Humanitarians

Like an offspring's college graduation, it is an event tinged in deja vu, at which my attendance is motivated more by a sense of duty than by any lively interest, particularly since I am identified in the program as a member of the Dinner Committee and have made a modest effort at soliciting table sponsorships, most notably my own of $1000. But then, as the evening progresses, a journey which at the outset seemed so routine begins to twist and turn in unique and unpredictable ways, and I depart, once again, inspired and exhilarated by the extraordinary deeds and sublime words of unassuming heroes.

I am speaking of the VCIC (Virginia Center for Inclusive Communities) Annual Humanitarian Awards Dinner, which was held on Thursday, May 29th, at Lynchburg College. Readers unfamiliar with the VCIC may recognize its former designation, NCCJ, the National Conference of Christians and Jews, later changed to the National Conference for Community and Justice -- an ill-advised attempt to sound less sectarian (it succeeded mainly in jeopardizing a well-known and well-respected franchise) and a name which the Virginia Region was compelled to relinquish when it broke with its parent on matters of policy and finance and declared its independence.

The VCIC is a human relations organization whose mission is to promote prejudice reduction, respect for diversity, and better understanding among differing races, religions, and cultures. It conducts a wide variety of instructional and interactive programs for young people, educators, non-profit administrators, and business leaders in schools, in churches and synagogues, and in the workplace.

Legend has it that the NCCJ's first meeting in 1935 was held near the site of tonight's dinner, the Burton Student Center at Lynchburg College.

Tonight's dinner is one of several the VCIC conducts annually throughout the state of Virginia -- the others are in Richmond, Norfolk, and Virginia Beach -- and while its purpose is ostensibly to proclaim the humanitarianism of five deserving citizens, it is hardly a secret that the organization funds its activities and overhead from the proceeds of these events. Thus, our honorees are to be commended not only for their achievements and contributions to the betterment of their fellow men but also for bowing to a little crass commercialism, for it is in tribute to them that their friends, families, and associates will tender the $125 ticket price. As a friend astutely cautioned his father after he was inducted into a Business Hall of Fame, "Before you accept another award, find out how much it's going to cost me."

Actually, most of the revenue is generated from corporate donors, rather than from single ticket sales. Several years ago the VCIC abandoned its Citizens Committee -- composed of volunteers who would contact individual prospects -- in favor of an Executive Dinner Committee, which solicits corporate sponsorships that range from $1000 to $5000 and entitle each sponsor to a table of eight.

The VCIC has been remarkably successful in penetrating the business community; the program lists thirty companies, including one $5000 Humanitarian Sponsor, Lynchburg College, whose president, Dr. Kenneth G., is chairing tonight's dinner.

This success can be attributed to several factors: universal acceptance of and appreciation for VCIC's mission; aggressive recruitment of executives to serve on the Dinner Committee and to chair these events; and the relationship-building skills of perennial VCIC president, Jeff S., who from his office in Richmond has made himself a formidable presence in the Lynchburg community, substantiated the credibility and effectiveness of the organization, and earned the esteem, friendship, and support of many local businessmen, no small feat when one considers its replication throughout the state.

Not only is Jeff S. an accomplished ordained minister, an expert on human relations, a talented educator, and an inexhaustible mine of religious, political, and economic information (and opinions), he is also a superb salesman.

Of course, a spate of other non-profits raise money from similar events -- roasts, balls, celebrations, and raffles -- but, quite frankly, the VCIC seems most adept at obscuring this one's pecuniary purpose. There are two reasons for this.

The first lies in the very nature -- and composition -- of tonight's gathering, which sets it apart from those aforementioned. Here, to echo the words of another observer of social phenomena, the medium is the message, the medium in this case being simply the fact that four hundred persons of varying racial, religious, and socio-economic backgrounds dine together in both a real and symbolic demolishing of those impenetrable barriers which -- as much as we like to believe otherwise -- persist in our society.

If the VCIC is the only organization in our community which visibly, vocally, and continually promotes prejudice reduction, tolerance, and mutual understanding and respect, it is the only one capable of assembling so large and diverse a group in awareness, acceptance, and fulfillment of such a mission. Those in the audience are not just observers; they are participants as well, and by their presence they are making a forceful statement: they realize what is at stake and -- if only for a brief, fleeting moment -- are prepared to act.

Two analogies come to mind. Just as at a wedding one internally renews his own vows, or at a funeral one contemplates his own mortality and resolves to treasure his remaining days, so tonight every person in attendance is charged to recommit himself to the ideals of the VCIC.

The second reason relates to the special meaning of the award being presented. Our five honorees embody those ideals -- both in their own diverse backgrounds and in the breadth of their achievements -- and are certainly deserving of the title "Humanitarian." But, as this crowd is about to learn, there are many ways to be a humanitarian.

Several years ago a recipient of this award grabbed his listeners' attention with the witty remark that he knew what a vegetarian ate but he wondered what a humanitarian ate. While laughing out loud, I would submit two subtle truths underlying his flippancy: what really is a humanitarian, and, at least in this venue, does it really matter. Because whether or not the persons being honored technically satisfy the dictionary definition -- "one who is concerned with the needs of mankind and the alleviation of human suffering" -- they have certainly worked to assist individuals less fortunate than themselves and have made their community a better place.

And therein lies the sticking point. As Neil Armstrong so famously misspoke when he first set foot on the moon -- "There's one small step for (a) man (he should have said); one giant leap for mankind" -- is it a man, or is it mankind, whose interests a humanitarian has at heart?

The twelfth-century Jewish philosopher, Moses Maimonides, teaches that the highest level of philanthropy is to endow a person in need with a gift or loan, enter into a partnership with him, or find him employment, all in order to strengthen his hand so he is no longer dependent on another; the second highest level is to give to the poor without knowing to whom one has given and without the recipient knowing from whom he has received. Thus -- if one considers the terms "humanitarian" and "philanthropist" interchangeable -- he whose works benefit the interests of mankind is a greater humanitarian than he whose works benefit a handful of individuals.

With all due respect to Maimonides, I have always believed that the aid and care one person provides to another requires greater sacrifice, commitment, and energy than faceless philanthropy -- a sentiment I expressed at the time I received this same Humanitarian Award in 1999. After all, the effort expended in writing a check or attending a non-profit board or committtee meeting seems negligible when compared to delivering hot meals every day to an elderly shut-in, mentoring, counseling, or tutoring a parentless child, caring for a terminally-ill family member or friend, or volunteering at one of the myriad social service organizations which assist the homeless, hungry, and incapacitated -- like the Gateway, the Free Clinic, the Salvation Army, or Daily Bread. In my remarks, I called those who perform these deeds "unsung heroes," because they do their work silently and selflessly and seldom receive the accolades they deserve.

In recent years, I am delighted to report, the VCIC has recognized several of these altruistic individuals. In fact, one of the joys of tonight's celebration is learning about the quiet benevolence of persons largely unknown to us.

Anonymity is hardly descriptive of our first honorees, George and Rosemary D., who, in accordance with their wishes, are receiving their awards as a silver-haired couple. George D., CEO of Central Virginia's sprawling regional health system, Centra Health, is one of the area's most visible and influential citizens. Possessed of unusual vision, genius, intensity, and leadership skills, Mr. D. has been instrumental in building one of the most respected and quality-oriented health-care institutions in the Southeast. As a member of his Board, I am repeatedly amazed at his ability to articulate, master, and manage the challenges of the most complex organism ever devised by the human brain, the modern hospital -- all the while maintaining remarkable composure and a refreshing sense of humor. His passion and vigor never falter; in fact, they overflow, and his non-professional pursuits have reaped the rewards: Lynchburg College; CVCC; and the United Way.

His statuesque companion, Rosemary -- friend for fifty-five years, sweetheart for forty-five, and spouse for thirty-nine -- is, if more reserved, equally engaged in a variety of activities. A master swimmer, she has been a relentless -- and usually victorious -- competitor on many athletic fields. Her enduring love for children is evidenced in her lifelong career as a teacher, coach, and Bridges volunteer.

Speaking as the inseparable pair they have been for half a century, George and Rosemary share some lessons and values they have learned from important people in their lives -- lessons and values which underlay their individual and collective successes. From their mothers, they learned that there is no such word as "can't," and that every person is responsible for his actions. From the many children who have crossed their paths, they learned that every child deserves a chance. From their colleagues at work, play, and volunteering, they learned that teamwork wins more games than superstars. From their friends and associates, they learned that friendship can never be replaced. From their Methodist faith, they learned that the Golden Rule is a directive, not a suggestion. And from each other, they learned that the power of two is exponentially greater than the power of one.

A paricularly entertaining aspect of this evening's program is a video biography of each honoree -- scripted, produced, and narrated by local television personality, Ms. Noreen T. Noreen is a striking black-haired beauty who brings her natural congeniality, broadcast presence, baritonal inflection, and glorious smile to the podium as Mistress of Ceremonies.

Thus it is with expectant trepidation that I turn to the closer of the two large screens that flank the stage to view the backstory of the next honoree, retired bank executive and a long-time friend Stuart F., for whom Ms. T. craftily recruited me to give an unrehearsed testimonial.

Noreen and her studio editor have a marvelous talent for making even the most non-photogenic person look respectable on camera. Apparently, while being filmed, I managed to suppress enough of my innate anxiety to speak intelligently about Mr. F., wisely omitting the corny jokes I had told about him at his retirement dinner some months ago -- although Noreen would have snipped them out anyway.

Stuart, I said, is the rare person who, when he makes a commitment, always follows through. I recalled working with him on the Centra Health capital campaign, during which he rigorously insisted that the Business Development Committee seek out additional prospects and make more calls, this at a time when I was, frankly, ready for a break. Stuart's confidence, tenacity, and encouragement were key to the campaign's success.

In addition to his full-time banking career, which ultimately propelled him to the local SunTrust presidency, Stuart is a thirty-three year veteran of the Naval Reserve. Along the way, he found time to serve on the boards of the Chamber of Commerce (rising to the chairmanship), Lynchburg College, CVCC, Centra Health, and NCCJ.

Stuart's sly sense of humor -- after all, he roasted me after I roasted him, much to my surprise, and dismay -- surfaces in the brief remarks he makes. He acknowledges three of his former SunTrust bosses in the audience -- Al K. (former president); Stuart T. (former commercial vice-president), and Sandra R. (not his boss, of course, but his secretarial assistant). He thanks his two brothers for being role models who set an example for him in his youth -- generally a bad example. They were often sent to their rooms for misbehavior, from which he learned that actions do have consequences, and it would behoove him not to emulate them.

Stuart F. and I have stronger ties than many people know. Twenty years ago, as a commercial loan officer with SunTrust's predecessor, United Virginia Bank, he loaned my father, brother, and me an ungodly sum of money to buy out our partners. He looked me in the eye and said, "Now Marc, one day you'll have to pay this back." And we have paid it back, at least eighty per cent of it, which is more than I can say for a lot of other loans banks have made in recent years.

Some months ago, my mother introduced me to the next honoree, Laura M., at a luncheon we attended at the Virginia University of Lynchburg, from which I inferred her interest in the Black community. My mother later hired Laura to tend to some plantings at my father's grave site in the Jewish cemetery in Madison Heights, from which I deduced her horticultural proficiency. Little did I know -- until tonight -- that these two avocations would be married in a stunning labor of love for this seventy-five-year-old woman.

Ten years ago, Laura took up a daunting task -- restoring and preserving White Rock Cemetery. "I didn't see a burning bush or hear the voice of God, but I knew this is what He wanted me to do for the rest of my life," she says.

White Rock Cemetery had not been cleared for thirty years, until Laura stumbled upon "this buried treasure" during a Habitat for Humanity Build. She started alone, "digging, weeding, thrashing, and tilling . . . day after day, week after week, month after month." In the words of her friend, Ann G., "She became intrigued by what was there, who was buried there. Her initial curiosity became a passion and an investment of her life, heart, and soul."

Laura committed herself to restoring the memory and honoring the lives of Blacks buried in the cemetery. She says, "The most exciting thing that happens is when I identify someone and know the name of one more person out there." And Ann echoes, "She has a connection and bond with these ancestors that she never met, that she'll never have any contact with. Yet she feels an obligation to them, a very loving obligation."

To embrace passionately a worthy cause is admirable enough; to bring along others is to approach saintliness. Laura secured grants for tools, equipment, supplies, and tree and brush removal. She solicited gifts for a Perpetual Care Fund. She established Historic White Rock Cemetery, Inc. And she recruited hundreds of volunteers, including many from Lynchburg College.

Says Ann, "Her enthusiasm and commitment were contagious. Those students went back over and over again. We couldn't get them to be involved in anything else, but they wanted to be side-by-side with Laura." Why? Because "she's a lot of fun--and just a joy to be around. She makes you want to work real hard, and get sweaty and dirty, but you also want to laugh. You enjoy just being in her presence and think how fortunate you are to call her your friend."

Tonight's last honoree is Sterling W., a man I know only as the Executive Director of the Jubilee Family Development Center, a community center for inner-city children and youth in the Florida Avenue neighborhood. I visited it once several years ago and, impressed by its facilities and programs, have made regular contributions ever since. But in the next few minutes I am to learn a lot more about the driving force behind Jubilee.

Sterling W. was an accountant for the FDIC in Washington, D.C., (where, incidentally, he received one of the corporation's most prestigious awards) when one of the boys whom he tutored on weekends ended up in jail. At that point, he decided to abandon his secure government career and to devote his life to preventing similar tragedies from befalling other troubled youth.

He returned to the site of his alma mater, Lynchburg College, and, along with volunteer Susan C., co-founded Jubilee -- originally a small after-school day care center designed to serve the children of the single-parent residents of a nearby Habitat Build. But under Sterling's vision and leadership, it exploded into a full-fledged campus providing social, educational, athletic, and recreational activities to 228 youngsters from all parts of the inner city. Says Susan,"No one dreamed that the Jubilee Center would become what it is today. No one except Sterling."

In Sterling's video biography, two Jubilee students give testimonials. "Because of Jubilee's tutorial program, I am now honor roll." "The moment when I was falling the hardest, he was there to pick me up, put me back on my feet."

But directing Jubilee, saving kids' lives, is not enough for Sterling W. He is Vice-Chairman of the Lynchburg School Board, having served for nine years. He is assistant pastor of Prayer of Faith Temple. He is a foster parent -- and says he is the one gleaning the benefits. "When a kid comes back and tells you how much he appreciates what you've done, how much he loves you, when he thanks you for taking time with him, that means a lot," says Sterling.

I have never watched the Oprah Winfrey Show, so it is no surprise that I missed it the day Sterling W. was introduced and received Oprah's Use Your Life Award.

Like Laura M., Sterling's commitment to his cause is infectious. Says Susan, "He's touched my life and motivated me to get involved. He serves as an example to all of us that we have something to give back to our community, that we shouldn't be timid or procrastinate, that we should use our talents."

As Sterling springs to the podium, his enthusiasm and exuberance reverberate throughout the auditorium. He breaks out into a broad smile that covers his whole face. He glows with happiness, gratitude. He speaks rapidly and extemporaneously, his only notes a few names he is fearful of overlooking as he thanks his supporters. I don't remember -- and didn't write down -- a word he said, having decided to write this blog many days afterwards. But it hardly matters. Like others in the audience, I am entranced by his unbridled passion, his soaring eloquence, his limitless love for his children and his calling. If he moves us to tears, they are tears of joy, as we exult in the revelation that, if we can't precisely define a humanitarian, at least we can recognize one when he walks among us. Here certainly is a person attending to the needs of mankind -- one child at a time.

Enlightened, invigorated, perhaps sworn to a higher standard of community service or self-improvement, we rise to congratulate the honorees and to thank them for their work and their message. For a brief time, in this surreal setting, we have escaped our domestic duties, our social comfort zones, our professional obligations, and the racial, religious, socio-economic, and cultural silos we inhabit. The words and deeds of five Lynchburg neighbors have awakened us to injustice, pain, and despair, the communal responsibilities we too often ignore, and the power each one of us possesses to repair our fractured world -- if only we would strive to be more humanitarian.