Script:
They say that when tuberculosis gets into your lungs, it basically eats them from the inside out, eventually causing the chest to fill up with blood and the remains of your destroyed lungs. A wet hacking cough accompanies this, and when that blood is coughed up, even in tiny microscopic particles, anyone exposed to them can get infected too. In developed nations, tuberculosis can usually be cured by certain medications. But in underdeveloped nations, in those places where poverty and malnourishment can cause the disease to flourish, the outcome isn't as promising. The death is slow. It's painful. It's a terrible way to die, essentially drowning in your own blood. Most people encountering the horrors of widespread poverty and sickness, of people literally dying in the streets, would look away and make a wide arc around the suffering, not wanting to get infected themselves. But a young woman named Agnes did something a bit different. You see, at age 18, she had asked to go to India to serve with the Institute for the Blessed Virgin Mary, teaching at a school for girls, and eventually becoming the school's principal. And it was there, in Calcutta in particular, that she was exposed to the poorest of poor, those suffering and dying out in the open, for all to see. She decided that these people, who no one else wanted to take care of, who were viewed as somehow less than human, not subject to the same dignities of those with more means, needed to be looked after. Not cured, necessarily. The odds and financial resources clearly stacked against them. No, just simply looked after. And the best way to do that wasn't in the relative safety and comfort of a convent. Rather, the best way was to go live in the streets among them, begging for money, barely surviving. She decided to begin wearing what was to become a singular part of her global persona, a simple white, blue-bordered sari, and left the convent to begin her life among the poorest of poor. And through it all, the goal was to comfort them, attend to their wounds, feed them when possible. Eventually she was able to open her first home for the dying, in 1952, on her 42nd birthday, in fact. It wasn't much to look at, an old abandoned building she convinced the authorities to donate to her, but it provided a place other than the streets for people to go and die with some semblance of dignity, according to the rituals of their own faith, although most were baptized shortly before their death, but more on that in a moment. If they were Muslims, they were read the Koran, Hindus received water from the Ganges, and of course, Catholics were given the last rites. A beautiful death, she said, is for people who lived like animals, to die like angels, loved and wanted. And that one missionary home grew, oh did it grow. By 2013, there were 700 missions operating in over 130 countries, expanding into orphanages and hospices. That simple decision to dedicate her life to helping those who simply could not help themselves grew little by little, and the world began to take notice. As her notoriety grew, so did the adulation and awards, culminating in her being awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1979. There was a slightly bigger award waiting, however. Several years after her death, the call began for sainthood. Now bear in mind, it's not particularly easy to be canonized a saint. To achieve this status, the Vatican has to recognize two miracles that the person has performed. In her case, both John Paul II and Pope Francis recognized as miracles the curing of one woman and one man of their tumors. And so, on September 4th, 2016, Agnes, now called Mother Teresa of Calcutta, was canonized at the Vatican, 19 years after her death, at the age of 87. Becoming known worldwide and having fame and notoriety doesn't come without criticism. There was even a documentary made, titled Hell's Angel. Seems a little extreme, but such as it is. Some criticisms revolve around the validity of those miracles I mentioned earlier. Others have questioned where the millions of dollars of donations—one donation alone was reported to be $1.25 million—that eventually flooded into her organization went. Some medical experts have criticized the fact that needles were washed only in warm water, never sterilized, and used again. And that pain medication was woefully inadequate to treat those being cared for. Several others claim that those suffering in their final stages were baptized against their will, too weak and in pain to be able to make a lucid decision when asked. Of course, these criticisms are vehemently argued against by her supporters, especially in India, where she is revered. The argument that she didn't serve without purpose, that her purpose was to convert the people she helped to Catholicism, and that many were baptized on their deathbeds, wilts a bit when it's understood that her faith compelled her to go out and make disciples of all nations. I'll leave it up to you to determine the validity of these criticisms, but one thing remains clear and unquestioned. That at one time, a young woman named Agnes was faced with a decision. To swing a wide arc, or to lean in. To pull away, or to reach out a hand. And Agnes made her decision, and it made all the difference in the world. In her own words, love cannot remain by itself. It has no meaning. Love has to be put into action. And that action is service.
Script:
In the 1700s, if you were an African who had the misfortune of being captured or sold into slavery, your future was bleak. Passage across the ocean typically took anywhere from 30 to 55 days, and the conditions were, well, horrific. Often times, in excess of 500, men, women, and children would be packed into the storage area of a slave ship, with little to no ventilation, no light, shackled together and forced to lie or sit in one position, in a space that allowed not even enough room to roll over or stand. With temperatures often rising well above 100 degrees, and with very little food or water to prevent starvation or dehydration, and no provisions provided for waste, the journey was filled with stench, death, disease, and abuse beyond our human capacity to fully comprehend. Often when there was a shift in the boat due to changes in the sea's current, those unfortunately stored below, who happened to be along the sides of the ship, would be literally crushed to death by the combined weight of the other slaves pushing against them. If you were a female, the crew members could have their way with you, if you consented. The ship's officers, however, didn't have to abide by such requirements, and could do whatever they wished to the female slaves aboard ship at any time. John Newton knew full well the extent of these atrocities, due in no small part to the fact that he served as mate, and even captain, on his share of these slave ships, seeing firsthand the utterly inhumane way in which other human beings were treated. He witnessed, and perhaps even ordered, the bodies of dead slaves being tossed overboard as food for the sharks. He most likely heard the screams of those lucky enough to escape the hell aboard the ship by jumping overboard to drown themselves. But John Newton's life may have traveled a different path, had it not been for the death of his loving mother of tuberculosis when he was seven. His mother had instilled in young John a strong foundation of Christian faith, but his father, a stern merchant navy captain, directed John into the difficult and often brutal seafaring life. John's history and behavior through much of his early life was patterned with misbehavior and debauchery of every kind. He was even kicked out of the navy for bad behavior, and wandered from ship to ship in search of work. On one occasion, he was essentially taken prisoner by an evil sea captain, and starved and tortured at the hands of this captain's African princess wife. On another occasion, after breaking into a case of liquor aboard another ship and getting the crew drunk, John was violently beaten by the ship's captain, and thrown below deck to survive on rotten vegetables and water. Brought back on deck for further beatings, John fell overboard, and since he could not swim, had to be harpooned to be pulled back aboard ship. Even in this severe state of injury and infection, he was simply thrown back below deck to suffer further pain and indignation. And so it was that over time, John Newton found himself aboard one of these slave ships in the midst of a violent storm. With waves crashing upon the deck and tossing the boat around the sea, he recalled a verse from Proverbs. Because I have called and ye have refused, I also will laugh at your calamity. Fortunately for John, the ship and the crew and most of the slaves survived that storm. And John Newton had a moment. A moment that began a change in the course of his life, though admittedly not an immediate course correction. While John Newton left the sea, he stayed involved in the slave trade from shore. It was still a lucrative business, after all, and his full conversion was many decades away. But he did also begin holding Bible study meetings in his home, and slowly, very slowly over the years, as the conviction on his heart grew stronger and stronger, he could bear it no longer and quit the slave trade altogether. His faith grew stronger still, and eventually he felt the call to fully commit his efforts to God by becoming an ordained priest in the Anglican ministry, and soon headed a parish in Olney in Buckinghamshire. Now the parish wasn't particularly large, nor was it particularly wealthy, but part of the responsibilities of leading a parish was to create hymns that your congregation and prayer groups could recite and sing. And John Newton became quite prolific in his hymn writing, being joined by poet William Cowper in penning close to 350 popular hymns that were eventually titled The Olney Hymns and used in congregations far and wide. I can only imagine the thoughts that must have gone through his mind after decades of torment and anguish for the things he'd seen, the things he'd ordered done, and the atrocities that very likely he himself carried out on other human beings. As he sat at his small wooden desk and penned a simple hymn that would singularly stand out from all the others that he etched onto paper, a hymn that possibly relieved him of some of his burden, that allowed him to at the very least offer thanks and amazement to a God who could even forgive a wretched soul such as he, a hymn that would eventually and, ironically, many years later be embraced by the Black Revival movement and sung by slaves as a song of hope in their amazing creator. The first verse went like this. Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind, but now I see. It is somewhat ironic that one hymn, born of the guilt of one man over horrific circumstances and treatment of fellow human beings, has become a song that in many ways is an anthem of hope in the face of tragedy the world over, played at funerals for the highest dignitaries and the bravest of war heroes, recited by poets, and even included in Harriet Beecher Stowe's book, Uncle Tom's Cabin. Now understand, there are many critics who contend, perhaps rightfully, that John Newton did not have an immediate conversion aboard that ship, that almost 30 years passed before the penning of Amazing Grace, that had he spoken out and used his influence sooner, many lives could have been saved. But honestly, the path to full contrition is one upon which no man can rightfully judge another. To his credit, once the conversion finally happened, once the realization of what he had been a part of finally settled into his soul, John Newton took up the fight against slavery and continued his efforts until his death, even writing a book to help William Wilberforce in his efforts to end slavery in England. When asked, in his old age, why he didn't just retire, Newton is said to have answered, I cannot stop. What, shall the old African blasphemer stop while he can speak?
