might be sinclair's most important post ever.

Met this guy in DATUM:KL. Last guy to speak in the conference. Blew the crowd away. He was on TED anyway, won the TED prize in 2006. Might be my future self.

http://www.cameronsinclair.com/index.php?q=node/81

My tea with Tutu

Submitted by Cameron on Thu, 10/07/2010 - 15:33.

Many, many moons ago, long before I decided to dedicate my life to humanitarian work I got through life thanks to a couple of talents. One of them was singing. A skill and a change meeting that led me, then ten years old, to unknowingly have tea with Tutu. A moment that may have had subconsciously changed the course of my life. Hisannouncement to retire today reminded me of that chance meeting.

In the early 80's my family had moved to the United States armed with green cards and a dream of a better life. Coming from South London that wasn't hard. I was good at two things drawing and singing. Thankfully the former paid off in the long run. My parents, trying to adjust me to life in the states, put me in a choir where I sang weekly. As a ten year old I slowly made my way to the front of the singers and ended up singing solo.

One day a man came to speak to our church and for the first time in months I was wide awake and focused during the sermon. Coming from Europe I hungered for international news. Here was this man, small in statue yet larger than life, pushing a moral sense of urgency about injustice and equality. He opened up, first quietly, then with restrained passion, then with conviction I had never seen before. 'If you see something, say something' was his refrain again, again and again. I didn't hear a passage, a gospel, nothing. This was a moral compass pointing to an issue happening at this very moment. He let rip about issues I'd only read about- injustice, suffering and the need of immediate solutions. This was global, this was a collective, we are all part of these issues. I looked around to see people relaxed listening as if the nightly news was on but for me, this scrawny kid with a funny accent, THIS was the most important thing I'd ever heard from an adult.

The service ended and people shuffled out the back. I, with a sweet tooth, made a b-line for the post-service coffee and biscuits. To my amazement I saw him sitting alone quietly tucking into homemade cookies. Thinking to myself 'if you see something, say something', I went up to him and started talking, telling him I was from the UK, had missed what was really happening and started firing rapid fire questions like a pint sized Bob Woodward in the basement of a DC car park. ‘Why?’ I kept asking. Before I knew it he leaned down slowly and rested his hand on my shoulder and he said ‘my child, it is because we are all one family.’

A few weeks after this tiny and small moment in my life, I was still thinking about him. This man left alone after giving the most powerful speech I'd ever heard. What was wrong with my town, what was wrong with the people that attended my church. Was their something wrong with me? Wack. The New York Times hits the breakfast table. It's him, the guy. He's on the cover. I'm met him, he put his hand on me and told me we were a family. The headline proclaimed 'Tutu wins Nobel Prize'. Wow I thought, he must have known what he was talking about and for years he was left dormant in my memory. As I went from one episode to the next in my journey of life I was left with a reminder, 'if you see something, say something'.

Last year I was at the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland. The group I am apart of, the Young Global Leaders, was holding an event on dignity with Desmond Tutu. After the event we met again very briefly. I didn't tell him the story. I didn't introduce myself. I, now taller, put my hand on his shoulder, bent down and said thank you.

This is just my personal story take it for what it is. However, in a time of great need, more than ever if you see something, just say something. Happy retirement Archbishop Tutu, you've touched a lot of lives without even knowing it.

Hello November.

I'll just leave another Jon Foreman written article link here.

The Drunk and the Hypocrite

Another Christmas coming. Good people are still miles away. What kind of me shall I be this time?

Gentleman.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jon-foreman/standoff-with-florida-pol_b_685042.html

Replay: My standoff with Florida Police
Jon Foreman

When I'm on tour, I try not to think about home too much. I write songs, write things for the Huffington Post, and watch a lot of Sports Center. Lately, ESPN has been running segments on whether instant replay should be used in MLB games. Blown calls like the one that ruined Armando Galarraga's perfect game brings this controversy to a head. Personally, I see both sides of the issue. On the one hand, life (like baseball) is unfair. Sometimes calls go your way, sometimes they don't. On the other hand, our sense of justice speaks up for the folks who've been robbed of victory of a good play by a bad call.

What are umpires after all? They're just folks like you or me. And yes, like us, they are only human. "To err is human, to forgive is divine" -- and to watch the instant replay on the big screen is pretty great too. I was thinking about how helpful this sort of instant replay would be for real life situations outside of the ballpark. For those close calls in life, it would be amazing to be able to review the tape and change your behavior accordingly. You could see things from a different vantage point, or see something you might have missed before. I'm thinking of one specific moment right now. A moment that still is fresh in my mind. A moment that made me angry and frustrated. I'm thinking about my run-in with the police in Tampa Bay Sunday night (which fortunately/unfortunately was videotaped from a few angles).

The day started off great -- our band played a few tunes acoustic at the radio station, caught a few innings of the Orioles/Rays game, and then played some rock 'n' roll at the local amphitheater. It was a beautiful night and I had a few songs left in me so I decided to play a couple tunes out in the parking lot after the show. I call them after-shows and they're exactly what they sound like. No tickets, no lights, no amplification, just a few tunes for whoever wants to listen. These moments embody much of what I love about music: spontaneous, communal and pure. A few old songs and a few new ones, nothing too planned out -- it's just a chance to see music bring people together.

The after-show had just begun when things got interesting. I finished my second song, a tune called "Against the Voices" (ironically enough), when I noticed flashing lights accompanied by a loud voice declaring the night to be over. Now I'm not a rabble-rouser by nature and I have a healthy respect for authority, but I was really disappointed at the way this was being handled. This peaceably established group of well-mannered kids were not violating any laws I could think of. The officer was yelling as though he had already asked me to leave, referencing telling me "one more song already," but I had never spoken with him before.

Sure, I want to get arrested for rock 'n' roll as much as the next guy, but I couldn't think of any crime we had committed. I couldn't figure out whose civil liberties this officer was protecting. The whole thing felt so silly -- so juvenile on both sides. I had no idea that singing in the venue's parking lot in the middle of nowhere would cause such a stir. I hate that kind of attention. I'd rather just sing these things with my eyes closed and enjoy the moment. I wanted to put this thing behind me, to write the whole thing off. But with ESPN's gentle nudge, I decided to review the tape, to see it from a different perspective.

So I went back to the instant replay on YouTube this morning to see what I could have done better. And after looking at the tape, I would have made a different call: I would have pushed for communication instead of one more song. I wish that I could have pulled the officer aside to hear his thoughts about the situation. I would have asked him why we were getting kicked out. I would have asked him, "Is there a more appropriate place to play one last song?" I wish I would have asked him why he was yelling at these kids. I wanted to understand the situation, to shake his hand and speak like grown-ups rather than being yelled at.

One of my best friends back in San Diego is on the police force. I've heard his stories; it can be a rough job with unexpected stress. The job of the police is to protect and serve the populace -- in this case, the folks of Tampa Bay. His badge is to be respected because of the service he provides to the community. I'm sure this officer was trying to do his best to serve us, but communication was not handled well. He could have explained why we were being kicked out. Surely he could treat the citizens that he serves with the respect that he also desires.

I'm still not sure why the officer wanted the music to stop. We were not the last to leave the parking lot, we were not blocking traffic, and there had been no noise complaints. The only reason he gave was that he wanted to go home. The only other question of mine that was answered was his name: Officer Fisher. I'm sure that if we sat down for coffee, Officer Fisher and I would find a few things in common. Maybe we could talk baseball, or Beatles, or Zeppelin. Maybe we could find some common ground to stand on. Yes, after watching the tape, I have reversed my decision: I would have gone for communication instead of one more song.

Every night, I play a song called "The Sound" and dedicate it to Mr. John M. Perkins, a civil rights leader and a hero of mine. Mr. Perkins believed (and believes) that love is capable of bringing people together from all sorts of backgrounds, no matter what race, religion, age, occupation, etc. Love speaks louder than hatred. Love speaks louder than even our fears. To be able to sing this song every night, I try my best to live it out with my actions every day. Mr. Fisher, if in any way you felt threatened or disrespected by my actions the other night, please allow me to apologize. That was not my intention. I was simply hoping to play a few songs out in the parking lot for some folks who wanted to listen. I'm hoping to close this awkward incident the best way I can. I would love to find out how to do this sort of thing better for the next time we pass through. We all need each other. We all need second chances. We all need to learn from the replay. The umps, the cops, and me.

I've got to say, Jon, you're one of the most inspiring 'famous people' around this globe. Its cool if we get a short replay of certain situations in life, although many of us would wish for a full replay in certain points in life when it gets difficult and ugly. There are always times and situations where we wished for things to be handled differently, where we 'should' have said different things or made a different choice; but well, Jon did 'rewind' and review his mistakes - although the situation can not already be corrected once again, it is possible to learn from it. Postmortem, right?

Good move here, Jon. You displayed the character of an admirable human. There are hardly anyone one left, with all that pride, that would not bulge in with a kick or a punch, especially when you have people (in this case, fans) on your side. Its definitely way harder to get 'kicked or punch'/insulted in front of your fans, but that shows us Humility. He had been in some frustration after obeying the officer, but the ability to forgive is commendable!

Ahh, how I hate living in this dog-eat-dog world. This read gave me a kicked in the ass after I've decided to play monster after reading various opinions of life-after-uni just yesterday - how underpaid certain jobs are, capitalistic world making the rich and richer and the poor get poorer; that I should still stand and believe in good things, they still exist, not everybody is nasty, and its takes a real hero with courage to Forgive.

I'm called to forgive a same man seventy times seven times; so even if somebody cheats me of all my hard work, I'd still have to cry out my frustration, and then learn to forgive. Well, ain't that a real heroic act. I wonder how many percent of me is the heroic side.

Love listening to their songs; reminds me that there are still Good songs around, there still healthy Fun people around, and also there are people that truly Inspire.

Jon Foreman 'Possessed by Truth'

I am in seat 23 E on a flight from San Diego to Dallas. It's a middle seat. I'm trying to remain composed and tranquil; I am failing. As far as I can tell the baby behind me feels about the same way I do. I thumb through the airline magazine (my regular watering hole for current events), until I start to wonder what viscous substance stuck the pages of the magazine together in the first place. I put the magazine back, stretch into the seat, and rub a sore neck.

Out of nowhere, I am struck by a thought. A thought that has boundless implications. A thought that feels more important than the seat belt/life-vest exhibition. So I write the idea on the back of my hand:

"Maybe truth is not something that I can possess. Maybe truth is something which possesses me."

I look at the words now scrawled on the back of my hand. I think it over and look away. The clouds are turning colors, blue, grey, green, purple. The sun is setting off somewhere behind me. It's my favorite time of day. I look back at my hand and read the idea again.

"Maybe truth is something which possesses me."

To be possessed by truth rather than the other way round is a thought that goes against much of what I have been taught. In fact, most of my education has been presented as a growing accumulation of truth. Throughout public school, I was graded on my comprehension of the facts. The higher grades were awarded to those who really owned the material.

The idea that truth has no owner turns the whole arrangement on its head. Maybe the straight-A students were the ones who surrendered to the system. Maybe they became servants and allowed the information to become their master, devoting countless hours of study to prove their devotion. Perhaps I was too devoted to other things in high school; I was possessed by the Pacific, going surfing whenever I could. I would never say that I owned the ocean, but I would certainly say that the ocean owned me. I surrendered to its call and resisted the truth that high school had to offer.

We now have more information than thousands of years of humanity could ever dream of. Without any effort at all, we could know the weather anywhere around the world, the population of Taiwan, or the first lady's middle name (I'm going to look it up as soon as I get off the flight). With this sort of data at our fingertips, we truly possess more facts than past civilizations would ever hope for. And yet, the meaning of it all is just as elusive as ever. I'm still sitting on a plane unsure as to whether the middle seat is occupying me or the other way round.

The idea spins around in my head -- so I look to folks that are smarter than me. I turn my thoughts to Sir Isaac Newton and the physical law most commonly associated with his name: gravity. The basic idea of gravitational pull is simple to understand -- a clumsy step on the stairs could prove Newton right. And yet this awkward fall does not prove that I am now the proud owner of gravity. No, quite the opposite. I might have a bruise or worse to call my own, but gravity certainly possesses me. I am under the dominion of the truth of gravity whether I fully understand the law or not.

I look out at the fading hills and imagine someone driving home from work. He's going bald quicker than he thinks. He just bought himself a car that screams one thing: MiddleAgeCrisisSportsCar. He begins the drive he takes home from work everyday. The traffic lights, the cars around him, the flat tire...these are all facts that he encounters on the way home; this is the data that he is responding to. He is under the influence of the facts around him. It's not determinism; free will is still involved. And yet, rarely will he choose to ignore a red light or slam into the car next to him. He does not possess the facts, the facts possess him and he drives accordingly.

Our market economy is fueled by ownership. The water we drink, the land that we live on, even our ideas are referred to as intellectual property as our world becomes homogenized into merchandise. These products are to be bought or sold -- anyone's private possession for the right price. But from time to time we ask the question: Who owns who? Is the MiddleAgeCrisisSportsCar the possession of a man who's losing his hair? Or is our balding friend possessed by his MiddleAgeCrisisSportsCar? Does he give the car her identity, or does the MiddleAgeCrisisSportsCar with her sleek lines and bright red paint lend the gentleman her personality for a brief moment of remembered youth?

Yes, our possessions possess us far more than we'd like to admit. And yet, even in our capitalist culture, we don't think of our friends or family this way. Outside of the greek life at college, most relationships have nothing to do with money changing hands. Yes, you may possess friends, but you would never call these friends your possession. When we fall in love we fall under the spell of another. You might say that your buddy is whipped, "He is possessed. She owns him." The truth of the one you love is most certainly something that possesses you and not the other way round.

I come up for air as the lady next to me, in 23 F is rubbing the perfume from the magazine onto her wrists. Smelling her wrists. Then repeating. She is trying to keep the fragrance with her, to possess the essence of the advertisement. I feel a sneeze coming on. Yes. Here it comes. For a brief moment there, I possessed a sneeze. No, actually I think the sneeze possessed me.

The stewardess hands me my orange juice. She sees the writing on the back of my hand and throws me a Sarah Palin comment. Dang it. Chris Martin disclaimers were hard enough. I explain that I've been writing things on my hands for a long time. There, good. At least we have an understanding. Now she has the truth. I look back at my hand, even writing this particular truth down on the back of my hand is a reason to think: Do I now have possession of this truth, owning its understanding or am I now temporarily tattooed with this truth, subservient to its reality?

My thoughts drift to religion. These are the truths that people live by and hold dear. In many ways, these are the truths that inspire our best and worst moments. The truths that motivate Mother Theresa and start religious wars. How can this be? How can fresh water and salt water come from the same hose? Perhaps it has to do with this concept of possession. If I view the truth as my possession to keep safe, I might feel the need to protect my faith. But if I am possessed by the truth, perhaps this protection is no longer needed. Maybe I am set free from the need to defend the truth, rather the truth defends me.

The idea of defending an all-powerful deity feels a bit silly when it's put out in the wind like that. And yet, that sentiment seems to epitomize much of what religion has come to mean. After centuries of witch-hunts, inquisitions and holy wars, many are still fighting hard to defend their faith in an omnipotent God who has no need of our protection. Maybe we are still protecting our beliefs as though we were the owners of this truth.

If our faith is to be more than just a lit match in the powder-keg of differing beliefs, what role does religion play in our modern world? What would it mean to be possessed by truth rather than simply the proud owner of a particular denomination? Maybe we could start with the common ground that we all can call truth. In all of the major religions of the world I find the call to protect the less fortunate.

From the Torah:
"Learn to do right! Seek justice, encourage the oppressed. Defend the cause of the fatherless, plead the case of the widow."
Isaiah 1:17

From the Koran:
"Spend of your substance, out of love for Him, for your kin, for orphans, for the needy, for the wayfarer, for those who ask, for the ransom of slaves, to be steadfast in prayer and to practice regular charity."
83. Section 10

From the New Testament:
"Pure and genuine religion in the sight of God the Father means caring for orphans and widows in their distress and refusing to let the world corrupt you."
James 1:27

From Buddha:
"A generous heart, kind speech, and a life of service and compassion are the things which renew humanity."

The "truth" of loving those around me, the "truth" of seeking justice for the oppressed, the "truth" of a life of service -- these are truths to be possessed by: to be a slave in the service of the kingdom of the heavens, to be the servant of all. If the truths in this life have no owner then we are set free: free from the need to defend the truth, free to be possessed by this truth and simply live it out. Truth becomes much too large for me to possess; truth is the beauty and authenticity which possesses me.

Maybe the meaning of life is not something that I can control, but rather a reality which possesses me. Maybe there is no life guiding "fact" that I can put in my back pocket, as though I were the sole owner of the universe. Perhaps The-Meaning-of-Life-Himself is asking me the questions. When I look at a sunset, when I hear the songs of the ocean gulls, when I feel the warmth of family and friends, I am reminded of a story that is bigger than I am. Yes, this is my story but not mine alone. Truth was never mine alone. Truth is that which possesses me.

Oh and for the record, it's Michelle LaVaughn Obama. But I think that I might have already known that...

Original Post

Jon Foreman for President!

Goodness Precedes Greatness.

I write songs for a living, which is to say that writing songs helps me to live. The song becomes a place where melody and tempo can cover some truly volatile topics. God, women, politics, sex, hatred, disillusionment- a song or a story can be a deeper vessel and more forgiving than most conversations. Poetry can get under the skin without your permission, and music can offer perspective or hope that might have been hidden before. And so the song becomes a vehicle to cover some serious ground.

These days I have a hard time writing a song that feels bright or hopeful. The unemployment rate is edging up even further and spending is down. Foreclosures are way up and stocks are down. Our headlines are full of war, natural disaster, and corruption. So I go looking for songs of hope and stories that remind me of the incredible privilege of living another day. I suppose I'm looking for a hero of sorts. Someone who rises above the situation and does something incredible.

Remember the guy who threw himself on top of the passenger who had suffered a seizure in the New York Subway? As the train was approaching he jumps down onto the tracks and risks his life to save the life of a complete stranger whose convulsions had thrown him into the path of an oncoming train. Incredible. Have you seen Team Hoyt, the dad who pushes his disabled son through all the marathons? They've even done the Iron Man competitions together as father and son, which makes me tear up. Or the story of Mother Teresa, a woman who gave her life to the less fortunate day after day after day. These are the stories that I want to sing about. These are stories of hope.

Such sacrifice, such patience and such goodness is rare and rightly called heroic. But these are not the heroes of our times. Wesley Autrey is not a household name and neither is Team Hoyt. If you want to know the heroes of our society, follow the money, look at the posters on the wall. We pay them seven digit salaries, we put their songs on our playlists, and follow them on Twitter. These are the heroes we emulate.

Let's face it. Mother Teresa doesn't look that good in a negligee. And Team Hoyt won't sell beer commercials to the networks. But when the ball players and the supermodels end up in rehab, we end up asking esoteric questions about what makes a hero. In the movies the good looking actor who gets the girl is easy to point to. But after he gets the girl, then the house, and then a few kids and then a divorce and then another girl. Then what? After all of the special effects are gone, we're left with an aging mortal who looks a bit awkward on the talk shows. Perhaps we've set our goals too low. Or perhaps we've got it backwards.

I would like to suggest that the best parts of our human nature can be seen in sacrifice or surrender. A mother sacrificing her time for her child, a teacher devoting her afternoons to help students off-the-clock. These are truly our most incredible moments as a species: moments of unmerited kindness. Goodness. Virtue. Nobility. Grace. Morality. These are the truly remarkable moments. Perhaps our current economic climate of debt needs a fresh perspective on worth and value. Maybe our monetary crisis indicates a broader loss of perspective.

We live in the land of plenty, the land of milk and honey, where the lottery of birth has given us the advantage of education, of wealth, and of opportunity. Ammon Hennessy puts it this way, "You came into the world armed to the teeth with... the weapons of privilege." A trip south of the border can be an incredible reminder. We are living in the land of entitlement, one of the wealthiest nations in the history of mankind. And yet, money cannot buy us the true wealth of happiness, or peace, or of a deeper form of a meaningful life.

Perhaps the current climate of uncertainty would be the appropriate time to ask the question: what are we aiming for? Our technological achievements as a species are impressive. Our cities, our advancements in flight and our iPhones are all fairly remarkable. But there is nothing heroic about my cell phone. There is nothing sacrificial about it. Where is the song that's worth singing? What is our measure of success? Renown psychiatrist Viktor E. Frankl says that "success, like happiness, cannot be pursued; it must ensue, and it only does so as the unintended side effect of one's personal dedication to a cause greater than oneself or as a byproduct of one's surrender to a person other than oneself."

Maybe the fix is not the money. Maybe two and a half hours in a theatre isn't enough time for a hero to be born. Maybe it takes a lifetime- a lifetime like John M. Perkins. John Perkins is a man who devoted his life to those around him in simple and profound ways. He was quick to forgive, quick to utilize resources to help those in need. He has been a tireless civil rights worker who has endured beatings, harassments, and even prison for what he believes. With the help of his wife, Vera Mae, and a few others, he founded a health center, leadership development program, thrift store, low-income housing development and training center in his hometown of Mendenhall, Mississippi. His is a story of reconciliation, of forgiveness, of patience. He endured the suffering, holding on to a cause greater than himself.

John Perkins has is a song I want to sing. A song of a great man, the story of a legend. How do you replicate this goodness? Do you monetize it? Do you subsidize it? No. It's bigger than Washington, it's bigger than Wall Street. And it looks better than Hollywood. His is the story of a hero, a song of hope. His is a story that reminds me of a goodness beneath the system. Though Perkins was a devout Christian, he was quick to point out that this goodness is bigger than stale religion. Mr. Perkins once said that "many congregations do nothing but outsource justice." John Perkins said it right- you can't outsource justice. You can't farm out goodness to someone else. Your life is yours alone. Those decisions are yours to make.

I am the system. You are the system. We, the system of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, choose goodness. Yes, the system is flawed. Yes, the church is flawed. Yes, Wall Street and Hollywood Boulevard are all fatally flawed. Yes, there will always be those who take the easy way out. But that ain't your game. Your choice is yours alone. Goodness precedes greatness. Maybe the mother will always have more power than the atomic bomb. Maybe under the skin there is a song of hope and meaning waiting to break free. Or maybe not. It's our story. You and I decide with our actions. It can be as small as simple courtesy. Or get involved in your hometown. Find out what the local food bank looks like. Look up the local Habitat for Humanity. What is the world you want? You choose it with every breath.

In our current climate of fear and debt I am reminded of what I hold most valuable in this life: the human souls closest to me. We need each other. Human beings will always be the most valuable natural resource on the planet. The human story is still unfolding. We are telling it as we speak. The human song is still weaving its way towards a chorus, through the suffering, through the fear. We need each other. We need heroes. Let your life be a beautiful song. We need hope. Tell a good story with the way you live. What is the world you want?

Source: Huffington Post