by Chris Horst | Oct 4, 2011 | Blog |
Over the past eight days, I boarded thirteen separate flights as I hopped across the Asian continent. I spent the most time in India. Actually, I spent time in “both Indias,” a phrase my Indian friends used. I visited the skyscraper-heavy financial district in Mumbai and met families in slums nearby. I drove past the most expensive house in the world and walked through one of the world’s poorest shantytowns. Both Indias.
As a connoisseur of fine airlines (e.g., Southwest, my favorite), India’s airlines impressed me. I flew Jet Airways several times and they did everything right: Prompt departures, quick boarding, no fees, and friendly service. It was hard to believe this upstart airline didn’t exist just seven years ago. Actually, seven years ago, there was only one airline in the country: Air India.
Air India – Source: iFreshNews
Until 2005, the Indian government held a monopolistic stranglehold on the aviation industry. Air India was the only show in town. And it was a really bad show. Prices were sky-high, service was terribly low and Air India consistently lagged in innovation. It is a classic story of government-intervention-gone-wrong.
The real victim of Air India’s failure, however, was the poor. Not only could they not afford to fly, but they also were continually forced to bail out the floundering “business.” As taxpayers, they were on the hook for Air India’s failure. Created under the auspices of “protecting the Indian people,” Air India did exactly the opposite. The vitriol for the company by the people of India is apparent. On my final flight home, I thumbed through the pages of The Telegraph, an Indian newspaper. The editorial title about the airline summarized the country’s sentiment: “A long, sordid and pathetic tale of failure.”
Riddled with inefficiencies and waste, Air India was actually crippled while I was in the country. The entire staff has gone two months without salaries and they were on strike last week. The editorial reviled in the failures of the airline, noting for example, that they recently purchased new planes without doing any price negotiation whatsoever with the manufacturers.
Jet Airways and a handful of other upstart airlines like IndiGo are charting a different and refreshing course, however. Led by aggressive Indian entrepreneurs, these budget airlines deliver on their promise to customers. And, they bring abounding opportunity to the poor. The data doesn’t lie: Since 2005, air traffic in India has tripled, fare prices have dropped dramatically and the quality of service has increased.
I’m an admitted believer in the power of entrepreneurship and the free markets. While not without its warts, I’ve argued that capitalism is the “best broken system” for the most vulnerable in our world. There is a role for government in helping the poor, but Air India illuminates that sometimes the best social service they can do for the poor is unleash the Indian entrepreneur to be the solution. Jet Airways, IndiGo and SpiceJet are up for the challenge; and the world is opening up to low-income Indians as a result. SpiceJet’s motto says it all, “Flying for Everyone.”
by Chris Horst | Sep 27, 2011 | Blog |
I compose this pledge based on using Twitter the last three years and following (and occasionally unfollowing) over 750 people during that time. I’ve observed abundant violations to every line in this pledge. But, don’t let my pledge fool you into thinking I am a Twitter-expert; @chrishorst is a work-in-(slow)-progress.
For those of you who don’t tweet, my apologies, but this post is not for you. If you’re looking for Twitter 101; check out this insightful Michael Hyatt post. Feel free to add a line in the comments if I’ve missed any foundational traits of the Thoughtful Twitterer:
1) I pledge to talk about others more than myself. Even though I think my own blog, book, church, organization and business are sweeter than southern tea; I will recognize the contributions, writing and articles of other people. Even if they are less cool than my own.
2) I pledge to give my source kudos: I understand that it’s easier to post cool stuff as if I found it myself, but I also know that’s not very thoughtful. Even if I haven’t mastered the Chicago Style Handbook citations, I’ll give my referring friend a shout-out of some sort (e.g., “via @PillsburyDoughboy” or “Thanks @JamesTheGiantPeach”)
3) I pledge to talk with people, not at them: I understand that Twitter is more like a telephone than a megaphone. I will interact with other people, ask questions about friends’ posts, and, yes, respond when someone talks to me.
4) I pledge to be hopeful: Even when it feels like the world is one great tragedy, I will fight my inner Debby Downer. I won’t spend my every waking tweet bemoaning the inustices in the world, in my life, in the Church and in our political system. I will be (or at least try to be) a person of hope.
5) I pledge to not secondhand brag: My mom might hail the brilliance of my work, but that doesn’t mean I should repeat that to all my friends and peers. Likewise, I’ll try to avoid retweeting every nice thing someone says to me or about my work. I believe that reposting someone else complimenting me is no different than me complimenting me.
6) I pledge to not attempt a tweeting battle: I will surely want to pick fights, as there are plenty of BWC’s (buffoons-with-computers) in my world, but I will show restraint. As much as I’ve tried, I’ve never had a constructive or fruitful fight with anyone on Twitter. In fact, it’s impossible to ever have the final say on anything in 140 (or 280 or 420) characters. Thus, I’ll avoid trying whenever possible.
7) I pledge to understand the @reply: While it’s certainly tricky, I’ll do my best to use the @reply like a pro. Whenever I start a post like this: @NicholasCage is the bomb!, I know that the only Twitterers who will see that post are me, @NicholasCage, and anyone who follows both @NicholasCage and me. I’ll fight the temptation to start posts with an @ sign unless I am directly talking to Nicholas Cage, for example. If I did talk directly to Nicky Cage on Twitter, however, I would not even bother secondhand bragging. I’d just straight brag …in a breathy, theatrical way that would make The Cage proud.
by Chris Horst | Sep 21, 2011 | Blog |
Tourists flock to Lancaster County to experience the magic of this agrarian hotspot. Lumbering dairy cows, hard-working Amish farmers and roadside produce vendors breathe life into Pennsylvania Dutch Country. The picturesque farmland makes for more than great postcards, however. The land is Lancaster’s most-treasured asset. The rich soil and bountiful nutrients create the perfect environment for farmers. Most years. This summer was unkind.
Pennsylvania Dutch Country
The headlines on July 25 tell the story: “Extreme heat, lack of rain leaves Lancaster County’s crops withering in the fields.”
An unusually dry summer distorted Lancaster’s reliable farming formula: It was all sun and no rain. Farmers watched the forecast daily, hoping for movement on the weather radar. One month later, the radar exploded with action. Hurricane Irene and the drenching storms that followed brought record-setting rain.
When the rain came, I cheered for farmers! The inches of precipitation brought sustenance to the struggling soybean sprouts and browning cornfields that desperately needed it. Contrary to my intuition, however, the farmers did not echo my cheers.
Jeff Graybill, a Lancaster agricultural expert, reflected on the rains saying it was “…too dry in the summer, and now there is far too much moisture than we need.”
The over-abundance of rain increased the chance of mold and diseases in crops and delayed farmers’ ability to plant fall crops. The same farmers who clamored for rain to come became desperate for the rain to stop. The much-needed gift arrived. But, too much came and it came too fast. It was too much of a good thing.
During the summer of 2008, Michael Spraggins took a trip to Burundi. The trip sobered Michael, a successful entrepreneur from Orlando, as he immediately felt the pain of the African nation. All around he saw every sort of brokenness, but the healthcare issues especially gripped his heart.
The people of Burundi, like the crops in Lancaster, were dying. Burundi needed “rain.” The pains needed to be addressed. And here was the critical moment. The moment when Michael confronted a desperate situation and committed to act. The moment when emotion often trumps good judgment.
“I descended onto the Burundian tarmac with handful of ideas that promised to change the health prospects of the poor in one of the world’s poorest countries,” Michael reflected.
Michael, armed with a toolbox full of solutions, arrived in Burundi. But, here was the crux. In this moment, he balanced his passion with discretion. Before launching his ideas, Michael learned that “most of those ideas were wrong.”
Before firing up the fundraising engine and rallying the church troops, he paused. He knew that even good gifts like healthcare can be delivered in ways that create more problems than they solve. Michael admitted that his ideas might bring flash floods instead of needed water. So, he endeavored to ask hard questions, to test his ideas, and to find solutions that bring lasting impact, like the type of rain that grows crops. Rain that is steady and measured.
When Michael stepped back from the urgent pain, he was surprised to discover an existing solution. “An unforeseen outcome of our original sustainability thesis was that the church-based clinic outperformed our other pilot clinics in providing the highest quality of care, to the most people, at the cheapest cost.”
Church-based medical clinics were Burundi’s best-kept healthcare secret. They far outperformed their peers and simply needed to be multiplied. So, Michael decided to do this through his upstart organization, LifeNet International. He could have sent rain like Irene sent Lancaster’s farmers; rain that fell too hard and too fast. Instead, he chose the path lined with humility. And that path is leading to a fruitful crop for the people of Burundi.
by Chris Horst | Aug 16, 2011 | Blog |
“You are the first American group to ever visit our community.” Simon’s words sent chills through the missions team that had ventured to his remote Kenyan village. It was a risk to come to such an isolated place, but its undiscovered magnetism was also its allure. Their arrival was a momentous step in a long journey.
Several years earlier, Simon* met these Colorado church leaders at a John Piper conference. They had an immediate kinship. It was hard not to love Simon: He was eminently likeable, oozing charisma with each handshake and smile. Now in Kenya, after months of careful planning, they had finally arrived. As their bus labored up the dusty driveway, the orphanage they knew only by pictures came to life.
The orphanage looked like many like it in Africa: A fenced-in compound with simply-constructed dormitories and classrooms. The zenith of the complex wasn’t its buildings, however. It was the 200 smiling children which greeted the visitors with hoots of delight when their bus arrived. The trip unfolded in typical fashion. The Coloradans spent their days playing with orphans, seizing photo opps, and dreaming with Simon about ways their church could help the orphanage flourish.
"The Vanishing Orphanage"
The trip rattled stereotypes and collided cultures. Simon orchestrated the trip with clockwork precision, his robust leadership skills firing on all cylinders throughout the week. As the trip came to a close, the bus drove the team away. The children chased their bus, wrenching the emotions of even the group’s most stoic members. Hearts full, the team flew home, now well-equipped to share their stories of helping orphaned children and exploring uncharted places.
Despite the many positive moments throughout the week, there were unnerving whisperings among the group. It was strange the teachers didn’t know many of the orphans’ names. It seemed overly-controlling when Simon prohibited them from visiting the neighboring village unaccompanied. Also odd, the orphanage lacked a garden, which is like an Alaskan lacking a snow shovel: The fertile soil can give anyone a green thumb. These quiet whisperings slowly unfolded into loud gasps, and then into protests, and then into many tears, when the group returned to visit Simon’s orphanage just one year later.
On their return trip—one which almost mirrored their previous trip—a team member, Dan, stayed around after the team departed for the States. On his own, Dan journeyed from the Nairobi airport back to the orphanage on a scout mission to investigate the team’s concerns. As he arrived in the village and walked toward the orphanage, a woman approached him, grabbed his arm, and amplified the whisperings.
“Just so you know,” she shared solemnly, “the orphanage is not real.”
Dan, panged with a haunting feeling of betrayal, trekked from the village to the orphanage, hoping to disprove her. He arrived at the place where he played with smiling children just one day earlier. His eyes confirmed the woman’s words: The place was deserted. The yard where the children used to run and play? Nothing remained apart from the lonely debris which bounced with the wind across the red clay earth. The sleeping quarters? Empty. The cafeteria? Vacant. No workers, no orphans, no supplies, no anything. The orphanage had vanished. It was all a mirage.
In truth, the Colorado church was not the first American group to visit Simon’s community. In fact, many churches from across the US and Canada were privy to Simon’s deceitful wooing over the years. His highly-sophisticated web of lies featured faux staff, rented children (he pitched it to their parents as a day camp), and staged arrests (always resulting in generous bail outs by the visitors). All told, this Madoffesque charity scheme collectively defrauded these churches of tens of thousands of dollars. More disappointing, it tainted many wonderful memories and fertilized the unhealthy seeds of cynicism and close-heartedness.
My first response to Simon’s elaborate scam was eye-rolling distrust. This type of story can cultivate skepticism, prompting us to pull back. But it doesn’t have to. It does not mandate that we retreat. In the face of even unbearable trials, Jesus prods us to advance, but to do so with eyes wide open:
Behold, I send you out as sheep in the midst of wolves; so be shrewd as serpents and innocent as doves. – Matthew 10: 16
Jesus’ instructions to his disciples preceded their harrowing journey to bring the good news to the world. He knew their path would be lined with hardship. Still, he sent them out, charging them to be as shrewd as they were innocent. Abounding in compassion, but not the undiscerning kind. Go to Kenya, but send back a scout if you sense something is amiss. Pour out generosity, but do so discriminately, taking Jesus’ instructions as your marching orders. Love abundantly, but always ask hard questions. Jesus sends us out. No retreat. No close fists. No bitterness. Go boldly, shrewd as serpents and innocent as doves.
*Names changed to protect confidentiality.
by Chris Horst | Jul 13, 2011 | Blog |
Lush vegetation creeps onto the roads wherever it’s permitted to do so. Tired political posters adorn the street signs, interrupting the brightly-painted buildings which line the crowded streetscape. Our bus darts through the tight thoroughfares in San Pedro, avoiding overtaxed motorcycles with nearly impossible precision. The streets teem with Dominican culture: Venders peddling just-picked-from-the-field sugarcane, scads of Chihuahuas scampering behind their owners and uniformed school kids winding through the bustle toward their classrooms.
I like it here. There is richness in the culture and authenticity in the people. My work has been the impetus for my recent travels here. Traveling with groups of HOPE donors, we visit the courageous Dominican entrepreneurs we serve throughout the country. Each trip looks different. The donors, entrepreneurs, and communities we visit are unique. I see new places and experience fresh stories. There is one theme, however, which connects all these trips. I’m not proud of it, but I’ve committed one regrettable act on every trip I’ve taken here, an act I’ve only recently even identified.
While navigating through the DR, we always stumble upon a sad neighborhood. These communities, normally labeled shanty towns, usually border sugarcane plantations and they reflect a much cloudier image of the spirited Caribbean culture. Like a dandelion-rich lawn on a well-manicured suburban street, these poor communities stick out. The evident material poverty is jarring. And it’s in these places—on every trip—where it happens: I slip out my camera and capture the misery. I find an especially forlorn-looking mom or a cobbled-together home (preferably both) and snap away.
These snapshots, illuminating the most desperate scenes I can find, become like trip trophies. They’re the type of pictures which make me feel guilty about complaining. About anything. They remind me of how nice my house is and how full my closets are and of just how very much I have. The pictures hold just a glimmer of redemptive value in this convicting power. But, when I snap these candids, I define those communities by what they lack. With each flicker of my camera lens, I make one more strike against those places, stamping them by their deficiencies.
Our charity is often the same. When given the option between defining people by what they have or by what they lack, we normally choose the latter. It’s easier to meet needs than it is to unlock potential. It’s quicker to heal wounds than to train doctors. It’s simpler to raise money to give stuff than for training to make stuff. But, I know I’d sure rather be known for what I do well than by what I lack.
The LORD your God is in your midst,
a mighty one who will save;
he will rejoice over you with gladness;
he will quiet you by his love;
he will exult over you with loud singing.
(Zephaniah 3:17 ESV)
I’m thrilled to serve a God who truly knows me. A God who does not define me by my weaknesses. A Creator who made me in his image. A Father who “exults” over me, his child. These truths convince me that If God and I sojourned across the Dominican together, his pictures would look strikingly different than mine.
snapshot of dignity
