![My Employment Diary]()
by Chris Horst | Dec 4, 2013 | Blog |
I still don’t know why I answered my phone. I didn’t recognize the number, but took the risk and put my clunky Blackberry to my ear. Matthew introduced himself. He had recently sold his law firm and was smitten with the mission of HOPE International. I almost declined the call, but I’m sure glad I didn’t.
That call came just over five years ago. At the time, I was new to my role as a fundraiser with HOPE. I’m sure Matthew sensed my nervousness, but he was gracious. We small-talked for a bit and then he asked me about my work. I told him of a crazy trip my new wife, Alli, and I were taking across the country. We dubbed the trip 10ten10 because we had planned ten events in ten states to commemorate HOPE’s tenth anniversary.
[As an aside, yes, the now vintage (and embarrassing) trip blog still exists. Thanks, Mom, (commenter name “P.M.” for “Proud Mother”) for the blog comments!]
Matthew liked the concept. And he decided to throw his weight behind it. He offered to match dollar-for-dollar every donation from the trip, up to $5,000. I pumped my fist in my office, but played it cool on the phone, pretending I received that sort of pledge often. I hadn’t (ever).
Alli and I started our 10ten10 trip in Pennsylvania and wound our way west to Seattle, then south to San Diego, and finally back east to Colorado. We held events all along the trail. As Oregon Trail aficionados, we were saddened to not ford any rivers or hunt any bison. But, at one Wyoming ranch, we did hunt prairie dogs (this is very normal, legal and humane in Wyoming—just trust me on this one). And, our Ohioan host was one of the nation’s top Cutco salesmen. And we exceeded our fundraising goals. All told, 77 new donors gave over $25,000 to fund HOPE’s work around the world during the trip.
The trip launched me into a career I’ve come to love. I like the trips, the days where my car becomes my remote office, and even the occasional crazy person who accuses HOPE of various sorts of heresy. And I really like writing. I started writing with these very poorly written early blog posts. Since then, I’ve written one short blog post for 60 straight months. “Practice makes better” and next month, my first book, Mission Drift, officially launches.
[As a second aside: I can’t think of anything that “screams Christmas gift” more than an IOU preordered copy of the book! Am I right?]
But most of all, I love our donors. Young and old, pastors and entrepreneurs, Anglicans and Baptists, oilmen and activists. Bankers and lawyers, like Matthew. They hail from different vocations, but they share affection for Good Samaritanism and for the Good News. And they make my work anything but the daily grind.
In mid-2006, HOPE extended me a job offer. I still am not sure why, as my previous work was not exactly related. I had worked as a construction laborer, a butcher’s assistant, and an amusement park ride operator (well, technically a senior ride operator, responsible for commandeering the fearsome Sky Princess). But they did. And I joined the grassroots HOPE team as Chief Gopher. That wasn’t my actual title, but for a tiny nonprofit with less than 10 headquarters staff, that’s basically what I became.
Then my boss shipped me off to Romania. Because who doesn’t love traveling, basically, to the Siberian Tundra in the dead of winter? I’m still not sure if it was a promotion or a demotion, but I accepted the challenge with long underwear and parka in tow. After completing a three-month feasibility study, I returned back to the States. HOPE had hired a Chief Gopher in my absence so I found a new role. After a brief stint in our human resources department, I moved over to the fundraising team.
The HOPE International global team, May 2013
When I made that move, our donors were already surging behind HOPE’s mission. They were absolutely the wind beneath our wings. In the 2005 fiscal year, we barely eclipsed $3M in revenue. By 2008, that number crested $6M. This year, Lord willing, we’ll cross $11M for the first time. The HOPE donor ranks swelled all the while. From under 1,000 supporters in 2006 to over 4,000 this year. The growth in other areas has been even more dramatic. From under 10 US staff in 2006 to over 70 now. And most importantly, from serving just over 100,000 clients in 2006 to nearly 600,000 today.
As HOPE’s support base has grown, our team of regional representatives has grown along with it—now stretching from Southern California to New England. I count it one of my greatest professional joys to serve alongside this talented group of HOPE ambassadors. In our cities, we enjoy the privilege of representing HOPE to our partner churches and donors, like Matthew.
When I called Matthew after our 10ten10 trip to share the exciting news about meeting the $5,000 match, he made our second phone call even more memorable than the first. He said he wanted to match the whole thing. All $25,000. As 2013 comes to a close, I’m swelling with gratefulness for Matthew and the thousands who have joined him in propelling the mission of HOPE around the world. When the all-powerful Creator entered the world in a manger, it was a breathtaking and unexpected act of generosity. And this Christmas, amidst all the asking and fundraising, I want HOPE donors reading this post to know how abundantly grateful we are for you. Thank you for reflecting the surprising generosity of Jesus.
by Chris Horst | Nov 5, 2013 | Blog |
For two summers during college, I worked ten-hour days under the hot and humid Pennsylvania sun as a mason tender—or more commonly, as a mud boy. I mixed concrete, hauled cement blocks and attempted to assist our masons. Some days I lugged, stacked, and mixed like a champ. Other days I became the target of creative expletives.
Many of my colleagues were rough around the edges. They were hardened by years of heavy labor. At first, I only saw those rough edges. I cringed at the blatant womanizing, the profanity and the quick tempers. I saw only the grit permanently ingrained around their fingernails, not the adept hands at work. But over time, my appreciation and gratefulness for these craftsmen surged. There was no pretense. No conversational dancing. These guys spoke their minds. Particularly one mason, who I’ll call “Smitty.”
Smitty complained a lot. He didn’t like the direction the world was going. But as a man many decades my senior, he earned the right to voice his displeasure with modern politics and self-obsessed teenagers. I truly appreciated this curmudgeonly old man. Smitty’s irritability was just a façade. He cared deeply about his work and demonstrated unmatched respect for his customers, colleagues and friends.
I worked as Smitty’s assistant on a number of projects. The one I remember most was an expansive brick fireplace we constructed inside a beautiful estate in Pennsylvania farm country. I knew Smitty was a good mason. But it was on this project I realized he wasn’t just a skilled tradesman. He was an artisan.
He became immersed in the project. Measuring, re-measuring and re-measuring again, he laid out his plan. An hour into the day, the project would swallow him. His masonry pencil could hardly catch its breath as he jotted and sketched, sharpening his pencil quickly with a few swipes of his utility knife. Smitty moved with fervor, nearly fanatical in his attention to detail. I did my best to keep up with him. I sawed bricks according to his marks and kept the mortar loose and ready. Over a few weeks, Smitty demonstrated complete mastery of his craft.
At the end of the project, I caught him standing in front of the expansive mantle. He looked it over slowly, taking in the final product. I joined him. Our eyes scanned back-and-forth between the ornate details and the full panorama. The joints were pointed perfectly. Each deep red brick fit just in its place. The flawless curves and corners masked how difficult it had been to design. It was remarkable. Smitty had painted a masterpiece.
Craftsmanship runs deeply in my family. My great-grandfather and grandfather worked in the construction business. My dad continues to work in real estate development. Because of that, I’ve always had a deep appreciation for workers skilled at making things with their hands. I didn’t inherit these abilities, sadly, but I know good work when I see it. And Smitty’s work was very good.
There is a rich heritage of craftsmanship in the Christian story as well. As far back as human history, it’s evident God cares about how things are made. The first time we read about the Spirit of God filling a person was when God equipped Bezalel to build the Tabernacle. God gave him “ability, intelligence, and knowledge in every kind of craft, to devise artistic designs, to work in gold, silver and bronze.” Whether it was the construction of the ark, the Temple, the rebuilding of the walls of Jerusalem, or Joseph and Jesus’ carpentry—craftsmanship runs throughout the biblical story.
But it’s more than just God’s concern for beauty. It’s also God’s concern for people. When a garment factory collapsed last year in Bangladesh, 1,129 people died. The cause? Poor craftsmanship. God cares about craftsmanship because he cares about things working well. He designed a perfect world out of what was “formless and empty.”
I sometimes lament my early days working in construction. I certainly had a mental superiority complex, contemplating my colleagues’ immorality and my own intellectuality. It’s too bad. I missed out on a lot of opportunities to affirm the ways their handiwork was a reflection of their Creator. To tell Smitty he did his work with precision and beauty. We all depend on people making things well. The houses and cubicles where we live. The toilets we flush. The outlets we plug into daily. Behind each, there’s a Smitty.
by Chris Horst | Oct 2, 2013 | Blog |
“I just wish I did work that mattered as much as your work does.”
I was wrapping up lunch with a new friend when he dropped this line. His comment didn’t catch me off-guard. Frankly, it didn’t surprise me at all. I hear this comment—and close iterations of it—a lot. And I’m really tired of it. I’m tired of what it does to me and, even more, I don’t like it does to my friends.
I get it. I’m living the Christian dream, folks.
I work for an incredible global nonprofit. We’re missionary bankers, investing in the dreams of over half a million grassroots entrepreneurs around the world. Every day, we give vulnerable Rwandans and Ukrainians hope for today while introducing them to lasting Hope for eternity. We’re literally “proclaiming Good News to the poor…and setting the captives free.” I’m living the dream. But these comments inadvertently elevate my work while diminishing all others to little more than donation-makers.
I understand the line between my work and eternal significance seems incomparably short—surely much shorter than someone working as an engineer or baker—but my work is no more sacred. Granted, it’s taken me a long while to really believe that. When I first started working for HOPE International, I probably did think I was a little better than many of you Christians not working for nonprofit ministries. Just a little bit better. I’m sorry, but I think I did.
And I probably thought I was a little less spiritual than missionaries working directly on the field, those actually working in the slums. I felt I was less spiritual than activists running orphanages and/or living the monastic life. I always had an inferiority complex, to be frank, whenever I talked to anyone working to free women trapped in the sex trade at International Justice Mission. Because, I mean, they’re just amazing.
In The Spiritual Danger of Doing Good, my friend and colleague Peter Greer titled a chapter, “God Loves My Job More Than Yours.” It was a tongue-in-cheek reference to very real danger of this common perspective. The vocational kingmaking pervasive in our churches corrodes us. And it’s simply unbiblical. I believe it hoists many pastors and missionaries onto dangerous pedestals and relegates the rest to cheerleading. Yes, God calls some of us to work for remarkable nonprofits, but he calls more of us to work for law firms, retailers and electrical contractors.
If we really believe we’re all priests, my work is no more significant than Christians manufacturing metal fans and selling mattresses. Scripture uses the analogy of a body. And our biblical heroes include all sorts of careers, from shepherds to centurions.
Some of their careers appear really secular. Matthew worked for the Roman IRS. Daniel and Joseph served as high-ranking government officials in pagan regimes. Jesus and Joseph were carpenters. Peter, Andrew and John were fishermen (they still fished for fish, even after they became fishers of men).
When I really look at scripture, perhaps I am the one who should be concerned about whether or not my profession is biblically validated. It’s not so easy to find biblical examples of Christian fundraisers!
Through my work, we provide loans and savings accounts to people living on meager incomes in Congo and Haiti. But my work is not more sacred, nor more biblically validated, than bankers managing the assets of American millionaires. We’re all to “proclaim the excellencies of him who called [us] out of darkness.” No career has the market cornered on being salt and light.
Merrill Lynch and HOPE International. [Your employer] and International Justice Mission. In light of God and the mission he’s given to us all, we’re all on the same team, each serving uniquely. I don’t care if you’re a homemaker, hotelier, or housemaid. It might not always feel that way, but your job matters as much to God as mine does.
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I wrote this post to celebrate the launch of the Denver Institute for Faith & Work. I joined the Denver Institute board because of my enthusiasm about encouraging all Christians to consider the implications of their faith on their work.
by Chris Horst | Sep 4, 2013 | Blog |
I’ve heard a line of logic perpetuated from the biggest of stages, from pastors and leaders I respect a great deal. It proceeds something like this:
Imagine how much faster we could solve world problems if we all gave just a bit more to charity.
There is a lot to like about this sentiment. I’m a nonprofit fundraiser, after all. I’m all for people giving more to charity, particularly my charity! Still, I believe this logic does more harm than good.
In 1913 in a small farming town in Iowa, Fred H. Wells invested $250 on a horse, wagon and cans. And he began making ice cream. Iowans loved it. Delicious ice cream never stays a secret long and soon Iowa’s secret leaked beyond its borders. Fred Wells began selling a lot of ice cream. Today, his company—Blue Bunny—is the largest family-owned ice cream company in the world, selling over one billion dollars of it annually.
Fred Wells, founder of Blue Bunny Ice Cream (source: Blue Bunny)
I probably enjoy Blue Bunny ice cream more than I should. I’m fairly sure Brett McCracken was thinking about Peanut Butter Panic when he wrote, “Food…is something we can delight in, something through which we can taste the goodness of God.”
Recently, I was enjoying a bowl of Blue Bunny with family when we began discussing the company. The Wells are friends with my father-in-law and he’s had the opportunity of visiting their headquarters in Le Mars many times. He shared about how the company operates, treats its employees, and gives charitably from its profits. Blue Bunny is an exemplary model of business done well.
Upon learning that, I looked down at my empty bowl and quickly scooped seconds.
Eating Blue Bunny isn’t just a culinary joy. It’s effects stretch far beyond my bowl. Buying Blue Bunny sustains the careers of over 2,500 workers. Their wages put food on their families’ tables and clothes in their closets. The company and its employees pay hundreds of millions of dollars in taxes, which paves Iowan roads, sustains public schools, and employs the local police force.
There’s more to Blue Bunny ice cream than cream and sugar. When I trade four dollars for a half-gallon, that money doesn’t just evaporate. It fuels the grocery store, dairy farmers, truckers, and others along the Blue Bunny chain.
When we perpetuate the logic that “increased charitable giving will accelerate poverty reduction,” we inadvertently suggest that other types of spending don’t have a role to play in reducing poverty. In a sense, we create a monetary “sacred/secular” divide. Each use of our dollars—spending, giving, investing and saving—serves valuable purposes in our economy.
Giving to the homeless shelter alleviates poverty, but so does purchasing an iPhone. Healthy societies are built on families and institutions—churches, charities, businesses, and schools. It’s our job to sustain and fuel the best institutions through our giving, spending and investing.
Yes, give generously to charity. Openhandedness should be a countercultural marker and enduring posture of Christians. Giving is good for our souls and good for our communities. But each use of money can contribute to the alleviation of poverty. Spend and invest well. Buy from the good guys and steer clear of the weasels. And above all, scoop a second serving of Blue Bunny.
by Chris Horst | Jul 10, 2013 | Blog |
My wife lived in Tanzania for a few months in college. While there, Alli visited a village recovering from decades of misguided missionaries. In the 70s and 80s, these missionaries introduced the American agenda for progress. They imported their vision for all areas of life—schooling, attire and even “proper food”—were outlined specifically in their blueprint.
Unfortunately, eradicating grubs from the diet topped their to-do list.
A staple in this village’s diet, the missionaries felt this primitive food source should not exist in sophisticated societies. What they didn’t realize was how vital those grubs were as a source of protein and nutrients. After disease, lethargy and malnutrition surged in the coming decades, nutrition experts discovered the problem—they lacked the protein and nutrients to survive. Years after ridding this Tanzanian village of grubs, they were reintroduced back into the diet.
Alli shared this story with me a few years ago. And I always viewed it as a classic example of When Helping Hurts. I always felt pity toward the people living in the Tanzanian village. I mourned how well-intended missionaries negatively affected the village. I became wary of replicating these missionaries. Of being the “hero” who actually made things worse.
But recently I realized: Though I was wary of becoming the missionary, I needed to also be wary of becoming the Tanzanian.
During Colorado summers, there is no better feeling than carving up a pristine singletrack mountain bike trail. Alli and I love to ride together and recently explored some new terrain on Colorado’s Western Slope, just outside of the town of Palisade.
When we arrived at the trailhead, we picked the easiest trail to start because it was our first ride of the season. As we rode up-and-down the rolling hills and pedaled up rock-faced ledges, I started noticing signs beside the trail. The signs provided tips and suggestions for how to mountain bike with excellence.
Colorado Mountain Bike Trail
Descending down a series of switchback turns, I saw a sign with clear instructions: Get off your seat. I stopped to read more. The sign described how riders poised on their feet, rather than sitting on the seat, are better prepared to handle the bumps and swales. As I descended, I put the advice to work and rose from my seated position into a standing position.
Without question, I immediately adjusted to the suggested pose. The sign me to do so, after all.
But as I reflected on my sign-obedience, I began to wonder: Who put these signs here? Is the advice directed toward professional mountain bike racers or amateurs like me? Is there actual science backing up these recommendations? Did some random neighbor kid pound these signs in the ground?
In this case, the sign’s advice was universal and true. But I’ve noticed in my own work, I quickly defer to experts or leading institutions because of their credentials alone. The Harvard Business Review becomes law. It’s as if the experts and consultants always voice the right suggestions. I stand in a ready position if their signs say I should.
I remember meeting with an experienced fundraiser a few years ago. In short, he recommended I “put a number” on everyone I met. From his storied background, he built a system of ranking people by the size of the donation they could make. And for a season, I believed it. He was the expert. I deferred to his academic credentials and industry notoriety without regard for what was right. I ignored the itchiness I felt when he coached me to put charitable bounties on people.
Without question, following slimy fundraising experts is a much different issue than the Tanzanians experiencing malnutrition from abandoning grubs. But in both cases, the “expert” was wrong. We need to give and listen to advice gently, trusting no authority as right, apart from the One who always is. And sometimes that will mean we keep eating grubs, even when the experts say we shouldn’t.
