World Congress

The huge auditorium is full, buzzing. As the lights dim, the chatter fades. Flowers of every color decorate the stage. A clear voice fills the hall:

“We are the Australians, the Angolans, the Antiguans. We come from Bolivia, Belgium, Bengal.”

Down every aisle they come. Faces shining with joy. One by one they come. Each in his native costume. Each with her head high, walking tall.

“We are the Guaymi, the Guatemalans, the Greeks. We come from Haiti, Hawaii, Honduras.”

From Papua New Guinea comes a man in his skins. From Korea, a woman in her flowing gown. There’s a kimono, a Bolivian hat. Here’s a Tlingit woman in her red and black cape. A Nigerian in his loose cotton tunic.

“We are the Maori, the Navajo, the Nepalese. We come from Moravia, Macedonia, Niger.”

A tailor, a lawyer, a mother, a farmer.
An Israeli, an Egyptian.
A Bosnian, a Serb.
A Rwandan.
An Austrian.
An Ethiopian.
A Russian.
A Texan.

“We are the Somalians, the Swiss, the Sioux. We come from Trinidad, Togo, Turkey.”

Each takes his place on the stage—the place reserved for him—a place of dignity and honor. No one is left out.

Suddenly the great hall falls silent. The audience is stunned. Before them stands the entire human race—every nation, every creed, every people, every tribe. Standing in peace. Standing tall. Standing as one—the full splendor and glory of the human family.

Instinctively someone onstage grasps the hand of his neighbor and lifts it high. The entire assembled company clasp hands and raise them in triumph. A cheer erupts from the audience as they thunder to their feet in applause, weeping, cheering, moved beyond words.

The dream is within our grasp.