inaction in the face of tragedy. We are surrounded every day by victims of a real and relentless devil who is raging in his attempts to indiscriminately kill and destroy. And it should break our hearts, as it does God’s, that His calls offering help and concern go mostly unanswered.

The Museum of Me

News from France this week broadcast bizarre images of Paris residents navigating boats down flooded streets. Tourists who would normally be shopping, were now sopping.  Due to torrential rains, the Seine river, which snakes through and around the capital, had crested at 20 feet above normal, shutting down metro lines and closing many tourist sites. The City of Lights, now had become a city of plight, as many visitors were forced to rethink their itineraries, cancel tickets and have a literal damper put on their dream vacations.

In an unprecedented move, curators at the Louvre had to move to higher ground 150,000 artifacts and works of art that had been stored in the basement of the famous landmark in order to save them from potential damage.  Who knew that a museum that already boasted 380,000 individual cultural treasures, all accessible to the public, had so much more hidden below the surface?  It took a disaster to bring what was hidden out of its unexplored recesses.

Have you ever noticed how a crisis tends to bring to the surface of our lives things that we maybe did not realize were there?  We usually keep the best looking and most interesting part of us

accessible above the surface. But it’s what we either consciously or unconsciously keep buried in the dark storerooms of our soul that we deem unfit to be viewed by the public. And they usually stay where we want them -  safely tucked away under lock and key. That is until a flood of stress or worry forces them to higher ground and we become acutely aware and unmistakably uncomfortable with what is being dredged up and dusted off.

I turned 51 this year and a recent deluge precipitated some murky swirling deep waters. And let’s just say I was keeping some old bones (I prefer to not use the word skeletons) where I knew my emotional elevator rarely went.  Before I knew it, though, old and unpleasant musty things from my private stockpile of memories and experiences were being hauled up from sub-terrain of my past. It was unanticipated and uncomfortable. These historical articles had not been sanitized or polished and were definitely now unprotected.

But the truth is, it was their previously undetected hiding place that actually made me more vulnerable. Those unsightly relics are now getting a proper cleaning and actually look pretty acceptable next to the old exhibit’s standard fare. There’s now a bit less lying in the underbelly of my life that makes me liable and I’ve found that what I considered too ugly or damaged is actually worth more than I thought when seen in a better light. In the Museum of Me, I’ve found it’s just best to get everything out into view while remembering a couple of things. One, don’t expect that everyone will be able to accurately appraise every article’s real value; and two, every artifact from our past together makes up a rare and unique collection that has to be seen in its entirety to be truly treasured.

Titles and Deeds

en·ti·tle·ment

/inˈtīdlmənt/

Noun

"Having a right to something or believing that one deserves to be 

given something”

planoun  en·ti·tle·ment  \-ˈtī-təl-mənt “the condition of having a right to have, do, or get something; the feeling or belief that you deserve to be given something

No one looks the way I do

I have noticed that it’s true

No one walks the way I walk

No one talks the way I talk

No one plays the way I play

No one says the things I say

I am special

I am me  

(nursery song sung by Gen Y children from 1978-1997)

It is said that today’s generation feels the greatest sense of entitlement ever. This may be in comparison to previous American generations who prided themselves on pulling themselves up by the bootstraps and telling each other “There’s no elevator to the top, just the stairs”, not to mention enduring shoe shortages and  horrific blizzard conditions on that walk to school.

But if you come from France, entitlement is still alive and well and has been for centuries. It’s interesting to note that entitlement has the word “title” in it. And pre-revolutionary France was full of folks with important titles. From Duke to Marquis to Comte to Baron, anyone who was “someone” had a title. And as a result expected a high degree of special treatment and privileges in society as a member of the noblesse. Titles breed entitlement and entitlement needs titles.

France severed themselves, quite literally, from this social structure during the guillotine-crazed revolution. What emerged today is a strongly socialist form of government where the super rich are taxed at up to 75% to help pay for a social welfare system that takes care of citizens of the republic from cradle to grave. This has produced another kind of entitlement. People expect their government to take care of each and every one of their needs.  35 hour work weeks, six weeks of vacation a year and a pension at age 60 is the expectation of every person. Oh, and fresh bread baked daily with 365 varieties of cheese is also high on the list.

And there lies the irony. No, not that every leap year leaves you one cheese short. But the society that did away with an elite class of title-bearing narcissists never completely eradicated the spirit of entitlement. Which brings us to a current generation of American kids who are all about fairness and equality. And who seldom hear a no from moms and dads that want to be pals more than parents. Or lazy students who are given  C’s by teachers afraid of holding them back lest they damage precious self-esteem. And let’s not forget how every player nowadays gets a trophy from the coach just for participating. Even birthday party invitees go home laden with  a goodie bag, because God forbid they would have to watch the birthday person get something and they walk away empty handed.

We’ve created a culture where everything must be fair. No one is to be held in higher esteem than another. Hard work or talent cannot be allowed to cause those less diligent or less capable from feeling any twinge of inferiority. So our American brand of egalitarianism-on-steroids has actually engendered a high degree of entitlement, like France. We’ve produced little, and not-so-little, modern-day Dukes and Duchesses with every bit of expectation of something for nothing as any spoiled Renaissance-era  Countess.

And this culture has found its way into leadership, both in the office chair and the church. Today’s generation of emerging leaders have inherited the maximum for the least amount of work than any other before them. The less one works for what they have, the more the intangible things of leadership, like  respect and influence, are simply expected to come with a title like manager, coordinator, or pastor.

The great egalitarian experiment has failed because it produces new leaders who have neither the capacity for nor the knowledge of the kind of hard work that goes into earning the respect and influence necessary to lead successfully.  I don’t have to bother to earn respect if my sense of fairness says I deserve as much as the next guy with the same degree or a similar position. It’s always so much easier have a title and then tell people what to do than it is to earn trust and respect through sacrifice and hard work. and leading through influence.

Jesus eschewed titles, special treatment and honored seats at the table. He worked hard, served tirelessly  and loved intensely. The result is that whether you called him Rabbi, King, Messiah, or friend - he had people who would die for him and followed him to the ends of the earth. He laid down His titles and never expected fairness because there’s nothing fair about an innocent man being ruthlessly executed. So it's always worth remembering that the only thing that truly puts us all on equal footing is the level ground at the foot of the cross. Nobles and nothings, murderers and moms all find there the same grace which makes them equally worthy of His love. And that's not fair. But it sure is fantastic.

Flip-Flops and Slippers

There is a now famous old Cherokee adage, which I am sure you know, that says “Don’t judge a man until you have walked a mile in his shoes.” I recently was thinking of adding a follow-up proverb. No, it wasn’t, “before you walk in another man’s shoes, use foot powder.”  But I was thinking of how in reality, we cannot really walk in someone else’s shoes unless they are willing to hand them over. So my add-on saying would go something like, “You can’t walk in someone else’s shoes unless he’s willing to take them off for you.”  So empathy has a bit less to do with imagination and is possibly more about identification.

Since most people keep their shoes near their front door or maybe in their bedroom closet, you have to get down from your observation perch and actually go near to where that someone lives to get that chance at trying on their size. That’s why I love missions. Because it forces us, hopefully, to lay aside our preconceived notions of what people are like. And because it’s really like walking in Jesus’ shoes, who left his all-seeing viewpoint to put on a pair of sandals and trek a few thousand miles over 31/2 years with his disciples. He couldn’t have tried on those sandals without first leaving heaven, coming to earth and paying a visit to a cobbler’s shop.

When we were living in Bangladesh, a man tried to walk in my shoes once. Actually he stole my brand new slip-on dress shoes from the back of the church. I had looked all over Bangkok Thailand for those, and was quite fond of them. Everyone leaves their shoes at the back in order to not track dirt and much worse on the clean floor or carpet. So while I was praying for people, he decided to find out what it would be like to trade shoes with me. When I went looking for my fancy, expensive shoes, the only unclaimed ones were a well-worn pair of flip-flops.  I had no choice but to put them on, even though they were entirely too small for me. What I found is that my feet became a lot dirtier and hurt a lot more from my walk. And I also did not appreciate the look of disdain that the concierge gave me as I walked into the lobby of my hotel. Tie and dress pants combined with miniature rubber sandals, caked with mud. Talk about shabby-chic. I felt the twinge of shame experienced only by the have-nots of society who cannot afford what the wealthy and beautiful take for granted.

I learned something from this experience. I found out what it is like both physically and emotionally for an average Bangladeshi to walk a considerable distance. And this valuable lesson would have been missed by me if I had not been willing to leave America, go to Bangladesh and take off my shoes.

I have also taken off my shoes when invited over to French families’ homes and found that most French hosts have a pair of slippers to hand each of their guests. They are Europe’s biggest consumers of house slippers. And so my willingness to leave my own culture and enter theirs allowed me the privilege to talk, eat, laugh and cry in the homes of my French friends. By walking what was only a few meters in their house shoes, I learned what no tourist on vacation  who walks and shops the streets of Paris can know. The French are wonderful people. Warm, hospitable, self-depreciating, and deeply caring. How sad that I run into many people in my travels who’ve never gone deeper in French culture than the Notre Dame and eating a baguette.  So they have missed this reality about the French and yet seem pretty content and self-assured of their assessments.

I guess the biggest overall lesson here is to reserve judgment. All we know from the media and other people’s experiences is simply biased, second-hand information. Bengalis are so much more to me than Muslims trying to get into my country. The French are infinitely more to me than the caricature of beret wearing cheese and wine connoisseurs. I am thankful for the privilege to have worn flip-flops in Bangladesh and slippers in France. And I believe I am a better man for it.