Back in the mid-nineties, when I was a youth minister, I traveled to Canada quite a bit. A good friend pastoring in Toronto, Anthony Does, became a ministry partner and friend. We often visited each other others churches as speakers, took our youth on mission trips together and shared in each others victories and personal woes. To this day, I consider Anthony a dear friend, the kind that will lay his life down for me at the drop of a hat. Anthony is boisterous with his love for Toronto, Ontario and all things Canadian. He never failed to share his country’s historical tales or find a hidden little restaurant that only the locals knew of. He taught me about the profound cultural diversity of Toronto and the pleasure of diving into the multitude of world cultures that filled every neighborhood in the city.

One day we traveled to Niagara Falls. The town is a kitschy nightmare but the Falls themselves are a world-wonder. I took this picture from above the falls. The sheer power of a million gallons of water flowing over the falls every minute was frightening from up here. Once you jumped onto the boat below and experienced, up close, the mega-cascade you never forget the pounding mist that punches you in the face. You are in the hurricane. Though I’ve visited magnificent falls around the world, nothing compares to Canada’s Niagara.

I want to thank Anthony and every friend who has lovingly shared their country with me so effectively that I leave in love and longing to one day return.

The streets of Kolkata are usually clogged with humanity but at dusk on a Friday night they become jammed with every form of traffic in existence. We arrive, on a late afternoon flight, with our team of eight. We jam our mish-mash of luggage and our dog-tired bodies into the extended van waiting just outside of the terminal. We have one goal in mind and only an hour to reach it. I’m doubtful. I’ve driven through these insane thoroughfares before. It is easier to navigate through a stampeding herd of bull elephants than the streets of Kolkata, especially during rush hour. But our driver, as confident as a pit bull against a pack of poodles, puts on a good face and barrels into the fray. Abusing his horn, he honks like an angry Godzilla sized goose. I watch rickshaw drivers run for their lives, and parents (still hundreds of feet away) grip their children in fear. Tonight, the lame had better stay on the sidewalks. Our driver can taste the petrol in the air and he is invigorated by the challenge. Nothing will stop us from reaching our goal.

Streets and alleys slide by. A blur of colors, like a watery rainbow, passes as we drive down a street filled with dozens of flower stalls. We pass both hovelled neighborhoods and luxurious hotels. Beggars and buyers meld together. Kolkata was designed for three million people, yet ten million live in a town center that is approximately the size of the Dallas/Ft. Worth International Airport. We are traversing the perfect example of the tipping point between city planning and corpulent overpopulation.  How do they keep this city operating? Yet Kolkata thrives.

Finally, on a broad street in the center of town, we pull into an unlikely open parking space. As we exit the bus, a palpable peace hangs over us. It’s like a giant soundproof dome has been placed over this block. The team members, most of whom have never visited this place, stop and crane their necks, as if they are trying to clear their ears of any clogs. There is no neon sign to point us down the dark alley towards our desired site. No one on the street points us in the right direction. But I’ve been here before. The unassuming nature of this building is one of its immediate charms. I lead the team down the nondescript alley to a small, open doorway. We enter the Mother House of the Missionaries of Charity.

Best known as the house Mother Theresa built, the Missionaries of Charity stand unrestricted to outsiders for a few hours a day. In reality, anyone in need can enter at any time. But hundreds of thousands of pilgrims, tourists and curiosity-seekers come during opening hours to take a peek at Mother Theresa’s massive white marble grave and the simple room that she lived in for over fifty years. The building is massive, but the majority of it is a hospice for the outcast and infirm. We show up during the last half hour of open doors. What most of us do not realize, is that we have arrived during the Epiphany Mass.

Nearly a hundred worshipers fill the tiny chapel that contains Blessed Theresa’s crypt. A priest quietly leads the Mass. The crowd is reverent, some openly tearful. A few kneel or bow in reverence while others place a hand on the smooth, cool marble. Every day, the sisters place yellow and orange flowers on the grave, to spell out one of Mother Teresa’s famous quotes. I walk to the crypt and read today’s: GIVE UNTIL IT HURTS. I lean down and kiss the stone, crossing myself as I straighten. I barely understand what it means to give, let alone give until it hurts. “Blessed Teresa, I want to learn.” I whisper to myself. I wonder if I mean it. Too late. I’ve prayed. No take-backs at this point.

We all wander to and fro throughout the complex, taking in the treasured few minutes we’ve been given. One of our team, Jason, stands just outside the chapel door observing the Mass. A small Asian nun, barely shoulder height, warmly puts her hand on his arm. She whispers something in Jason’s ear but he doesn’t understand.  Seeing his confusion, she grabs his wrist and leads him to the front of the chapel. She smiles and signals us to follow.  At the end of this Mass, a special blessing is given to all who attend. We obediently stand in line. The priest takes a large wooden cross and touches the head of each penitent one by one, praying for God to touch their hearts. It is not until I am almost at the front of the line that I notice the cross contains a small glass compartment, in the centerpiece, containing a relic from the Blessed Teresa. As I move to the front, I bow my head. Feeling the glass touch the sweat on my forehead and hearing the impassioned priestly prayer, I ask God for a dewdrop of the mercy gifting that Teresa walked in.  It is probably all I can handle.

Epiphany catches me off guard as Mother Teresa grips my heart. As she wrote, ‘The world today is hungry for love; hungry to be wanted, to be loved.’ May the Spirit of Christ teach me to love, not like Teresa, not like Shawn, but like Christ.

Belize is an anomaly amongst its Central American neighbors. Her citizens speak English, she was once a mighty Mayan kingdom, and Belize possesses the most diverse and stunning coastal reef system in the Western Hemisphere. I started visiting Belize four years ago. Besides her warm people, Belize is filled with secret pockets of paradise.  I visited this spot on a private piece of property that only the locals know about. They call it the 20-Foot Falls. This out-of-the-way swimming hole has the ability to remove all your cares. These crystal waters invite you to dive deep. I took this picture because of how the red flowers pop against the emerald waters. Could this be the Fountain of Youth?

What I love the most about this hidden location is that you’d never find it unless a local trusted you enough to show you the way. A key to travel exploration is the ability to seek out local guides that will show you their country through local eyes. I often ask the question: Can you show me something that is a treat for the locals but most outsiders never see? This was an answer to that question when I visited Belize.

“I am so sick of that woman always gossiping about me! She needs to get a life.”

“I can’t believe this is all I get paid for the crap I put up with.”

“Oh my God! The internet is sooooo slow today.”

“I am so embarrassed with my wardrobe. I stick out like sore thumb.”

“What do you mean you’re out of Coke? You call this a restaurant? This is the last time I come here.”

“I have the flu. I just want to die.”

“My life sucks. It feels like God has a personal vendetta against my personal happiness.”

“Can’t I just get a break?”

These are statements I’ve heard in the last week. We hear a lot of complaints in our daily conversations, on the TV or radio, and from your friends, family, and coworkers. If you look for it, you might be shocked by the copious grumbles and moans you field every day.

We traveled down the coast of Orissa India to the seaside town of Gopalpur. The Bay of Bengal is a stunning backdrop for the village of fisherman and traders. The first thing I notice is the lack of the normal ocean aroma. I should be breathing in salty air but all I can smell is urine and burning trash. The village is not as crowded as most in this region but the daily activity reminds me of an ant pile that’s been stomped on. People scurry about desperately, scraping enough money together to eat a couple of meals a day.

On the outskirts of Gopalpur lies the Ganjam Dream Center, run by Good News India. Eighty kids live on an acre of property. All of the children have been rescued from their place in the caste system. Their society teaches them that their poverty and pain is a result of the sins of their past life. They must suffer throughout their lives, under the scrutiny of demanding local deities, until they die and are reborn into a higher or lower caste or creature. The caste system is a wicked and relentless cultural reality in India. It was the Rashmita’s reality for the first ten years of her life.

Rashmita, who prefers to be called Rash, has a shy, quiet face that does not reveal her inner fortitude. Her long black hair is neatly tied into a ponytail and frames a small smile that would make the Mona Lisa proud. Her poised posture makes her appear to be floating toward me as she moves through a throng of children. Her soft eyes look at the ground as she shares her story with a restrained but steady cadence. I can tell that she feels pain as she relives the tale, but it does not stop her.

Rash’s father, a trade fisherman, drowned when she was eight. Without any income in the home, her mother was unable to properly care for her. The Good News Dream Center was the only place in town that took in kids like Rash. Although the directors of the center were Christians, an aberration in the Hindu majority, her daughter would be well provided for and a burden would be lifted from their family. Her mother showed up at the front gate with her daughter in tow. Rash was scared. This place, full of buzzing children, was a world apart from her life. The kindly director Lima, a man with a plump belly and a large smile, immediately invited her in.

For the next year, Rashmita was immersed in a loving environment, a safe place that allowed her to be a kid, and to have clean clothes and three tasty meals a day. Back in the village, her low caste status would have doomed her to a life of pain. The Dream Center gave her a family, hope and a future.

Rash became inquisitive about Jesus Christ. She heard the stories of his life, death, and resurrection. He was a man whom claimed to be God the Creator yet he loved lepers, children and outcasts. But the greatest proof to Rash of Christ’s existence was how different these Christians, even living under the threat of death, lived life. They possessed a genuine joy and boundless love. This Jesus cared about EVERY person. Unlike the angry and temperamental gods of the local temples, this God wanted her to dream. Her Hindu background demanded a fatalistic worldview. But Christianity told her she was on this planet for a reason and gave her freedom to determine her future. The gods were cruel and troublesome taskmasters demanding tribute and unquestioning obedience. A day finally came when the bright eleven years old believed that Christ was the only true God. As she wept, inviting Him into her heart, she experienced the invisible arms of divinity holding her close. Rash would never ever turn back to the old gods who lazily lounged in their bloody temples. She would never bow down to plaster and paint again.

Excited about her new life, Rash visited her mother one weekend to tell of her discovery. When she shared about how her needs were being met at the Dream Center her mother bobbed her head in approval. Then she worked up the courage to say these words: “Mama, I have become a follower of Jesus.” Her mother flew into an irrational rage. “How can you have turned away from your people? How have you been deceived and fallen away from our gods? You are no Christian.” Staring Rash down she said, “I will not have my daughter embarrass this family. You will not return to the orphanage.” Rashmita was crushed. But what could she do?

The episode started a few terror-filled weeks for the tenderhearted girl. What began as a daily verbal berating rapidly progressed into physical beatings. Her mother would try to knock the Christ out of her heart. Rash was treated worse than a house slave. Rash told me that as she suffered through the torment, she thought about the torture Jesus went through on the cross–the torment he suffered for her. The abuse and rejection she was suffering was nothing compared to what the Son of God endured. This tiny seed gave her hope. When Rash still did not reject her newfound faith, her mother began to starve her, feeding her the leftover scraps from the insignificant meals already served. All Rash had to say to stop her pain was, “I do not believe any more.” Still, Rash would not deny Christ.

The final straw unfolded as Rash’s mother tried to make her leave a sacrifice at the temple. Yet however much her mother tried to drag Rash to the temple, the girl fought with every ounce of strength within her. “I will not go before that false god!” Her mother smacked her in the face, knocking her to the dirt floor of their hovel. There was murder in her eyes and fire in her fists. “You can kill me but I refuse to go.”

Her mother pummeled Rash with a final blast of frustration. As she stomped out of the front door toward the temple she looked back and growled at Rash, “You better be gone before I return or I will kill you with my own hands.” Rashmita ran crying to her grandmother, who brought her back to the Dream Center. When Rashmita walked through the gate, her friends ran to her, held her and hugged her. She burst into bottomless sobs and emptied herself of weeks of pain and rejection.

That was three years ago.

I look at this radiant 11-year-old who possesses a courage foreign to me. She is alive in resurrection and filled with an incomprehensible peace.

And yet we grumble in our abundance. We complain in our prosperity. Our needs are never enough and our joy remains sadly aloof. What are we missing that this little girl possesses? Do we even know what it means to be in fellowship with a risen Savior?  Maybe our lack of something worth dying for leaves our lives just short of understanding what it means to be alive.

My daughter Coeli with Dream Center Kiddos

On New Years day, I carefully scoured my bookshelves looking for the perfect volume for the long journey ahead. I was leading a small team, primarily composed of my Boundless Expeditions staff, on a trip to the tribal peoples of northeast India. I’ve learned that if you can combine a journey of discovery with potent reading material, you open wide the doorway to both your imagination and a change of heart.. For this journey, one book in particular shined like the Northern Star. My red-clothed gold-leafed copy of Peter Pan and Wendy would illuminate my India expedition.

 J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan is the quintessential portrait of childhood innocence as something to be treasured and retained as long as possible. The term “Peter Pan Syndrome” has been coined to describe someone who refused to grow up, but that is not the major theme of the work. There is no denying that every person must eventually mature. Life forces us to grow up. The process for many, under the loving guidance of parents and a healthy community, is like a gentle sailboat’s cruise down a steadily flowing river. There will be a few dark and rumbling storms along the way, but many children know that their captain-parents have control of the ship. For millions of children around the world, their realities are significantly different. Their vessels are torn asunder; their captain may be dead, intoxicated, or worse yet; those children may have been tossed overboard. And if the children are even old enough to survive, they will only do so by the skin of their teeth and within a hair’s breadth of their lives. Their childhood will be dashed upon the mean rocks of poverty, disease, and exploitation.

In the state of Orissa, India, ”innocence stolen” is the rule and not the exception for children. For twelve days I heard dozens of stories from children whose innocence was violently ripped away. I felt as Wendy did the night she first heard Peter Pan share his loss of innocence: “Wendy, however, felt at once that she was in the presence of a tragedy.” The violent loss of a child’s innocence is something one must immediately confront in this part of the world. With that confrontation comes three choices: (A) cold indifference; (B) the resignation to hopelessness; or (C) the determination to be an agent of rescue.

We are in India for the first two weeks of 2012 with one of the finest non-profits in the world, Good News India, focusing on at-risk children, to learn what it means to be agents of rescue, redeemers of innocence, and catalysts of hope. Through our organization, we lead hundreds of people on similar journeys throughout the year. Our trip to India, on the cusp of a new year, will set the foundation for what we do throughout the year.

Join me tomorrow for a powerful story of one precious girl’s lost innocence, her indomitable will to survive, and a divine union that would help to restore her childhood.

Here is my favorite moment of 2011 and our top rated story:

Moment: Winning the IPPY with Family NYC

Competing against over 200 books in the Inspirational/Spiritual genre, the largest category in the IPPY’s, The Via Advent took home the Silver medal. It was a thrilling moment. But the best part about the award was the family trip we took to the Big Apple to receive it. We enjoyed a fantastic three days in a hotel near Central Park, wandering different neighborhoods, eating tasty meals, and laughing the whole time. Awards last a moment. Family is eternal. http://tinyurl.com/6syumpw

Top Rated Story: In Celebration of Estrogen

They may look like average, everyday women, but they capture the qualities of a superheroine. Women be praised! http://tinyurl.com/82rm29a

My kids in Central Park

Three Weirdest Places of 2011

I love finding weird and wacky places during my travels.  Here are the three strangest of 2011:

Obscura

Down in the Lower East Village of Manhattan sits a weird and wonderful boutique called Obscura. I’ve passed the shop for years without so much as a glance inside. It wasn’t until I caught an episode of the Discovery’s ‘Oddities,’ that I became aware of the treasure trove I had passed so many times. Here’s the full article:  http://tinyurl.com/6rzux7o

Roswell

Roswell was glorious. Aliens everywhere. The street lamps in the shape of alien heads that included dark eyes. An alien couple dressed up as groom and bride at the bridal shop. A forty-foot inflatable green creature in a superman’s suit waving at passing cars from a car dealership. Even the McDonald’s was shaped like a flying saucer (a rumored million-dollar renovation). Here is the full article: http://tinyurl.com/6mjrksm

Hurricane Irene

This summer I took my Wonder Voyage Directors on an adventure to Bermuda. We joined a Carnival Cruise out of Charleston. What we did not expect, was the monstrous Hurricane Irene coming straight at us.  Plans were changed as the ship rerouted down the coast of Florida and into the calm Caribbean. But during the first 24 hours, we sailed through the outer expanse of the hurricane. Riding thirty-foot swells on a cruise ship for twelve hours is quite a ride. Thanks to providence for that turn of events.

Favorite Tattoo: Penuel

I was stamped with three more tattoos in 2011. I have no idea what compelled me to get so many in such a short period of time. I don’t recommend tattoos for everybody (http://tinyurl.com/87wpxau) but I do enjoy the stories behind them. My favorite tattoo this year is the one with the best story.  Here it is: http://tinyurl.com/6m5xnl3

One of Three Tattoos of 2011

These are my personal favorites travel moments of the last year. What was your favorite travel moment of 2011?

State: Hawaii

I have traveled to 45 countries and I have experienced unbelievable natural beauty. For years, I’ve been told Hawaii was the ultimate paradise. I was skeptical until my wife and I took a holiday to Maui in January. First of all, being anywhere with my wife for an undisturbed week is heaven. But Maui also offered perfect weather, blissful beauty, some of the finest food in the world, breaching humpback whales, a picturesque volcano, kindly people, and hidden beaches. I have come to the conclusion along with millions of others: Hawaii is the ultimate paradise.

Country: South Sudan

In November of 2010, I visited southern Sudan to make a documentary about the tremendous need for fresh water wells in communities. I absorbed much during my two weeks among the Sudanese. I learned about their resilience, cultivated through fifty years of civil war. I heard stories about the horrifying persecution of Christians under an oppressive government and the hope of millions for a separate southern Sudan. In July of 2011, South Sudan became the newest nation in the world. I cannot wait to revisit and see the chains of oppression falling away.

Sacred Space: St. Faith’s in Westminster Abbey

Unbeknown to me I had entered St. Faith’s Chapel in Westminster Abbey. As I squinted into the dimly lit room, my senses came alive. The door muffled all of the tourist traffic of Westminster. The dichotomy of moving from such busy noise to an abrupt silence was astounding. A holy hush shielded the sanctuary. http://tinyurl.com/7ngscbf

Favorite Discovered Story from a Favorite Location:  To Capture the Sun

A legend from Maui, Hawaii: http://tinyurl.com/7xas63q

Upon his death in 687 A.D., Cuthbert was sealed in a stone casket and buried in the sands of Lindisfarne.  Eleven years from the day he was buried, the brothers raised his casket so pilgrims might come near his bones in a newly built crypt. But the brothers were in for a shock when they opened his grave. Cuthbert’s body had been perfectly preserved, a sure sign of sainthood. They resealed his casket and moved him to the crypt. For one-hundred years he lay undisturbed.

In 793 the Vikings attacked Lindisfarne for the first time.  The monastery was easy pickings for the Norsemen. Even though the raids continued off and on for 300 years the monks had had enough and by 875 and Lindisfarne was abandoned. The brothers took everything they could carry, including stone casket with the body of Cuthbert, still miraculously preserved. For seven years they wandered the north of England looking for a resting place for their beloved saint. Eventually they settled on Durham, where they interred the saint and built a small chapel around his remains.

This chapel became the center of a grand Norman cathedral constructed in 1104. While moving the body to the new shrine behind the altar, the brothers opened his stone casket to once again find Cuthbert preserved. Cuthbert’s Norman Cathedral became England’s primary pilgrimage destination until the body of St. Thomas in the Canterbury Cathedral took precedence.

In 1539, the Cathedral and Shrine were stripped clean as Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries. Cuthbert was once again moved to a new burial plot. But this time the stone casket was not properly sealed. In 1899, Dr. Plummer opened the casket, skeptical of the miracle. He found a preserved skeleton and mummified head. He believed the sand and sea conditions on Lindisfarne had mummified the body for those first seven years. Each time the stone casket had been opened over the years it was only open for a few minutes, keeping the body in a mummified state. But the final botched burial did it in. Whatever the case may be, Cuthbert traveled farther in death than he ever did in life.

The ancient holy saints like Cuthbert and Aidan of Lindisfarne help preserve the Celtic faith today. A thriving parish Church stands on the grounds of the original monastery. The Northumbrian Christian Community based on Lindisfarne has produced the world’s finest Celtic Christian worship material. The messages of Aidan, Cuthbert and the early saints continue to be shared with hundreds of thousands of visitors a year.

Yet, even with all the tourists and seekers, Lindisfarne remains a quiet, holy place. Stepping onto the sands gives one the sense that you have entered not another place as much as a sacred space set out of time. It is a thin place where heaven and earth intersect. The prayers of the saints of the ages hover around Lindisfarne like the unceasing cool ocean winds.

Lindisfarne is a place that calls to the heart. I hope that one day you will answer that call and visit The Holy Island.

As Aidan was establishing his monastery at Lindisfarne, an Anglo-Saxon boy named Cuthbert was born into a world filled with violence, warfare and mayhem. It was as if the world cried out for peacemakers and Cuthbert was an answer to that cry. Cuthbert’s parents, who were some of Iona’s first converts, raised him as a follower of Christ. At the age of 17, the vigorous, handsome and spiritually sensitive young man felt a call to the life of a monk. He started at Melrose Abbey and eventually became its prior.

During those years a cataclysmic church clash came to a head. The Celtic Church, born out of St. Patrick’s Irish mission, and the Roman Church, born out of Augustine’s mission to the Angles in the south of England met in Northumbria. Three hundred years after a healthy expansion westward from Ireland and northward from Canterbury, the two Churches, similar in Creed but radically different in structure, philosophy and culture, struggled for preeminence of the Church in the British Isles. In its divided state, the Church in the British Isles was unhealthy.

In 664, Northumbria’s King Osloy, of Celtic tradition, married a Kentish (Roman tradition) princess.  The differences in religious practices were crystal clear. Osloy called a nationwide Synod at Whitby to decide what tradition Northumbria would swear allegiance to. A multitude of questions were posed: What is the correct tonsure to wear? Should the church be governed in the Roman centralized manner or the Irish regional manner? Did the Church have the freedom to be creative or was the strict continuity of Roman discipline healthier? Was the aesthetic and mystical nature of the Celtic Church superior to the highly ritualistic system of the Romans? The most important question was the decision of when Easter was celebrated. Each Church based their liturgy off of a different calendar. As far as both parties were concerned, the choice of Church supremacy would affect Great Britain into eternity.  After careful deliberation, the Roman way was chosen (most likely for political reasons rather than spiritual). Many historians believe this was the beginning of the end for the Celtic Church, which would eventually die out within the next 400 years.

The Irish monks of Lindisfarne were devastated by the decision. They retreated back to Iona and left a vacuum in Northumbian Church leadership. Although they were dispirited, the English brothers continued their work at Lindisfarne. At the young age of 30, Cuthbert became the prior of the monastery. He became known as a man of intense prayer, a spiritual warrior, a hearty preacher and a healer of physical ailments. His leadership would bring years of spiritual prosperity.

He died on Lindisfarne in 687, but his travels continued for a few more centuries.