Intersections III

“Well, that’s futile!”

Such was the immediate response of Cora Bett Thomas to the likelihood of my finding God in America.

I happened upon Cora Bett—or should I say, she happened upon me—during a self-guided tour of Savannah with my friend, Tony. While walking toward an historic home on our must see list, we stopped at the window of a real estate office on Oglethorpe Square. Not just any office, it turned out. And who should step outside to greet us but the founder and CEO herself—Savannah’s “Realtor of the Year,” and, as I would soon discover, one of the region’s more colorful and iconic characters.

When Cora Bett’s biography is written, I’m sure it will reflect Savannah’s salacious charm every bit as dramatically as that of her infamous friend, the late Jim Williams (subject of John Berendt’s Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil). And while I was highly entertained by the twists and turns of both fortune and romance shared by Cora Bett during our 45-minute visit, what I appreciated even more were her ability to laugh at herself and her pointed answers to the revised version of my central questions.

Lately, rather than probing how others experience the Divine, I’ve begun asking, “What really matters?” And, “What sustains you?”

“Family and friends” sustain Cora Bett. And—having survived more than 40 years in business and a life-threatening case of West Nile Encephalitis in 2011—what matters most is “helping others learn and succeed.”

Succinct, spontaneous answers from someone I never would have imagined meeting. Such is the serendipitous nature of my trip.

While in Washington, DC, I had a pair of similarly fortuitous encounters—with men whose lives bear compelling witness to what matters and sustains them.

Susanne and I ran into M. Kalani Souza on November 4, in the restaurant at the National Museum of the American Indian. Intrigued by the ukulele strung across Kalani’s back, Susanne asked him if he happened to be performing in the building. “No,” he laughed. “I’ve been carrying this wherever I go for 15 years! It’s a conversation starter! I’m actually here for an environmental conference.”

As a staff member of the Olahana Foundation in Hawaii, Kalani is doing his best to stem the tide of climate change by helping native communities develop resilience around food, energy, water, and knowledge systems. Arguably, he’s fighting an uphill battle on behalf of people whose voices are seldom heard.

“Are you ever discouraged?” I asked.

“I’m actually more and more hopeful,” he replied. “Largely because agencies like Homeland Security are now working with people like me!”

Three nights later, I met Azim Khamisa at a Catholic Worker House. Following the 1995 murder of his only son, Tariq, Azim chose to cultivate compassion rather than vengeance. So he reached out to extend forgiveness—initially to the assailant’s grandfather, and later to the fatherless assailant himself. In an attempt to turn the tragedy into a bridge of peace, he established the Tariq Khamisa Foundation (TKF). Over the course of more than 18 years, Azim and the assailant’s grandfather have shared a message of love and reconciliation with hundreds of thousands of people across the country. The author of three books, Azim is now advocating to free his son’s killer—who is committed to joining the outreach effort upon his release from prison.

“Given the blessing of forgiveness,” Azim writes on his website (azimkhamisa.com), “I reached the conclusion that there were victims at both ends of the gun… I truly believe through forgiveness we can create peace in our lives, the lives of our families, communities, country, and the world.”

At his son’s funeral, Azim actually laid in the grave as the body was lowered to him. I can only imagine the depth of his pain then. But his commitment to reconciliation is unmistakable now. He admitted that the work he’s doing is as much for his own sake as for the benefit of others. And his eyes gleamed as he spoke privately of his son’s enduring presence. “I talk to him every time I’m preparing for a presentation,” he said. “’Are you ready to go on?’ I ask him. Because we’re doing this thing together…”

Are such encounters purely random? Maybe. Maybe not.

If, seven months ago, I had left Portland with definite notions about what the Divine might look or sound or feel like, I’d have to agree with Cora Bett that a search for God in America—or anywhere else—would be futile. “You know exactly where to look,” Anthony DeMello writes. “That is the reason why you fail to find God.” But barring such preconceived notions, I’ll say this. I’ve been in the presence of great love and great mystery. It’s been worth leaving home for—and equally worth writing about.

(Atlanta, GA)