The Wall Street Journal attempts to get our money by publishing two excellent religion-related pieces over the past few days, available only to subscribers, but sent to me by kind friends.

First was a front-page story on the recent misadventures of Bruce Wilkinson, the author of the mega-bestselling Prayer of Jabez:

But his life took a sharp turn after he wrote "The Prayer of Jabez," a 93-page, $10 tract published in 2000. It is based on a passage in the Bible’s book of Chronicles, in which an honorable man named Jabez asked for God’s favor. "Oh, that You would bless me indeed, and enlarge my territory, and that Your hand would be with me, and that You would keep me from evil, that I may not cause pain," Jabez prayed. In the story, God granted his wish.

The lesson, Mr. Wilkinson says, is that God wants believers to ask for blessings. Those who ask — by reciting Jabez’s 33-word prayer — unleash miracles. Those who don’t ask, don’t receive.

Squabbling couples should ask for happy marriages, he writes. Business executives should ask for more customers. Stuck in traffic once, Mr. Wilkinson says he asked God to delay his flight so he wouldn’t miss a speaking engagement. He made his plane.

Mr. Wilkinson has recited the prayer regularly since he was a seminary student 35 years ago, and credits it for the fact that world-wide he has sold some 22 million copies of his books, including such variants as "The Prayer of Jabez for Teens" and "The Prayer of Jabez Leather Edition."

Now, Wilkinson decided that he would put the megabooks and the prayer to good use, sending the call to minister in Africa, particularly to AIDS orphans. So he moved to South Africa, and then felt another pull more specifically to Swaziland, where he got to know the country’s leaders, and tried to help stem the AIDS epidemic, which has infected 42% of the population. He supported a group of young people that traveled to schools taking the abstinence message, and, most dramatically, came up with this idea:

The triumph reinforced Mr. Wilkinson’s sense that his destiny lay with Swaziland. Soon afterward, he signed a yearlong lease on a house in Swaziland’s Valley of Heaven, where jacaranda trees drop carpets of purple petals around their trunks. With Dream for Africa’s guidance, he decided, the country would become the model for the rest of Africa. "We believe we’re called to it," he said in June.

It was a moment of peak optimism. There remained just one final piece, Mr. Wilkinson thought, to complete God’s plans for Swaziland: a massive tourist-orphan-industrial complex.

Swazi health officials estimate there are 70,000 orphans in the country, the vast majority left so by AIDS. The number is expected to grow to 120,000 in five years. Traditionally, orphans are cared for by relatives or others appointed by village chiefs. But AIDS has gutted entire families, and the 2002 drought left many so strapped for food that some grew reluctant to take in extra children. As a result, tens of thousands of Swazi children now live in households they themselves head.

In Mr. Wilkinson’s view, he was called to step in because village chiefs and traditional aid organizations had fallen down on the job. He bypassed small solutions and came up with one on a grand scale, which he called the "African Dream Village." It would provide homes for 10,000 orphans, who would live 20 to a house, with a volunteer Swazi couple in charge and elderly widows as grandmother figures.

Each home would have a bed-and-breakfast suite where tourists would pay $500 a week to stay, combining charity with an African vacation. Fifty such homes would form a mini-village of 1,000 orphans, built around a theme — such as Wild West rodeos or Swazi village life — to entertain guests. There would also be a new luxury hotel and an 18-hole golf course. Orphans would be trained as rodeo stars and safari guides at nearby game reserves.

The idea, Mr. Wilkinson said, was to "try to bring experiences to the kids they could only get at Walt Disney or a dude ranch."

The village would have schools, churches, medical centers and a "Mega Farm" to feed everyone. Mr. Wilkinson also planned a bible college, a cannery, a chicken farm, a bicycle factory and a truck-reconditioning plant, with water supplied by a new dam. "They’ll be self-sufficient from the day they move in," Mr. Wilkinson said in June.

A $190 Million Price Tag

Dream for Africa put the price tag for the project at $190 million. His group projected the Dream Village would generate $12 million a year in revenue, and would create jobs for five doctors, nine firemen, 12 masons, one entomologist, two wildlife specialists and 68 pastors, among many others.

The mind boggles – caring for orphans by training them to tend to wealthy tourists. It’s the plot of a T.C. Boyle novel.

But, no luck. Or, no prayers answered. There was great confusion regarding the poygamous king of Swaziland’s stance toward the project, and ultimately concern about taking the orphans away from their own villages and farmlands. This past summer, that part of the project shut down, and Wilkinson withdrew:

Mr. Wilkinson says that he blames neither God nor man. He says he weeps when he thinks of his disappointed acolytes, and is trying to come to grips with a miracle that didn’t materialize despite his unceasing recitation of the Jabez prayer.

"I asked hard enough," he added, his gaze drifting upward. "All we can do is ask God what to do, ask him to help us in the doing of it, and work as hard and wisely as we can. Somewhere in this it’s got to be all right to attempt a vision that didn’t work and not to make it an overwhelming failure."

And then, on a contrasting note, a piece on 12/17 on The Little Sisters of the Poor, often mentioned here. They, too depend completely on God to provide, in accord with the directives of their founder. They, too, depend on prayer and discernment to meet the needs of the poor. But what’s the difference?

(Excerpt after the jump)

Sister Mary Vincent must keep her focus on longer-term concerns.
Earlier this year, the Little Sisters completed a $16 million addition and
chapel renovation, raising the entire amount over five years through
donations from individuals and foundations. Now, the sisters are embarking
on a second, $8 million phase to convert an old wing into
independent-living apartments to house an additional 49 residents. Though the
construction project would likely qualify for federal low-income housing
grants, the sisters won’t use them because they don’t want the government
dictating whether they can add a sitting room or more closet space. That
leaves asking people for money, a long and tedious process and one that
she doesn’t especially like.

"Fund raising is a pain," she says. Filled with uncertainty, the
process leaves the sisters’ projects beholden to the fortunes of others, as
well as the local economy. She concedes it would be easier to look for
long-term funding, but the tradition passed down by their founder
requires that they live hand to mouth. They only seek enough money to address
their current needs, whether that means lunch tomorrow or a new wing.

"I pray to God asking why it has to be this way, but I know why he’s
doing it this way," Sister Mary Vincent says. "He wants more people
involved in the work of helping the poor."

Lately, she has been sending the nuns out more often into the community
to raise both money and public awareness of their mission. Traveling in
pairs, they knocked on doors of new homes in high-income developments,
looking for contributions. They went to the Pittsburgh International
Airport, setting up metal folding chairs and a table near the entrance,
across the hall from the Salvation Army representatives and their red
kettle. Rushed travelers stared straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with
the nuns. Others stopped, often asking the sisters to pray for a family
member or friend.

Begging makes Sister Mary Vincent, who tends to hang back behind the
other sisters, uncomfortable. "All these people coming at you, wondering
who you are and what you’re doing. People challenge you. ‘How come
you’re out here begging? You get Medicaid.’ Or ‘I heard you got $5,000 in
the last collection. Why are you back out here?’ " she says. Trying to
ignore their comments, she tells herself that she isn’t begging for
herself but for the poor. "That doesn’t take the sting out of begging if
you have any pride," she says. "People think you’re doing it for
yourself."

Teams of sisters are dispatched on weekends to area churches. On a
recent Sunday morning, near the end of the 7:30 mass at Church of the
Resurrection, Sister Marcella and Sister Katherine Ann received Holy
Communion and then walked briskly toward the back of the church. Each picked
up a green-felt-lined wicker basket, which held a single piece of paper
with the words "Little Sisters of the Poor." They stationed themselves
on either side of the back doors.

As mass ended, the church emptied. The sisters stood quietly. People
filed by, dipping their hand in a font of holy water, making the sign of
the cross and dropping dollar bills into the basket. Many have already
contributed during the regular church collection and simply nod at the
sisters.

The sisters used to bring in a fair share of donations by stationing
themselves outside factory gates. But in a less industrial, more secular
age, they rely more on special fund-raisers.

On a recent afternoon, the nuns and some residents gathered at a
parking lot filled with 250 motorcycles. Sister Mary Vincent was pleased. The
weather was good, the crowd big and festive. Beefy motorcyclists
wearing bandanas and tattoos, their shoulder-length hair in ponytails, bought
raffle tickets for a 165-piece tool kit and a hypnotherapy session.
Eighty-nine-year-old Anna DiRenna, who has lived with the Little Sisters
for 17 years, buzzed in her electric wheelchair between the rows of
motorcycles with license plates like VROOM and BECHA.

Sister Mary Vincent thanked John Cigna, a big man with an unlit cigar
in his mouth. A local newscaster and biker, Mr. Cigna organized the
event. He lined up members of HOG, which stands for Harley Owners Group,
and the American Legion Riders. Each biker paid $25 to ride the 60-mile
course and return for a cookout and music by Jimmy Sapienza’s Five Guys
Named Moe. Mr. Cigna remembered the Little Sisters visiting his mother
when he was a young boy.

Father Jerome Dixon, former chaplain for the house and now a resident,
stood up on a chair. The crowd hushed. Heads bowed. "We ask your
blessings on these vehicles, which carry out friends on the journey this day.
Keep them from all harm," he said.

After, the riders roared out of the parking lot. A dozen residents,
mostly women wearing plastic visors and dark sunglasses, lined the curb,
waving with one hand, purse in the other. The event raised $5,000.

The following day, two nuns sat outside a Giant Eagle supermarket in
metal folding chairs. They sold raffle tickets for a grandfather clock
and cookbooks filled with recipes from the nuns and their residents,
raising a few hundred dollars.

Sister Mary Vincent recalls a banker-adviser telling her that he
sometimes couldn’t sleep at night worrying about how the Little Sisters would
finance needed renovations with such piecemeal donations. She told him
to have faith. "I really can say I’ve never lost a night’s sleep," she
says.