Remembering an American Idealist and Regretting a Wasted Year

The natural idealism of youth is an idealism, alas, for which we do not always provide as many outlets as we should. --Robert Sargent Shriver (1915 - 2011)

He embodied everything good and decent and optimistic about America. Sargent Shriver, who died this month at the age of 95, was a genuine American idealist. He believed in the power of individuals to make a difference and the power of youth to transform the world. He devoted much of his life attempting to inspire a culture of service and community activism. Few Americans today really know much about Sargent Shriver. Although his intellect and political skills were formidable, he was overshadowed by his connection to the Kennedy’s; the husband of Eunice Kennedy Shriver, he was perpetually relegated to status of brother-in-law.

In the early 1960’s, when the United States resonated with optimism and the nation’s youth felt inspired to serve, Shriver radiated all of the positive energy and spirit of JFK’s New Frontier. When a young and charismatic President Kennedy declared in his inaugural address, "Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country," it was Shriver who led the way. Shriver created the Peace Corps and was its first director. In its formative years, he inspired an entire generation of Americans to commit 27 months of their life in far off lands; to live among peoples and cultures that had, until then, been alien to them. Now in its fiftieth year, the Peace Corps has sent over 200,000 young people to impoverished and developing countries, building bridges literally and figuratively, teaching, learning, relating, and spreading all that is good and decent about American democracy.

Since his passing, story upon story has been told of how Shriver’s commitment and dedication, his passion for youth, and his unparalleled belief in the power of relationships helped change lives forever. He sent an army of bright, energetic young Americans on a mission of peace, armed only with smiles and a helping hand, and asked them to spread friendship and understanding throughout the world.

The Peace Corps emerged from an unformed idea articulated in a series of speeches in 1960 by presidential candidate John F. Kennedy, who called for the creation of a “Peace Corps of talented young people” to boost America’s attempts to win the hearts and minds of developing nations; an effort, according to Kennedy, that had been hampered by “ill-chosen, ill-equipped, and ill-briefed” ambassadors who were losing influence to the Soviet Union. Kennedy called on Shriver to transform style into substance. No one was better suited to the task. Shriver combined the organizational skills of an experienced and pragmatic businessman (he had spent several years as the manager of Merchandise Mart, part of Joseph Kennedy’s business empire) with compelling salesmanship and sincere idealism to turn Kennedy’s untested concept into a lasting legacy of success.

When the brief reign of Camelot ended and many of Kennedy’s aides and advisors left for home, Shriver stayed behind to lead the Johnson administration’s War on Poverty, a more logistically difficult and politically complex task that required immense discretion and tact. Political enemies and ideological opponents abounded. Once again, Shriver succeeded where others had failed. He built a series of institutions – Head Start, the Job Corps, VISTA, the Legal Services Corporation, and other services for the poor – that thrive to this day, making the United States a better, more compassionate country. In 1972, when George McGovern asked him to be his running mate in a losing presidential election, Shriver was the one bright spot in an otherwise regrettable year. Along the way, Shriver assisted his beloved wife of 56 years in creating the Special Olympics, a cause Eunice championed the rest of her life, and which provided opportunities for young persons with intellectual disabilities to overcome stereotypes and to be recognized for their own incredible talents and abilities.

Shriver always challenged others to work harder, to do more, and to dream bigger. Not surprisingly, the root of Shriver’s concept of service was his faith. A devout Catholic, he tried to model his life after the teachings of Jesus. He admired Dorothy Day, founder of the Catholic Worker Movement and, starting in high school and throughout his life, asked himself every day, “What have I done to improve the lot of humanity?” As Jonathan Cohn noted recently in The New Republic, “Shriver’s Catholicism was in some ways analogous to Day’s: rooted in the ethics of the Christian Gospels; dedicated to working toward peace, social justice, and redemption of suffering here on earth; and concerned especially with easing the plight of the poor and the disabled.” Always filled with good spirits and good humor, it would be difficult not to be inspired by the life and times of Robert Sargent Shriver.

One of my enduring regrets in life is the lack of vision I demonstrated at the age of 22, the time in life when one’s youthful energy, spirit of adventure, and freedom to set one’s path are at their peak. I graduated from Wittenberg University in May 1981 with plans to attend business school at Indiana University at Bloomington, where I had been accepted as a teacher’s assistant in accounting and could expect an MBA degree two years hence. For the summer, I had a job lined up in the financial accounting department of Dresser Industries in Houston, Texas, where my brother-in-law was employed in oilfield services. He had arranged what seemed at the time a great opportunity, a summer working in a real-life, good paying job at a Fortune 500 corporation. So, off to Houston I went.

It did not take long, however, before I sensed that something was missing and that I had sold myself short. Although my intellectual interests had always pointed in other directions, I was captive to conventional notions of economic security. I could feel myself heading for the life of the “Everyman” and emulating Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman, “Before it's all over we're gonna get a little place out in the country, and I'll raise some vegetables, a couple of chickens..." I lacked vision and, worse, the courage of my convictions. I needed more from life and work but did not know how to make it happen. How could I devote my life to something more meaningful than the pursuit of money and profit, necessary perhaps to sustain the economy, but spiritually unfulfilling? I needed more.

Three weeks before leaving for business school, I experienced an existential crisis of sorts. While I did not yet know my direction in life, I was pretty sure it should be more in tune with my passions. Law school, which more closely appealed to my interests in politics, government, and society, had until then seemed out-of-reach. As the son of a minister and a school teacher, two traditionally low paying professions that could not easily support the ever increasing tuition at U.S. law schools, I could not reasonably expect much financial assistance, especially after my parents had just put three children through college over the previous eleven years. Ever the pragmatist, my father pushed me to pursue the practical professions, accounting and business. “You need to make a living,” he would say. When I took a course in Native American Literature in college, he snorted, “What kind of a job will that get you?” Although my father’s advice was well intentioned and influenced in part by his having been raised in the Depression, it glaringly ignored his and my mother’s own paths in life, in which service to others was their calling, their raison d’être. Even then, I felt conflicted by pragmatism and idealism.

When the manager of the accounting department offered to hire me as the full-time replacement for another accountant who was leaving at the end of summer, I mustered the courage to inform my parents that I was withdrawing from business school and staying in Houston. “I want to go to law school,” I said. My parents were accepting, but skeptical, afraid that I would not follow through and would find it difficult to make the transition back to school after a year or more of reality. But this was the first truly independent decision of my young life and, given where I sat in August 1981, it was the right decision. Later that year, I was accepted into a very good law school on a full-tuition scholarship and have been very fortunate in my career opportunities. I have no regrets about the path I eventually took.

When examined from a broader, historical perspective, however, my year in Houston was uninspired. Looking back, it was a wasted year, full of idle, unproductive time in which my most creative thoughts consisted of how to get through the day until happy hour arrived. Now, as I ponder the life of Sargent Shriver and all of the young Americans he inspired to serve; as I think of all the young men and women today who serve in the military, or tutor and teach inner city kids in programs like City Year and Teach for America, or commit to a year of community service in AmeriCorps, I cannot help but wonder why I was not more thoughtful in how I chose to spend that period in my life, before I was tied down with mortgages and children and college tuition. “If a young person has any idealism at all,” Shriver once noted, “it's strongest about the time he finishes college.”

A few years after arriving in Washington, I learned of the Lutheran Volunteer Corps (LVC), a social justice ministry founded by Luther Place Church, at Thomas Circle, when it was led by the Rev. John Steinbruck, a passionate and articulate preacher of the Social Gospel. Based in part on the spirit and model of the Peace Corps, since its founding in 1979, LVC has placed young college graduates (and others) into year-long stints with homeless shelters, HIV-AIDS clinics, low-income housing agencies, immigrant aid services, and public policy advocacy on behalf of poor and low-income people in cities throughout the country. Similar to the Jesuit Volunteer Corps and the Mennonite Voluntary Service, LVC was inspired, consciously or not, by the vision and practical guidance of Sargent Shriver. Although I was fortunate to have later served, in the late 1980’s and early 1990’s, on LVC’s Steering Committee and National Advisory Board, I have always felt somewhat cheated for having never been among the more than two thousand LVCers who devoted a year or more of their lives in selfless service to the world, and who learned more from the people and organizations they served than they could ever impart.

I know, of course, that we cannot change the past or travel back in time. Sargent Shriver, as much as anyone, would insist that we look only to the future and commit to it. But if I could have done one thing differently in my life, I would have listened more carefully to the voices of people like Sargent Shriver and his cadre of Peace Corps volunteers. And maybe, just maybe, I would have made better use of my time in the fall of 1981. Everyone I have ever known who spent time in the Peace Corps, or LVC, or many of the other outstanding service organizations, have said the same thing, “It changed my life.” I cannot answer precisely why I was so clueless and unadventurous in 1981. But a touch of the Sarge would have done me some good.

The World on His Shoulders

As the President prepares to inform the nation from West Point of his intentions on Afghanistan, I cannot help but reflect on the incredible burdens that lay on the President’s shoulders. From international crises and risk points in the Middle East and the Persian Gulf, American wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, threats of nuclear proliferation in unstable and hostile regions, human rights abuses in China, Pakistani-Indian tensions and the ever present risk of nuclear escalation, the rampant dysfunction in Russian society, the epidemic of HIV/AIDS in Africa and Asia, the spread of Islamic terrorism in Indonesia, African genocide and ethnic conflict, Mexican drug violence, the futility of Israeli-Palestinian peace and the rising influence of Hamas and Hezbollah extremists; the list goes on and the tensions never cease. From the seemingly safe confines of America, the world’s troubles appear distant. Yet cumulatively these troubles far outweigh in importance the rest of the President’s agenda.

U.S. foreign policy affects almost every aspect of our daily lives. Prices, jobs, the supply of oil, taxes, the life and death of our men and women in uniform, and the safety and security of our ports and means of transportation -- all are impacted by exertions of American power and influence in foreign lands. This is, of course, not new, nor is it unique to President Obama. I have always believed that, despite our emphasis in presidential elections on domestic politics, the economy, abortion and gay marriage, health care reform, and hypothetical Supreme Court nominations, in the end what is most critical to our country’s future is how we as a nation interact with the rest of the world. Issues of war and peace always trump domestic squabbles.

When at its best, the United States can bring hope and light to the world, by feeding the hungry, healing the sick, and providing aid and comfort to the neediest people. U.S funded programs like the Peace Corps, the Inter-American Foundation, and the Millennium Challenge Corporation, combined with the efforts of non-governmental organizations like Oxfam, Lutheran World Relief, and Doctors Without Borders have launched ripples of justice in some of the darkest regions of the planet. At its worst, American foreign policy can inflict pain and suffering, cause destruction and wreak havoc, such as when we bomb villages and kill innocents and call it collateral damage. Sometimes the use of military power is essential to our security and the security of our friends and allies; some wars are necessary. But they should always, always, be the last resort.

Our actions have consequences, good and bad. When Peace Corps volunteers teach children in Serbia to read, or help a Cameroon farmer apply better agricultural techniques, Americans plant the seeds of peace. When we fire drone missiles into the valleys of northwest Pakistan, we inevitably sow disharmony and create future terrorists. Fair or not, much of the world's population views America through their own narrow lenses. When American values are proudly promoted by U.S. corporations and institutions abroad, we damage our credibility when our actions fail to live up to our proclamations. People and nations who should be naturally aligned with us instead turn away in disillusionment and disappointment.

There was a time when we could view the world through the bipolar lenses of the Cold War, when the only thing that really mattered in U.S. foreign policy was the Soviet-Chinese chess match and the East-West balance of power. Today, we live in a multi-polar world, one in which power is increasingly dispersed, distributed over many actors -- governments, NGOs, militia groups, major corporations and lending institutions, and world bodies -- rather than concentrated in the hands of a select group of nation states. The issues seem endless and insurmountable: the Iranian nuclear threat; the conflict with North Korea; the Israeli-Palestinian morass; the international debt crisis and the Dubai effect; mounting trade deficits; the effect of climate change on lesser-developed countries; our dependence on foreign oil; the international narcotics trade; uncontrollable immigration; world hunger and the spread of disease; the growth of Islamic extremism and, of course, terrorism.

The President has attempted, like many Presidents before him, to remain focused on his domestic agenda – health care reform and the economy. His domestic plate is certainly full. But how the President exerts American power and prestige around the world – whether he falls victim to an entrenched mindset that sees all problems as requiring a military solution, or whether he has the confidence to trust in American principles and the powerful example to which a compassionate democracy can bear witness – will determine his legacy in decades to come.

It is not always possible to reconcile morality with the hard facts of history. The United States, as the most powerful nation in the world, has never systematically thought out the legitimate uses and the inevitable limitations of power. The answer presumably does not lie either in mere swagger or in mere compassion. For President Obama, as with his predecessors, his decisions on foreign affairs, diplomacy, and the use of U.S. military might are his and his alone. In confronting the myriad of issues in Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran, the Middle East, Latin America, Asia and Africa, the consequences of the President's decisions will be with us all for years to come. I trust this President to make thoughtful, rational, and foresighted decisions; I may not agree with his speech tomorrow night on Afghanistan, but I will listen with an open mind, knowing that at least he understands the profound impact of his burden. The world is a heavy one.