Born on the Dutch-Belgian border, I was five years old when, on August 4, 1914, the twentieth century began in earnest. The Kaiser's armies invaded Belgium half a mile from our doorstep. The First World War had started. The big German field guns were booming all too close by and almost at once an endless stream of wounded and dying soldiers on improvised ambulances, pushcarts, horse-drawn wagons crossed the border into neutral Holland. Endless files of wretched people fleeing their burning villages passed my window, children and belongings on their backs -- advance guard of the millions who would trudge from border to border all through the tragic century I happened to survive almost from beginning to end.

I not only survived it; I outlived -- sheer miracle -- its demons: Kaiser Wilhelm, Franco, Hitler, Stalin, and their heinous ilk, its monstrous wars, gulags, extermination camps, its massacres, genocides, its nuclear sins against the Spirit.

And so it could happen that, in the spring of 1995, the year of the nightmares of Rwanda, East Timor, Tibet, Srebrenica (Bosnia) raging in unabated fury, we sat in Caffe Vivaldi in Greenwich Village talking about that much-touted new millennium just around the corner, that third millennium after Golgotha. What was going to be so "new," starting on January 1, a.d. 2000? Didn't it look more likely to be nothing but a replay of the frightful millennium now limping to its close, perhaps the terminal replay? Is there really nothing to be done, we wondered ... nothing at all?

Are we doomed; are we condemning ourselves to slide passively into that terminal barbarity? And who were those "we," gathered here around our cappuccinos: humanity's self-appointed representatives, a baker's dozen of U.S. citizens -- a few artists, a clergyman, a lawyer, a TV writer and producer, a biologist couple, a nun, a composer, a physicist ... poor mortals all? Was it all hopeless? Was the real "we," humanity, done for?

"Look," said one of the scientists, "the very fact that we are sitting here, mulling over our predicament, doesn't that mean there is a glimpse of hope? For surely we are not the only ones whose spiritual immune system has not broken down completely. We are not so special! And if we are not so special, there must be millions like us still unaffected by this rabies of the soul, this virus of contempt for life. No, we are not alone!"

"I couldn't agree more," I said, "for I run into them wherever I go, all over this country, Europe, Japan. I meet them where least expected. They are ordinary people as we are, who -- against all odds -- are still unestranged from their basic human sanity, their capacities for insight, empathy, compassion still intact, and who have not given up on what is human in others. The trouble is that they sit isolated on their little islands, incommunicado, either alone or in little clusters, as we are sitting here, out of contact with the many out there!"

"If that is so," the composer said, "and no doubt it is, we belong to something that could be a powerful antidote to the cynicism and contempt for life, however unorganized, even unorganizable, it may be. So it is actually a matter of establishing real contact, communication among the islands, and that is tough enough, but it is possible!"

"You could call it," said someone else, "an Anti-Barbaric Coalition, A-B C for short, the A-B C of a new beginning."

"Now, let me imagine that we, around this table, are the core of this A-B C, with the formidable task of establishing contact, nay, communication among those millions of islanders. We'd have to realize that such a contact would have to crystallize around something very simple, very basic, to counteract this virus of contempt for life, this obsession with death and with the tools of death that pervades the world."

The words contempt for life had fallen again, and that made me think at once of "Reverence for Life," Albert Schweitzer's life motto that he lived from 1915 to his death in 1965. Reverence for Life is the one principle on which a viable ethic can be founded. I saw him apply it in practice while serving on his medical staff in Lambaréné, from 1958 to 1961. Reverence for Life was the guiding principle in everything he did. It was totally free from sentimentality. It was simply the avoidance of inflicting unnecessary suffering on any living being and the alleviation of suffering with all the medical and human means at his disposal. Reverence for the mystery of life was for him the basis not only of an ethic but also of all truly human relationships, not only with our fellow humans, but also with all that lives.

I was drawing the old man, he was eighty-six then, when he sat writing at his desk, his face almost touching the paper, his bristling mustache at times sweeping it as the old hand wrote on, slowly, painstakingly. Once in a while his head would straighten to turn toward the screened window that looked out over the river. Turning back, for an instant aware of me, he mumbled a few words and went on writing. It was getting dark. The file of his pet ants marching across the paper went out of focus in the falling dusk. He stopped his writing, got up stiffly, put on his faded crumpled felt hat, and said, "Let's sit outside."

We sat on the steps of his cabin, mutely watching the dusk deepening on the Ogowe River. He looked worried. "One should have the skin of a hippo," he suddenly grunted without explanation, "and the soul of an angel." His little mongrel Tzu-Tzu sat between us. "Ah! Look at that tree," Schweitzer said after a while, pointing at a kapok in the distance, still gleaming in the setting sun. Then all of a sudden-- it sounded at once hopeless and hopeful--"Do you think that the idea of Reverence for Life is really gaining ground?"

I was perplexed. I felt my eyes getting moist. I had just flown across half of a world that seemed to be getting ready to destroy itself in a spasm of violence. What could I say? "Who knows?" I tried. "There is such terrible violence all over, isn't there? Still, you sowed the seed. If anyone did, you did sow the seed."

He sighed ... "Ja, ja" ... and got up, for the dinner bell was ringing. This happened almost forty years ago, and I am as old now as Schweitzer was then.

What else is it but Reverence for Life that motivated the great prophets of human solidarity in the cruel pandemonium of the twentieth century: Gandhi, Bonhoeffer, Martin Luther King, the Dalai Lama, Bede Griffiths, Archbishop Tutu, Mother Teresa, Laurence VanderPost, Elie Wiesel, Daisetz Teitaro Suzuki, and for me, a non-Catholic, no one more than that genius of the heart Pope John XXIII-- among countless lesser known women and men in all parts of the world? What they really have in common, these prophets, must have been a freedom from all cynicism, a love of people, a love of life, and a passionate awe for the mystery called "life," that basically "religious" orientation to existence as such.

"Don't you idealize Schweitzer?" I was asked. "He has been called a paternalist, even a racist."

"I don't idealize him," I said. "He was the product of the colonial era, but literally day and night, for fifty years, he brought medical help where none was available, and he wrote: 'Our task is to do everything possible to protect the human rights of the Africans we have forced to assume the burden of a foreign, technological culture.' He was not just a pioneer of human rights; he was also a pioneer in foreign aid -- without any political or ideological strings attached -- and a pioneer in missionary work who did not 'convert' anyone, who did not preach Christian love but simply practiced it. At the same time he was a pioneer in practical ecumenism: 'Dogma divides; the Spirit unites,' I heard him stop short a Time reporter who started to theologize. And finally, when Schweitzer was in his eighties he was once more the pioneer -- the first public figure of his stature to protest vigorously against nuclear testing: 'We are constantly being told about permissible amounts of radiation. Who permits it? Who has the right to permit it?' he wrote. He was a pioneer of the human."

Reverence for Life implies the insight, the empathy and compassion that mark the maturation of the human inner process, and that implies overcoming the split between thinking and feeling that is the bane of our scientism and the idolization of technology that distances -- estranges -- us from all emotional and ethical constraints. This same distancing, this objectification of the unobjectifiable, is characteristic of all Realpolitik, racism, ethnic cleansing, cruelty, and exploitation of the other by political, racial, religious collectivized in-group egos, including that free-market mentality for which all that is, is looked upon as mere raw material-for-profit, even if it ruins our species and our earth for generations to come.

Suddenly Caffe Vivaldi seemed invaded by those millions from their isolated little islands, urging us to risk a preliminary attempt at inter-island communication.

No, we are not drifting away from our formidable task of linking the isolated little islands of sanity and humanness. Reverence for Life versus Contempt for Life might well be that basic, simple crystallization point, the link among the innumerable islanders.

"Are you well aware," the scientist asked, "that what we are at the point of embarking on is a very risky experiment? It invites being shrugged off as pitifully naive, ridiculed as paranoid, megalomaniac, or whatever. Moreover, how could we start it if we decide to take the risk, whatever the outcome?"

One thing we agreed upon after lengthy discussion: There was no point at all in starting yet another association or organization complete with PR and fund-raising.

All we could do, we concluded, was simply start by putting ourselves on the line, and so we each committed ourselves to writing directly from the heart -- but without excluding the head -- on what we consider essential, on That Which Matters, on the criteria of being human or less than human at this technotronic juncture. We would write it as it came, naturally, freely, out of our own life experience, in our own language, professional jargon, or patois, but with a minimum of quotes. And apart from writing this personal credo in a few pages or even a single one, we each undertook to prevail on at least two others we knew to do likewise.

Once we had gathered a few dozen of these intimate, highly personal communications -- however varied in viewpoint, tone, and style -- we would study them as to their relevance to our shared human condition in this fateful era of transition and would decide whether our harvest merited publication as a living link with our counterparts on their little islands -- if only to reassure and encourage them: You are not alone! You are not mad! There are millions of us!

Not only did each of us write that brief paper and inspire others to do the same, but also within a few months we had gathered many more responses than we could have hoped for. The experiment had turned itself into a chain reaction. Most stirring was that whatever the oddities and peculiarities in all these statements, each one commanded full attention and respect. In each one the Vox Humana was clearly audible. Their authors ranged from an archbishop, who, as might be expected, wrote in a somewhat ecclesiastical idiom, to a blues musician who expressed himself in his own idiom, from a Nobel Prize laureate to a woman who founded child-care centers in her own poor black neighborhood, from a composer to a nuclear scientist. Whatever their differences in viewpoint, sophistication, language, style, the common ground of their humanness and of their awareness of their humanness shone through. We did not force those spontaneous contributions into artificial categories. We placed more lyrical writings, poems, tales in the book wherever intuition guided us.

And so the reporting of this chain reaction, far from aspiring to be either entertaining or literary gourmet fare, intends merely to be a timely documentation of resistance to the slide into posthuman barbarism and a sign of hope in the possibility of reestablishing, against all odds, the heart-to-heart contact that bridges our isolation -- indeed an act of faith in the survival of our species as a human species.

We pray and trust the chain reaction will not stop with the publication of this book and that it may be no more than its takeoff, for this is no more than the A-B C of a new beginning, born in a coffee shop in Greenwich Village. May it continue to spread across all social, ethnic, geographical borders! For whatever the technological miracles at this change of millennia, the central question facing each of us born on this planet is more than ever: What does it mean to be human?