Saturday, March 27, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
No one can quench the life that Christ has resurrected. Neither death nor all the banners of death and hatred raised against him and against his church can prevail. He is the victorious one! Just as he will thrive in an unending Easter, so we must accompany him in a Lent and a Holy Week of cross, sacrifice, and martyrdom. As he said, blessed are they who are not scandalized by his cross.
Lent, thus, is a call to celebrate our redemption in that difficult combination of cross and victory. Our people are well prepared to do so these days: all that surrounds us proclaims the cross. But those who have Christian faith and hope know that behind this calvary of El Salvador lies our Easter, our resurrection. That is the Christian people’s hope.
These words were spoken the week before Archbishop Romero's assassination in El Salvador 30 years ago today, March 24, 1980.
Source:
* Oscar Romero Faith and Solidarity Network in the Americas
from inward/outward
Lent, thus, is a call to celebrate our redemption in that difficult combination of cross and victory. Our people are well prepared to do so these days: all that surrounds us proclaims the cross. But those who have Christian faith and hope know that behind this calvary of El Salvador lies our Easter, our resurrection. That is the Christian people’s hope.
These words were spoken the week before Archbishop Romero's assassination in El Salvador 30 years ago today, March 24, 1980.
Source:
* Oscar Romero Faith and Solidarity Network in the Americas
from inward/outward
Thursday, March 18, 2010
India 1
Hello! This is Sara.
Well, I’m really not sure where to begin (which, I am told, are not strong words for a beginning). I have seen, heard, felt, smelt, and been dealt so much since the beginning of this trip, that I can hardly begin to pin down words to suitably describe our adventures. For instance, the word “yellow” does nothing to describe a mirror-embroidered sari reflecting glints of sunlight off of a woman’s shoulders as she perches on the back of her husband’s motorcycle, clinging to his shoulders. The word “yellow” cannot capture the motion of her fluttering scarf as it trails a mile behind her in traffic, with rickshaw honking after the bike, the whole highway constantly threatened by the insistent vibrations of blaring car horns. “Green” cannot capture the camera-shy twist of a parrot’s wings as it dives in and out of the plastered walls of a collapsing mosque. “Demure” does nothing for the painted eyes of an Indian woman as she ducks away from the street stalls of shouting hawkers, glances trained to her bruised toes. “Corpulent” comes close, but is still an ineffective word for the round belly and sweating face of the leering cab operator who has politely robbed us of eight-hundred rupees.
As you can see, of course – words can do nothing for experience. However, I will do my best to describe our adventures here with my scant cover of language.
Here are some older paragraphs I wrote, long before I really knew what we were about to encounter. They won’t get you to India, but they will get you halfway here:
The moment one steps through the doors of an airport terminal, all personal identity ceases. We become a singular rush of colors, shoes, and suitcases. Some faces are distinctive. A few voices rise above the guttural rumble of a thousand bodies: “You sir! Are you flying Delta this morning? Ma’am! Might I interest you… Look at the dog! Mommy I’m HUNGRY; don’t bite strangers! Henry sit down or we’ll go back to Mexico,” but with a loss of identity comes a loss of memory. Details become like wet rocks, impossible to cling to in the liquid rush.
Flights become long and indistinguishable. In eight hours of sitting without standing, meals served, a tango of plastic water glasses, it is easy to watch three films back-to-back without acknowledging the passage of six hours. One’s familiarity, sleep patterns, and hunger are left on the ground. There is no difference between day and night. Three days are one, and time zones fluctuate like the readings on a Richter meter. Thus stripped of personal identity and human physicality, we fly, encased in our seats, cryogenically frozen but wide awake.
Tracking through my vague memory of our flights is like watching a tape being rewound. Somewhere in the static and whine was a stop in Amsterdam. Everything was square there, and the ceilings were low. The usage of color was drastically different from the hermetically sealed white walls of our airports.
Well, I’m really not sure where to begin (which, I am told, are not strong words for a beginning). I have seen, heard, felt, smelt, and been dealt so much since the beginning of this trip, that I can hardly begin to pin down words to suitably describe our adventures. For instance, the word “yellow” does nothing to describe a mirror-embroidered sari reflecting glints of sunlight off of a woman’s shoulders as she perches on the back of her husband’s motorcycle, clinging to his shoulders. The word “yellow” cannot capture the motion of her fluttering scarf as it trails a mile behind her in traffic, with rickshaw honking after the bike, the whole highway constantly threatened by the insistent vibrations of blaring car horns. “Green” cannot capture the camera-shy twist of a parrot’s wings as it dives in and out of the plastered walls of a collapsing mosque. “Demure” does nothing for the painted eyes of an Indian woman as she ducks away from the street stalls of shouting hawkers, glances trained to her bruised toes. “Corpulent” comes close, but is still an ineffective word for the round belly and sweating face of the leering cab operator who has politely robbed us of eight-hundred rupees.
As you can see, of course – words can do nothing for experience. However, I will do my best to describe our adventures here with my scant cover of language.
Here are some older paragraphs I wrote, long before I really knew what we were about to encounter. They won’t get you to India, but they will get you halfway here:
The moment one steps through the doors of an airport terminal, all personal identity ceases. We become a singular rush of colors, shoes, and suitcases. Some faces are distinctive. A few voices rise above the guttural rumble of a thousand bodies: “You sir! Are you flying Delta this morning? Ma’am! Might I interest you… Look at the dog! Mommy I’m HUNGRY; don’t bite strangers! Henry sit down or we’ll go back to Mexico,” but with a loss of identity comes a loss of memory. Details become like wet rocks, impossible to cling to in the liquid rush.
Flights become long and indistinguishable. In eight hours of sitting without standing, meals served, a tango of plastic water glasses, it is easy to watch three films back-to-back without acknowledging the passage of six hours. One’s familiarity, sleep patterns, and hunger are left on the ground. There is no difference between day and night. Three days are one, and time zones fluctuate like the readings on a Richter meter. Thus stripped of personal identity and human physicality, we fly, encased in our seats, cryogenically frozen but wide awake.
Tracking through my vague memory of our flights is like watching a tape being rewound. Somewhere in the static and whine was a stop in Amsterdam. Everything was square there, and the ceilings were low. The usage of color was drastically different from the hermetically sealed white walls of our airports.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Odd or God?
Here is a synchronicity, connections story. Yesterday I helped Sara put up some bookshelves and as she was deciding how to shelve them we talked about definitions of classical literature and I made a comment that it's probably not by the number of books sold because Chairman Mao's Little Red Book had been the most published book but it probably isn't "great" literature. Sara had not heard of it and I told her that I had a copy somewhere, probably downstairs on a book shelf. As we searched for the little red book I found a couple of old Red Bird Missionary Conference journals and the 1987 one was printed with a red cover. I remembered that I was in a photograph that year so I showed it to Sara. It was a picture of the Harry Denman evangelism award being presented to the Manchester UMC that I had served.
Then as long as Sara and I were looking at those seldom visited book shelves, I noticed (why?) an old plain covered book and wanted to see what it was. It was E Stanley Jones' book on Gandhi and since we were headed to India this month, I thought I would look it over further. I opened the cover to have Harry Denman's signature jump out at me. He had given it to soembody. I had not realized this before and when I bought this used book in Boston , seminary days, in 1981 I probably didn't even know who Harry Denman was! So now I am reading the book on Gandhi and appreciating Harry Denman's autograph. But what coincidence!
...Books, to Red Book, to red covered copy of the Red Bird Missionary conference, to Harry Denman award, to Harry Denman signature, to Gandhi, India, and our going to India? What next? Actually in hindsight I could add a couple of more connections to this string! (The lay couple I worked with at the Joy Center in Kentucky were the Denmans!)
But all of this is just an example for my point, or question. Do things like this happen often and we just don't notice them? Is it random, meaningful, or just curiously interesting? Does this work into your sense of God or spirituality? What is odd, is that I very quickly ,intuitively connected these events as being related! Why? How do you interpret those kind of things in your life?
Rambling on....to what next?
Rory
Then as long as Sara and I were looking at those seldom visited book shelves, I noticed (why?) an old plain covered book and wanted to see what it was. It was E Stanley Jones' book on Gandhi and since we were headed to India this month, I thought I would look it over further. I opened the cover to have Harry Denman's signature jump out at me. He had given it to soembody. I had not realized this before and when I bought this used book in Boston , seminary days, in 1981 I probably didn't even know who Harry Denman was! So now I am reading the book on Gandhi and appreciating Harry Denman's autograph. But what coincidence!
...Books, to Red Book, to red covered copy of the Red Bird Missionary conference, to Harry Denman award, to Harry Denman signature, to Gandhi, India, and our going to India? What next? Actually in hindsight I could add a couple of more connections to this string! (The lay couple I worked with at the Joy Center in Kentucky were the Denmans!)
But all of this is just an example for my point, or question. Do things like this happen often and we just don't notice them? Is it random, meaningful, or just curiously interesting? Does this work into your sense of God or spirituality? What is odd, is that I very quickly ,intuitively connected these events as being related! Why? How do you interpret those kind of things in your life?
Rambling on....to what next?
Rory
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
