There were twenty million dollars on the table in front of me, and I couldn’t afford the table. The check was headed to a university out west and the coffee table was special ordered from the Far East. At that same table pastors, musicians, college presidents, politicians, and others smiled as checks were extended across the table to their causes. And on many occasions, egos, disingenuous spirits and other intangibles sent sad souls away from the table empty handed.

At the same table three million dollars was written to the New Era Foundation, which at the time was considered a rather unique investment group helping non-profits. I had been asked to represent my patron in the final meeting with the investment group when his daughter decided to go instead—and reported back the wonderful treatment, amazing reception with special ice sculptures, and the overall class of the operation. And, as others nationwide had experienced, the first rounds of investments had paid 200% to 400% yields, some remarkable windfalls in any year—and keep in mind, the proceeds were headed to good causes. But it proved to be a Ponzi scheme; my patron happened to be the last of many to hand over big checks. They wanted to reel in one more big fish before skipping the country. Good organizations and well-meaning patrons everywhere were bilked. Though the amount of the check was small compared to various other gifts and investments he had made that same month, this was the same boss who once flagged the purchase of a tin of Bayer aspirins on my receipts from a successful multi-million dollar project involving sleepless nights in Europe.

During those days many seeking an audience with my patron would ask me for help, “the inside scoop” or “some tips.” “What’s he really like to fund?” Every time my advice was the same – “Be honest. Don’t try to make an impression, that’s the impression you’ll make.” I learned that like the Ponzi scheme, one of the most difficult things for my patron to determine was the genuine nature of the cause, and the character of the person representing it. And for larger gifts, “Kings like to talk to kings.” That is, he’d also say, “An organization is only as good as its leader.”

We were asked to help screen causes and individuals and learned that creative corrupt minds are a scary thing. And self-serving individuals are sad as well. Many good causes never received a seat at the table because their representatives failed to bring their integrity, and long ago they took their ego out of some unwelcome closet. More than once I had long lost friends and faint acquaintances show up at our house or called in the evening with, “I just happened to be passing through . . .” Well, unless they were headed to snowless summer slopes in northern Michigan, working on a random vacation trip, or some other unlikely scenario, what they meant was “I’m here in Grand Haven to try to convince you to introduce me to your patron . . .” Sometimes I’d learn from others the effort they made to make sure I was in town.

A few years ago I was walking through the old parking lot at the Lilly Endowment’s main Indy office. Like other grant recipients, I was simply handing in an annual report. I heard my named yelled in loud whisper. It was someone I had not seen in two decades, in town from several states away with some associates from his organization. The first question was “Do you know anyone in there?” These were grown men, dressed in suits worth more than my car, asking me a question that revealed enough for me to start looking for their lobotomy scars. I asked them a simple question – “Do you have an appointment?” When they answered “Yes, took us several years. . .” I replied, “Then I think you should take comfort in that they already know your organization better than you think and found it worthy enough for a meeting. And by the way, what’s with the suits?” Last time I had seen the group’s leader he didn’t own a tie.

I recently finished writing a book with a senior friend, Malcolm Evans, often asked for funds to help causes. Managing by the Book: Principles for a Fulfilling Business Life is his story, and they’re his principles—I was simply asked to help him write it. At first I turned him down. Though respecting his business savvy and his decades of helping others from his successes, it is my policy not to ghost write or to write another’s book. “Okay” he’d say, but this deliberate white-haired university Trustee would then proceed, “But could I treat you to coffee to run my thoughts by you?” I’d agree, read a few paragraphs, make some scribbles, and we’d go our ways. A few weeks later, the same thing. One coffee at a time I was re-writing his entire text with him. Finally, I took the whole manuscript and several dozen pots of coffee later we finished the text (to be published this summer by Triangle Press).

Something happened each meeting, and through the reading of each chapter—I found the man’s heart. And, through various interviews I saw it deeply. Regardless of the business adventures we discussed, principles in question, personalities involved in unpacking the stories, and any shortcomings any of us might have—his unbridled passion was there. No special suit purchased to impress me. No “Just happened to be in your neighborhood.” No ice sculptures of my children. During three years of writing this text his eyes were on the prize – a text that passes along lessons about personal and professional honesty, about sensible solutions, people-first practices, and about “planning your work and working your plan.”

I suppose we need to keep asking ourselves what table we’re bellying up to. What’s on the table and are we honest with ourselves and others. Oh, almost forgot—that imported table that held tens of millions during our discussions—it was a replica. My boss told me he loved saving money on such things when because of the context people only assume they’re real. His entire castle was filled with the same furniture. On my way out of his house I stopped and looked a little longer at the little Rembrandt painting, wondering if I’d ever know if it were real.

How To Talk about Books You Haven’t Read is perhaps the best title of a book this decade. We’ve all been there—looking glassy-eyed like 50Cent and PDaddy at an opera. I had not read Catcher in the Rye until becoming a “Dr.” At first mention it sounded like an agrarian novel. However, I soon learned enough about the book's thesis and search for meaning to know that it was rather controversial. That fateful day when I finally read it (and such books should only take a day) my eyes were opened to the real world of Holden Caulfield and his miserable mental plight. Perhaps as important was to get to know the author, J.D. Salinger. Even though I finished the day disappointed, expecting much more and some sense of closure, and curious about its place in middle school curricula, I also gained an appreciation for the author’s genius. And in reading, and only in reading it, could I understand the underlying fascination with it among students. Misguided to be considered a required text, but a brilliant insight into the dreary fatalism that plagues so many. Reading, and only reading with a sense of sincerity, also brings to light the Harry Potter series, Tolkien’s works, the Chronicles of Narnia, and the long list of wonderful reads that enrich our lives. From Dr. Seuss’ The Snitches to Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s Gulag Archipelago, writers prompt us to think deeply about the human condition and how best to respond to its recurring shortcomings and blessings.

So what about this notion of talking about books you’ve not read—well, I’m sitting at Miami University’s King Library (Oxford, OH) ensconced by an expanse of books far beyond my reading limits. The new book has some clever and helpful advice but a sinister twist. Those of us in the academic professions and in professional setting need to stay appraised of new knowledge and should be reading literature reviews with regularity, such as Books & Culture, New York Times Review, Times Literary Supplement and so forth. We may be prompted to buy some of the books we read about, but mainly we’re just staying current with titles, authors, trends of thoughts and the key conclusions being espoused. How To Talk About Books You Haven’t Read basically says that’s enough—and we’re likely less biased by doing so. The author, Pierre Bayard, is a French literature professor of some renown, so readers without lobotomy scars should pick up a bit of overstatement and some sense of ingenuity or satire—he claims he doesn’t like ready or rarely reads. All said, it’s a wonderful read, provokes thought, brings several smiles, but leaves one perplexed with his rampant relativistic notions. My full review of this book goes into much more detail (pending publication at B&C), but suffice it to say that if a book can take on whatever meaning the reader intends, and not the author, then I’d be a bit leery of having brain surgery any time soon. If the surgeon heads towards my noggin with a gallon of ice cream and a sippy cup, I’ll be relatively certain that his relativistic reading of the med school texts were interpreted quite differently than the authors intended.

And if you read Bayard’s witty little book, besides violating its thesis by reading it, you’ll bristle at his notion that the main reason to stay current with your community’s “must read” book list is to be conversant at cocktail parties. That is, to avoid embarrassment. If that’s the case—as I reflect on my days in graduate school as one of the few non-imbibers—just arrive late to cocktail parties and you’ll hear some rather strange hops-induced theses from books you’re familiar with, or ones that likely nobody but you will remember in the morning anyway.

Well, you can’t judge a book by its cover, but contrary to Bayard’s anti-reading manifesto, I think there’s still quite a few that are still worthy of opening.

Standing in the Indiana State capitol I heard a sandpaper-scraping sound, and turned only to see a lobbyist dragging his chin on the floor. An otherwise successful bloke, his kindly countenance couldn’t hide the fact that on this day his special interest was the big loser as a bi-partisan answer to a property tax crisis was about to pass. On this busiest of days, the last of the session, there was an amazing revelry, a joyful bi-partisan exchange in the majestic cloisters. From the restroom to the balcony, no sharp words were heard in this historic home of all three branches of government. Bitterness took recess.

I stood behind the rostrum with the respected Representative Harris for the standard House chamber picture—sensing the majesty of the place and the history in those hallowed halls. Laptops everywhere, scattered papers, stacks of folders. This was indeed a relaxed but busy place.

Across the hall in the Senate chamber I was reminded of the entrance to Charlemagne’s capitol at Aachen. The marble walls flanked by pillars and three stories of lighted offices were missing only the balcony and a king. The 50 pristine blank desks presented a stately presence, perhaps helping to define the term.

I positioned myself on a substantial wood carved bench and served the muse. There were the fast-paced staffers getting last minute signatures, and their mannerisms were in sharp contrast to the senior citizens guarding the chamber doors—more gregarious than Wall Mart greeters. There was Stellamae, seemingly the glue for the whole operation, ensuring the logistics from behind the scenes, and Mike Cline the quintessential wordsmith, running up a staircase with armfuls of briefcases and writing materials.

There were a few veteran politicians whose entrance to any hall or chamber turned heads and a cloud of respect hovered above them in an almost mythical fashion. Representative Bauer’s movements marked the House’s agenda as Senator Long’s did across the hall. One’s position bespeaks a presence, such as the entourages that surround Senators Young and Lawson, and media that track Lt. Governor Skillman’ well-calculated words. And those with the birthright giftedness, stature and otherworldly voice of a Representative Turner seem to set the standard for a state leader’s profile. True character stands the test of time, and career politicians live their lives in open scrutiny. To survive is a testimony of consistency.

On this particular day, March 14, 2008, I could not help but reminisce about faces no longer in the crowd but with legacies vested in making a difference for all of us, such as the indefatigable Julia Carson and the endearing David Ford. Their faces may be missing, but their voices remain. And that’s the beauty of it all, that what we strive for today is not ephemeral in the human story, but has staying power that enhances lives for generations.

We all know what they were willing to bet their lives on, and Carson and Ford did just that—giving their lives to politics. While two radically different leaders in many aspects they both gave without limits. While the Republican caucus strives to replace the beloved Senator within its thirty days it’s clear that his persona is irreplaceable. Oh, we will miss his face but let it be the face of politics, the kind, patient, beacon of integrity, and coupled with Senator Carson’s tenacity, let it be a face with eyes toward action. May it be a face that succumbs not to the modern relativistic democratization of truth, but insists on the truth of democracy’s potency for structures guaranteeing our freedoms. And, to our grandchildren’s chance for the same.

This afternoon I join many in the city of Marion welcoming home Bryan Crossman, our heralded West Point graduate surviving two tours of duty in Iraq, narrowly escaping the ultimate sacrifice exacted of many of his beloved troops. But my heart weighs heavy as I also tip my thoughts toward Arlington Cemetery where another Marion native is about to be saluted. While politicians were fighting for our rights in the state capitol on Friday, Staff Sgt. Collin Bowen passed from this world fighting for our rights on a foreign soil. Battling tyranny and oppression that rapaciously belittles women, kills children, he died in response to similar screams from families throughout the civilized world at the sights, sounds and ramifications of twin towers crashing on the helpless. While property taxes were taking unfair tolls on our pockets, human rights and ideals taxed Collin’s personhood. Just as the faces of Carson and Ford emblaze images of a high calling, the picture of the young handsome Bowen pierces my soul with an unforgettable image of sacrifice.

Clipped to my screen as I write on this hallowed morning is more than the picture of Collin Bowen, what I see before me is the cost of freedom. The diplomacy that begins in our local precincts and plays out in our state capitols and the national venue can never be severed from the realities of clashing ideals that throughout history have discarded the best of diplomacy. While President Bush’s awkward swagger and disjointed expressions pale in the wake of Obama’s call for hope, Staff Sgt. Collin Bowen’s sacrifice testifies that bombs don’t shatter one’s soul, but define one’s ideals. Our president’s lack of charisma should not discount his content. While we strive to protect the innocent from bombs, others bomb the innocent. From the Assyrians and Athenians to the Mayans and the Taliban, clashing ideals have been settled by the sword.

We should put forth our best diplomacy to advance solutions based on our ideals while simultaneously committing to defend them. The rejection of incivility does not ensure civility. A golden-tongued defense of freedom, as Pericles discovered in the shadow of the Spartans, does not itself sustain freedom. While we all need Churchills to clarify our ideals and to instill passionately to defend them, such protection against invading forces that defy them moves beyond words.

What I witnessed in Indianapolis on Friday are the logistical underpinnings of ideals that play out on foreign fields. A drive around Monument Circle and the War Memorial en route home vividly reminds me of lives lost for lives lived today in freedom.

John F. Kennedy sat next to me at St. Anne’s Catholic Church in West Palm Beach, for his last mass in this life—though 40 years before my arrival. Emotions welled as I reflected on his passionate desire for change, for attendance to the human condition, and the various references to his profile during this current election season. To drive from Jupiter Island and homes with 25 attendants across to the modest place of worship is quite a contrast in cultures, and provides the backdrop for JFK’s life. Though from the Sybaritic climate of caviar and cashmere, he championed the daily struggles of the disenfranchised. He reminded us that from wealth gained through capitalistic gains can rise a voice for the needy.

After spending time gazing on the well appointed marble naives and altar, I was shocked upon seeing a man’s leg sticking out from beneath a pew. It wasn’t ironic that a homeless man was napping in the confines of the same worship place as one of our heroes of human rights. Nor was it ironic that the leg was dark skinned, representing so many of the battles for which JFK fought and we continue to. And accenting this picture was that the makeshift pew abode of this homeless soul was beneath the large stained glass window with “Feed my sheep” and “Feed my lambs” on the bottom sections. There, around ten rows from the statue of Christ and in the shadow of the balcony crucifix, was a man seeking shelter from his world of choices and circumstances.

We all need such a place. Though JFK didn’t crawl beneath his pew, for those minutes during his last mass in 1963, he was preparing to pave the way for those who would, and in a sense for inspiration for you and me. Jackie Kennedy lamented that “He didn't even have the satisfaction of being killed for civil rights . . .” but in a sense, that bullet elevated his efforts for civil rights to echelons beyond his living grasp.

As Cindy and I passed the prayer room with all candles aflame, it couldn’t go unnoticed that we exited to find a Rolls Royce limousine near the door, and yet behind us lay a man asleep on the floor. The Kennedys and many others, perhaps several on Jupiter Island today, attest to the fact that men and women of extreme wealth can care deeply, and with extreme sacrifice. Their cars and homes might be extreme, but their cares and hurts are human all the same, and the extreme gifts of some mark our aspirational maps of hope. .

What are your thoughts from the pew?

A few hours ago I witnessed discrimination of the 1960’s ilk as three airport taxicab drivers in succession refused the family in front of me. Suddently West Palm Beach became overcast and the human condition grew cold. I watched my new friends literally left on the curb as the drivers sped away. Jim, Ginger, Colby and Payton went from perplexed to rightfully indignant.

The first driver actually shook his head no, then paced, and noted that “it’s not going to happen.” James expressed a remarkable patience, rolling his eyes a bit more than usual, but reserved. I was talking with him at the time and didn’t realize what was actually transpiring.

These events played out in full view of an airport crowd. With the second rejection James took a firm step toward the curb. Snappily dressed in southern genteel tweed and manifesting a quite sense of class, he became professionally candid about these actions. The taxicab drivers had publicly and unabashedly refused them, and when James threatened with legal action, citing codes and the mandatory fines, the victims became the confident authorities. The cabby simply waved and fraudulently and cowered a lame response, “I just went off the clock.”

A host of other drivers looked on, but none came running. None raised their voices in disagreement like those of us nearby. Then came Delly, the next cabby in line, a Nigerian American, and when he politely agreed to let my new friends share my cab, a bit of the tension was eased.

Next came the logistics of getting into the cab with their beautiful dogs, Colby and Payton. In many ways, they’re the eyes for Dr. James and Ginger Kutsch. Little did the cabbies know that they had just disrespected the President of The Seeing Eye College, and a former computer science professor at Virginia. James has a fortitude that mastered the early computers long before KayPro & Radio Shack models, and the many current helps for seeing impaired. He also noted several cases of blind young women being stranded in unwelcome situations when cabbies refused them, which fueled his desire to educate the crowd today—“This happens all the time to my colleagues, and cabs are usually our only means of transportation.”

What didn’t go unnoticed was the irony that all the cabbies involved today were African American, including the rather polite manager who took immediate action when notified. I’m not sure if charges will be filed, but when I followed up with James at the hotel he noted that the manager had just called him again with the violators in front of him. Their jobs were on the line, but James noted that it wasn’t their jobs he was after, but their education.

James and Ginger seem to see life more clearly than many others. They’re also living examples that “The dream needs to be stronger than the struggle.” If you want to learn more about their college in Morristown, NJ, or how to support the training and care of their remarkable team of dogs, go to their handy website at: www.seeingeye.org. And the light colored dogs with a lab mix look like Colby and Payton.

James and Ginger, you encouraged me today. This happened to be a day following an all-nighter due to a writing deadline and an early flight. However, I’m writing this before the day is finished as a commitment to use what means and honed gifts I have to raise awareness of your noble journeys to make a difference. And, with hope to see you again, so to speak.

Your excitement over the thesis of my new book, Why I Teach, touched my heart and branded an interest in making this work more accessible. Upon return I’ll be in touch with McGraw-Hill about producing an audio copy for your school—and as a testimony to your magnetic spirit, and an image on the curb today indelibly impressed on my soul and a visual definition of informed courage—I’ll be the one reading this. I’ve not a strong physical voice, as you know, yet it will be an honor to voice my thoughts for my new friends.

What do you think? What are your first reactions to the Kutsh's predicament today?

My dad rapped three decades before its time, but all in expletives. Changing the clutch plate on your family car in the snow means you’re short on doe. I held the flashlight until my hands went numb. Dad’s gloves went on and off until shortly before the sun arose and the car worked and so did dad.

I spent a week in the windy snow that night. Dad would light another cigarette, swear a bit, then slide under again on cardboard. A few jaunts into the house. A few hot chocolates and Falls City beers. More smokes and swear words. Then more hot chocolate and coffee—and we’re talking that cheap lame Chock Full O’ Nuts. But some how, the night passed and we survived another poor man’s crises.

The snow on the roof and frosted windows branded those of us in rental houses. We likely burned an extra oil field just warming the cars in the morning. I wondered how many teens had to get up during bitter Indiana nights to make sure the portable heat lamp was still burning beneath the hood. Or how many had to start the car every hour? How many stacked bales of straw around their foundations? How many put blankets over their upstairs doorways and moved everyone downstairs to save heat bills? How many had to ride frigid buses for an hour every morning?

But we made it. Well, most of us. My Buck Creek neighbors made it. Most didn’t get through high school and only a few managed college. Some how the cold winters passed. A few are still sliding on cardboard in the middle of winter nights. A few still are finding themselves.

The amazing thing is that we survive. Regardless of our challenges, the cold passes and we live to another season. I suppose the biggest difference is some learn the reason. Some find a purpose and a path to reach goals. Some never look.

The next time you see an old car piled with snow, think through your blessings, the simple benefit of a garage.

What signs remind you of blessings in your life?

Our friend recently helped build outhouses for homeless Gypsies in Romania, sensing the need to assist them in surviving their refugee squalor. The next day Bekah was a bit perplexed to find the wooden toilets gone--until noticing families huddled in the cold around fire pits made from the walls. I once watched as several families gave gifts to struggling families, an event sponsored by a youth program in Marion, Indiana called J.C.Body Shop. The kids seemed rather overjoyed, and many left protecting their gifts still in their boxes. A few weeks later I recall asking several of the teens if they enjoyed the toys, clothes and other gifts, only to learn that their parents had returned them for cash to pay for heat bills, food, and other necessities. In a few cities they have installed high-class portable toilets with rotating floors that self clean. These soapy moving floors also helped to keep the homeless from camping in these luxurious restrooms. Those reading this coming from the Christian faith are likely familiar with Jesus' sincere interest in helping the poor and being attentive to the disenfranchised, but likewise cognizant of the tension with the human condition. He said, "The poor you will always have with you."

A few years ago I gave my book, one I authored, to a student as an encouragement. He sold it to pay his bills. I once loaned my Shell gas card to a student in a desperate situation, and noticed that the expenses were more for food than gas.

We are constantly surrounded by those in need, and oftentimes our own stability (which is a good thing) causes us to miss cues of those in rather unstable situations. In San Francisco last week I overheard to tourists say, "Can you believe it? That bum just asked me for a phone card. What could he possibly need a phone card for?" I didn't see the beggar, or would have asked him. Very likely, he had a real need, a relative, or a job possibility. I couldn't help but think, “Who wouldn't need access to a phone?”

I'm aware that many times a gift of what is needed is sold or squandered on debilitating vices--but that should never keep us from staying involved in the response.

What are your thoughts?.

When the legless man crawled through the front door of the church on his elbows, the preacher paused. When a scarred Rawandan woman and a wealthy Brit spontaneously jumped from their pews to lift him to his, the sermon was complete—lived out in front of the church. My friend Peter Rhetts relates this first-hand account in a speech from his years of travels as a lawyer for a missions organization. Regardless of our various religious backgrounds, like Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. before Gandhi, we can all lean into his enduring passion for humanity’s crises and be better for doing so.

The following are excerpts from Peter’s speech to the Tasker Street Baptist Church in Philadelphia (September 29, 2007). When I caught a glimpse of these words from a humble, soft spoken man with an inviting sparkle in his eyes, they seemed deserving of a continued audience. With his permission, lean into a conversation from deep within this wonderful ambassador for both calculated and spontaneous acts of kindness.

The following is given from the pulpit in the place of a sermon. The congregation is African American. Peter is a tall slender Caucasian. If you’re reading this as a Christian, the many references are clear. For those who are from religions or are non-religious, I’ve tried to assist through edits and clarifications. The following is a glimpse of a Christian lawyer’s challenge to other Christians based on his lifetime of travels.

PETER RHETTS: . . . I ask among this crowd - who are the missionaries? How do we identify them? Where do we find them? Do we need to go to China or perhaps India to find real missionaries we can support? Do we go to Africa, or Honduras – then we will find real missionaries? . . . might we find that the missionaries are already here?

May I take a short detour?

Those of you who are parents - have you ever decided what your child was going to be when they grew up? Mine did. They wanted two things – they wanted me to be the musician in the family and a lawyer. I fulfilled both prophecies. My parents allowed me to take a detour in my music career. To this day, I don't think my father, who is still alive, knew what he did next. Because at age 15, he allowed me to play in rock 'n roll bands at parties, special events, and eventually taverns and bars around the northeast. For the next 16 years, I had a love affair playing music in taverns and bars. But that's really of no consequence. I did become an alcoholic, and did experiment with drugs. But even that is a mundane story in today's world. What is unusual are the settings in which I played and the fellow musicians I worked with. You see – for the majority of time I played in bars, I was the minority not only in the band, but in the bar. And for those many years of living in a world different than mine - one that much of white America doesn’t know exists - I learned a few things. I learned that the chances of me suffering discrimination in this country because of my color are about zero – and I learned that if I was not white, my answer may be different. I learned that whites know a lot less about blacks, than blacks know about whites. I must carefully say that many whites watched the Dianne Carroll show in the 1960s’ and thought they were learning about black America – they weren’t. Much more than that, I learned that in spite of what all the politicians have done, or say they have done, discrimination is very much alive. And I learned something which haunts me to this day – especially now as a Christian.

What I am about to say – may I say it with all due respect. I can’t say it because I am a member of a minority in the United States and have experienced discrimination, because I am not. But I can tell you because of my experience as an attorney running with the country club types – working for them as an attorney – that speak with some conviction. You see - I have learned that the corporate board rooms of today look very similar to how they looked when Lyndon Johnson signed the Voting Rights Act in 1965. The control of corporate wealth has not materially changed from what it was when Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his famous “I Have a Dream” speech.

Even with the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which was meant to bring equality to the workplace, there is still a lot to do. According to the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, about 30% of all the workers in the Unites States are minorities. While that number has risen steadily since the civil rights movement, the number of leaders and CEOs of major corporations has not. Only about 11% of all management and executive level positions in fortune 1000 companies are held by minorities. Nor have things really changed economically from when a small, diminutive lady on December 1, 1955, in Montgomery, Alabama, decided she wasn’t going to take orders from the bus driver – she was going to sit where she wanted in the bus. But friends, may God grant me favor in what I am about to say. You see – social discrimination – as evil as it is, is only one part of the sin. Having the ability to attend the school of your choice – travel where you want – eat in the restaurant of our choice – that is all very important. But the fact remains that corporate America to a large degree didn’t really care if Rosa Parks sat in the front of the bus – because she was never going to be allowed to own the bus. Mrs. Parks had two things going against her – she was a minority and she was a woman. There are close to 20 million women in the workforce today. Of all those women, only 20 of them are CEOs of the top 1,000 corporations. I have learned the following as clear as clear can be - social advances mean very little to many of the wealthy – because they do not touch their pocket book and they do not diminish their power.

Have we been hypnotized into believing that social injustice ought to be the center of our attention by watching some of the wealthy occasionally throw some dollars that way. But watch the picture closely as people of wealth and influence appear on the talk shows emotionally pleading for the elimination of discrimination, then leave those very talk shows and go back to their rich neighborhoods and country clubs with no intention of ever materially helping a minority economically succeed. There are exceptions – but they are few and far between.

Don't think for a second that the economic disparity that exists in this country will be solved politically either because it won't. Hillary Clinton, Barak Obama, Mayor Guliani, and Mitt Romney will never eliminate the problem. They may champion the cause, they may even lead the cause. But know this – they need the cause to exist because without it, the cause doesn’t need them. In plain English, politicians at times show little interest in helping others and more interest in helping themselves. If the problems of this country are solved, whatever they are, we won’t need politicians anymore and my friends, that’s just not going to happen. . . .

White America has been effected as well. What social advances have been achieved have hypnotized much of white mainstream America into thinking we have really advanced and we are good - it has almost become a whimsical bedtime story - it makes us feel good about each other and ourselves. It has served to perpetrate the greatest sin - turning away from God.

What is the answer? How does one address the incredible economic disparity that exists in not just this country, but around the world? Why is it that when I go to Central America, I see abject poverty among 80% of the population? Why is it I see a wealthy man drive his brand new Mercedes Benz by men, women, and children who are near death and yet does nothing about it other than drive up the mountain to his palatial estate to live a life of luxury. Why is it when I go to Kenya, I see suffering in the slums of Kibera that should not be tolerated by civilized people anywhere. Where conditions are so horrific, we are incapable of even imagining what it's like to live in such a place.
It is a fact – until Christ returns [a Christian belief about the latter days of human existence], African children will die of AIDS unless we do something.

At the Mexico City dump – perhaps the biggest garbage dump in the world – children will continue to live and die in the garbage unless we do something. And perhaps within a short distance of where I am standing today, there are homeless men, women and children who have no way out – unless we do something. Do we focus on ourselves or do we focus on them. Perhaps the sociologists are right – for some, it is easier to be concerned with self instead of the needs of others – that’s what we are taught, it’s hypnotic and causes blindness – it’s almost as if it is easier to be sick than to be well. Perhaps it is easier to need than to give. But if we buy into that, we have opened the door to the evil one to take over [a Christian reference to Satan] – and to hypnotize us to believe that we are the center of attention – that it is all about us. Don’t believe it.

I plead today for liberty – liberty from you and liberty from God. For what I am going to say – you may never have heard from anyone in this church, let alone a white man. But I am going to say it and take the risk it may bring with it. You see – until Christ returns, social injustice will never end – it will never go away. All the marches, picket lines, political causes, demonstrations – you name it – they may very well bear fruit. But if you allow the cause of racial injustice to consume you, you could very well miss out on the only true way to help yourself. And that is to deny yourself and help others who are in greater need than you. . . .

I was in Nairobi, Kenya, during a Sunday morning service at Good Shepherd Church. One of our missionaries was the pastor at the time. Well along in the service, and right after the pastor began his sermon, the front door of the church opened right by the platform. Everyone saw the person who came in. I will never forget it. It was a man who appeared to be in his 30s. He had shriveled arms and no legs. He crawled on his elbows and looked awful. Unfortunately, he could not raise himself to get in the pews. He tried and tried but just couldn’t do it. Almost on cue, two ladies from the congregation, one from war torn Rwanda and the other from the affluence of England, left their seats, went to the man, lifted him in the pew and then returned to their seats without uttering a word. The service progressed and then ended – but when those two women who did not know each other – who were from totally different parts of the world – one a refugee – one from property and affluence – when they saw the need and responded as one – for me, the service was over. And the service was over because in my heart, I had just witnessed Jesus in that place through those two, very different, but very obedient, women. Other than my family, and my salvation, that experience, that day in Nairobi, is one of the most beautiful moments I have ever experienced.

I have in my hand a picture of an 8 year old boy named Melvin. He lives in the garbage in a very large garbage dump in Central America. He lives in the garbage – and if he is fortunate, he will see tomorrow. He lost two brothers in one month – one who drank poison, thinking it was a Pepsi and the other, who was crushed by a garbage truck. Melvin can’t drink the water in the dump because if he does, it is full of so much bacteria and parasites that he may die. But he has to drink the water because without water, he will die of dehydration. If you feel a tug on your heart, it may very well be Melvin - what will your answer be for Melvin, and for so many millions of people around the world like him?

My friends – the world tells us to look out for ourselves and we will find happiness. It’s a lie. Deny yourself – take up His cross – and follow Him [a reference to Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ of the Bible]. Belief in Christ and denial of self for the benefit of others is the true path to Heaven. With all that is going on in this country, I don’t know if we live in a true democracy. But I know this – our relationship with Christ is not a democracy. He has given us the way – now will we obey - do we really have any choice?

What do we have to offer? We have ourselves and the bounty God has given us as His stewards. What will we do with it? Who will receive its benefit? Philadelphia’s own Tony Campolo tells this story. A group surveyed an area of Haiti and decided to build a hospital for children. Their survey showed that the area needed a 100 bed facility. The day they opened, 400 seriously ill children showed up. Tony knew that the hospital could only take 100 kids – but that meant he had to turn away 300 and the chances of those 300 living was remote. Tony cried out to God asking Him how could He let this happen? How could He let 300 children be turned away and possibly die? God answered his plea – His answer? I didn’t let this happen, you did.

In Paul’s last letter – II Timothy [in the New Testament]– right before Paul was executed, he said this: “I have run the race – I have fought the good fight. May He [Jesus] say, when I see Him, well done my good and faithful servant – well done.” Earlier I asked you a question – who are the missionaries – and where are they? The missionaries . . . are you. You are – right this very moment – writing your letter – you are writing your story. When you see Christ – when your record is laid before you – what will Christ say about you? Right now, this very day, someone in need waits. They wait for a missionary – God’s ambassador – to help them – to bring them Jesus. As a missionary, you have a choice – how long will they wait?

What are your responses to Peter's challenge to his fellow Christians?

I couldn’t comprehend what had just transpired nine floors beneath my San Francisco Hyatt window—the large plaza was covered with snow. The noise of hundreds of people awoke me from my jetlag recovery, and on wobbly legs and through blurry eyes my mind tried to catch up with the temperature disconnect—tons of snow in sunny Cisco. Then I began to recognize push brooms instead of snow shovels, and pillows instead of snowmen. It was Valentine’s Day and I had just missed a massive pillow fight.

Later the hotel staff told me that it’s a tradition. Every year people go take their dating frustrations out on total strangers, slugging out their emotions and bad luck. My waitress added, “And I could have and should’ve been out there with a huge pillow, no, two of them!”

Traditions seem to take on different meanings to different people. From what I can gather, regardless of its origins, it seems to be part of an international pillow day movement to collect bedding, clothes and funds for the needy. It’s clever, fun, and harmless if you follow the rules, such as, don’t hit anyone without a pillow, swing only empty pillows, and don’t hit anyone with a camera or projector.

Creativity is certainly needed as we forge ahead in tough times. We need to keep in mind that a good idea is a job half done—and some people can generate answers to important questions and other the means and processes to realize them.

Around midnight I walked through the plaza and around Ferry House across the street to sit and enjoy the Bay Bridge in all its lighted glory. The harbor was stunning, shimmering in a mile of lights. As I returned to the hotel I walked through the far side of the plaza. Where hours earlier people had their emotional slugfest, now slept homeless adults. Ironically, I didn’t see a single pillow. Wadded coats. A soiled knitted scarf. Hands together atop a trash bag. Nothing but paper.

We scratch our heads as tons of pillows are sent elsewhere while those sleeping on cardboard beneath us, literally, go unnoticed. Most communities have wakeup calls—while some get them in posh rooms and others as the sun rises over the clock tower of the Ferry House.

(for media coverage of the pillow fight: http://laughingsquid.com/3rd-annual-pillow-fight-in-san-franicsco-on-valentines-day/)

Do you see yourself as the creative or logistical part of the solution? Do you see the disconnect in your community?

After the young man repeatedly took full credit for his personal reflection paper, my colleague decided to confront his cheating. As his English Composition professor, she asked one final question of the young man: “Just exactly when did you have your abortion?” Betty said it wasn’t difficult believing a student blatantly plagiarized a paper. What was perplexing, however, was that he hadn’t even read the paper—even after he had been summoned.

While teaching in California some of my colleagues caught a cheating ring with invisible ink. Yeah, when several all-American looking students had blue fingers during finals the gig was up and the stolen tests traced to a student worker. The “surfer dudes” were actually the innocent ones. On another occasion a student who had gained access to “The Instructors Manual” revealed his error when he answered one of the questions on a take-home test with, “Students’ answers may vary.”

Cheaters can be rather creative. One of my Miami of Ohio students had the answers on this Sony Walkman (pre-Ipod era) with the earpiece hidden under his Toledo Mudhens ball cap and Rod Stewart hair. It was also a bit disheartening to learn that a fraternity had a “test bank,” i.e., copies of every test given by every professor in a division for over a decade. This was before digital cameras and other gadgets—their scheme was simple. They had each frat brother in a class memorize a couple assigned questions during each test.

One professor had his own paper turned in to his class! Yep, just post your own paper on one of the “papers-for-sale” websites and not only will you get a bit of cash, you’ll likely have the joy of reading it again.

During a temporary stint at Ohio Northern University my naivety about cheating schemes became rather obvious. As the junior faculty member (still in graduate school) I was appointed moderator of the final exam session. A couple of hundred students sat in one lecture hall taking exams for various class sections. The tests varied by section, but basically were all multiple choice with one final essay question. I was instructed to chart the time every 15 minutes during the two hours. When I turned to write on the board, and whenever my back was to a section of the room, the students would throw answers to classmates; they would add ones they knew, then wad it again and throw it to another. I thought they were merely crumbling unwanted essay answers, as a few were in the aisles as decoys. The scheme likely would have worked, but one of my students ratted on them, but not before listing ten wrong answers on a few of the answer sheets being tossed around.

During my college days a gregarious rich student hired a young woman to retype a paper he had “borrowed.” It was a “B+” paper from two years prior, so he correctly thought it would go unnoticed—but not without angering his roommate who had worked feverishly on the same paper for weeks. While one student was in Indianapolis treating his typist and accomplice to a St. Elmo’s steak, the other was about to pull a second all-nighter. It was then that he discovered the copied paper stacked next to the typewriter with the new cover page still in the roller. The exhausted student suddenly became slap happy and called several us into the room.

It was during the era of ribbon typewriters and White Out, days long gone. He temporarily removed the cover sheet from the roller, and inserted page seven. Around halfway through the 15-page paper he put White Out over the second half of one sentence and the first half of the next. And then he typed in the following parenthetical statement: (“I copied this paper from _______ _________’s 1977 paper!) There, the deed was done, the title paper returned to the roller, and he slept like a fifth-grader on Christmas Eve, or one about to appear on a Jeff Foxworthy show. Late that night we could hear our unethical suite mate returning from his Indy excursion, and it was music to our ears when he began chiding his roommate about still working on the assignment! He bragged about being finished and then left to play Rook, flaunting his decision to take the easy road.

Several days later the copied paper was returned, and next to the White Out section was a handwritten note from the professor, “Real Funny. Yes, I actually read these papers. Grade, A-.” It was the cruelest of endings for his honest roommate, and it put White Out on their friendship as well.

A few weeks ago my bright colleague, Brad, caught a few students in his large class in a scheme. A couple would sign-in and leave but most of the skippers would have a friend sign-in for them. If only one or two had done this, they likely would have gone undetected, but like lemmings on a cliff they couldn’t help themselves. Instead of a packed room it looked more like a Clippers’ crowd in the 80’s. Well, his remedy was rather simple; he gave a quiz at the end of the class and then compared the lists. He sent a note to his class via Black Board informing them that if they came forward and admitted their error, and their accomplice, there would be one level of penalty. If they didn’t, there would be another. He was rather encouraged when several who had judgment lapses contacted him before he actually sent the email.
In the pre-Black Board era, I had a student steal the reserve copy of an article from the library. He actually thought returning the paper’s manila folder would fool the librarian. When the next student came to check out the folder, the thieving student’s signature and ID were clearly legible on the check-out card.

My colleague in nursing had a similar incident of dendrite-challenged cheating when a student submitted a disk with the paper, but forgot to erase the paper that had been copied—and his self-indictment was further enhanced when the professors noticed the disk contained the original author’s encryption.

Although we likely all miss several schemes during our career, some prove self-revealing. Such was the case in my capstone course a few years ago—the final “hurdle” for many to cross before graduation. A senior student submitted a research paper (70% of the grade) that was on a radically different topic than what we had been working on all semester. In this class, 20% of the students’ grade is from critiquing the classmates’ paper, with each paper handled orally as well. This student made the grave mistake of submitting a plagiarized paper that a group of students had submitted the previous semester to another professor. Here’s the unique aspect of this case—it was indeed her paper, but it was also “co-owned” by a few peers.
A couple in my class recognized what had transpired, and informed the other authors. The issue was settled before I ever became involved. In this age of “open-source” answers and the “democratization of knowledge,” with all its ups and downs, there is serious pressure for treating colleagues fairly and not unduly elevating yourself above peers. It was one thing to deceive a middle-aged professor, but it was unforgivable to take credit for others’ work. One of the co-authors was livid. The irony, the paper was such a mismatch for the class objectives that it received a “D” even before I learned of this situation. Shortly before the paper was to be reviewed, the student stepped forward and explained the fraud—and the consequences were severe, an extra year. And, in an age especially in need of a redemptive approach, I’m happy to say that the second time around went rather well.

And if there is any humor in all of this, it’s looking back on mistakes that are just that—errors in judgment that can be used in some constructive teaching moment. Opportunities for professors to curb what could become habits while simultaneously keeping public standards. College is a place that if the error isn’t too grievous, that we can facilitate our students’ growth in areas much more important than comprehension of a particular knowledge set. While some mistakes lead to expulsion from school and students never return, usually there are steps to help them work through their errors—whether it’s a semester away or a set of restrictions and penalties. Most professors can think of times in their youth when others guided them through problems. While most of us likely cannot empathize with the cheating, we can relate to needing a kind voice when we made mistakes. The very essence of “education” means to “pull out” meaning, to facilitate learning. As professors, we’re often the most important book the students will ever read.

Let me leave you with a fun story that eventually had a happy ending—but it was a moment of truth for a student in trouble. I have a longtime friend who is a former professional athlete, and he still looks fit enough to rejoin his NFL team. He has an imposing frame, arms like Colts’ linebacker Bob Sanders, but a Tony Dungy countenance. His wife relayed this story, as my friend’s humility would never have shared it. He had summoned a student for breaking some campus rules, and the student was unaware of all the information already known. After several questions in which the student continued to lie, my friend leaned forward to confront him with the condemning information. When he did, his bulging muscles ripped open his crisp starched shirt. Like the Incredible Hulk, the material split apart. My friend was a bit embarrassed that I asked about this incident, and in his soft voice shared, “Well, he didn’t lie any more.”
We all have our different strengths, and they show in different ways. And, our students and children have them as well. The challenge is to use both our birthright gifts and our honed skills to help our students to succeed—and part of this is to deal with mistakes (on both ends). I’m writing this as another semester is under way, and aware that just when I think I’ve seen it all I’ll learn that I’ve only seen but a glimpse of our students’ creativity. But I’m not commissioned to catch them when they cheat, but to inspire them not to. Not to focus on possible shortcomings, but on their strengths. Not to establish a battery of boundaries against humankind’s fallen nature, but being wise about such things and the joy of entering new frontiers.

My hope is that through great books they find grand lessons, whether it’s to be weary of the pull of a Tolkein ring or the hidden truths of scarlet letters. That they’ll be angered by Catcher in the Rye, intrigued by Candide and provoked to new depths of thinking by Mere Christianity. That in the study of the Mayans they don’t find some romantic culture we should venerate, but one we should protect against. That the study of Mao prompts them not to follow blindly anyone’s Little Red Book or unfounded revolutionary thought. To discover for themselves that the greater the mind the chance for the greater error, and that little decisions can have grand consequences.

And, the next time I have a conversation with a student caught cheating I’ll be careful not to wear a starched shirt. Yeah, having it rip in the stomach area might not be the effect I was after.

Your thoughts?