"Be realistic, Phil"
The moment we are realistic is the moment that we announce God is nothing.
The moment we fail to admit we are called to the impossible is the moment we refuse to live for the Kingdom of God.
I am an idealist because I am unwilling to settle for less.
Because "on earth as it is in heaven" implies risk, suffering, and persecution for the Kingdom to come.
By not being idealist, we, in fact, renounce our faith entirely.
Do you believe?
Do you believe God can do great things (or small things with great love) through you? He did so with a poor refugee outcast who was trampled by the pious and seemingly good citizens of the world. Then he said we would do even greater things than Him.
The age of apathy. My generation is the most apathetic. Yet bright hope shines from the extremely small minority who actually believe. We are few. Most Christians do not qualify.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
i thought i made a post recently....
....but apparently it never went through. It was about how Protestants replace Jesus with the Bible, and while doing so, accuse their Catholic counterparts of worshiping Mary and the Saints, when in fact those who do worship Mary/saints are not staying true to the Catholic faith. I'm upset with my Protestant upbringing because it taught me that the Bible was holy (only God can be holy). And I didn't hear much about Jesus: more from St. Paul than anything (yet we continue to accuse those Catholics of being the ones worshiping the saints). My long, drawn-out complaint about the ambiguity and inconsistency of the Protestant schism has been, thankfully for you, reduced to this mere paragraph.
So I'll leave it at that and continue on just to apologize for not posting in a long time. Suzan's passport still has not been processed (and hence, neither has she completed the visa process). So I'm going to go to Uganda for the summer instead of her coming here. It's going to be great - sleeping and waking with the sun, visiting neighbors and strangers and old friends. All of those fantastic things. It will help my body and emotions cover from a semester of straining unrest. Oh, not to mention, I'm going to see Suzan. That's not just the icing on the cake. It is the cake. I will stay with her family and finally get to see her village of Oyam.
So I'll leave it at that and continue on just to apologize for not posting in a long time. Suzan's passport still has not been processed (and hence, neither has she completed the visa process). So I'm going to go to Uganda for the summer instead of her coming here. It's going to be great - sleeping and waking with the sun, visiting neighbors and strangers and old friends. All of those fantastic things. It will help my body and emotions cover from a semester of straining unrest. Oh, not to mention, I'm going to see Suzan. That's not just the icing on the cake. It is the cake. I will stay with her family and finally get to see her village of Oyam.
Friday, April 2, 2010
i looked back in time
Yesterday was so beautiful outside, and I wanted to take my camera on a walk with my friend Bianca to celebrate the temperature.
I wanted to explore the seemingly abandoned train station areas. First we had to pass through a fence that had been taken down at one spot to allow us to trespass into the fake suburban community downtown.
After we walked through the storybook neighborhood, we were back into the real world and crossed a few roads to get to an area of one color: grey. The endless stones on the ground were grey. The old trains and industrial machines were grey. Even the banner of capitalism (American flag) seemed grey to me. The black bird bathing in the toxic rain puddle, however, seemed to Bianca to appear as bright as day itself.
We walked onward, snapping shots of the ancient concrete jungle. Eventually we got to a place under the highway overpass. Without noticing, I almost stepped on a sleeping man who had garbage scattered all around him. Also scattered were bright jelly beans which sprinkled color all over the stone ground.
I needed to pee, and I saw a path, so I told Bianca to wait while I did my business. I went ahead up the path and peed in the bushes. When I finished, I looked up and saw (while not wearing my glasses) old tattered clothes and other colors amidst the trees ahead. I scurried back to Bianca and told her to follow me. I wanted to see what was ahead. As we walked closer it became apparent that these colors were tents that had been erected beneath the brush of the highway. A dog began to bark, which I perceived to be a threat (though later Bianca would tell me the dog was actually excitedly wagging its tail). Someone who I thought was a long-haired man (Bianca told me later it was a female) stepped outside the bushes and stared at us from afar. I stared back, in shock, not knowing how to act.
I was staring back into another world of long ago. I had been here, or dreamt this before. It seemed like minutes before I finally waved. The figure waved back. I paused and awkwardly shouted, "Hello," but the absent response left me pacing back and forth, deciding whether it would be more offensive to welcome myself to the tents or to turn around and leave: a lose-lose situation.
Bianca also looked uncomfortable and we turned around to leave, though something in my conscience didn't like that. Later Bianca said, "That's where Jesus would've gone, you know. The margins of society."
Bianca also remember the childhood dream of living adventurously in a tent, or perhaps a treehouse. I recalled my own similar, early fantasies. I do not know why we turned around, nor do I know why my inner being wants me to return and dwell with those people.
There was recently a shooting in another part of town: Allison Hill - the "pocket of poverty" as local clergy describe it. Katie and I walked to St. Francis of Assisi Cathedral at noon today for their Good Friday prayer walk, where we were to pass by the murder site (though I don't remember that part). We walked around south Allison Hill, stopping at various points to pray, do liturgy, kneel before the cross we carried, etc. As we walked onward, we sang, alternating between English and Spanish, as locals gathered on porches to perplex at our passing.
I had never done a non-Protestant Holy Week, but Katie helped me realize why I enjoyed the Catholic way. Catholics emphasize Christ's suffering so heavily. It's true, there is a much longer story of suffering than there is victory, in terms of scripture. Yes, suffering is temporary and joy eternal, but the word passion comes from the Passion of Christ - his suffering, his murdering, his slaughter. These Franciscans do something great by not cheapening Christ's affliction - they make His resurrection actually worth something.
Walking around the city, hearing about pain the whole time (until the final station) was difficult, but the truth is, it was still a nice day outside. My only question is: how long must the tent city suffer before it reaches its rightful atonement? Will the Church see its call, or will we merely wait for the apocalypse?
I wanted to explore the seemingly abandoned train station areas. First we had to pass through a fence that had been taken down at one spot to allow us to trespass into the fake suburban community downtown.
After we walked through the storybook neighborhood, we were back into the real world and crossed a few roads to get to an area of one color: grey. The endless stones on the ground were grey. The old trains and industrial machines were grey. Even the banner of capitalism (American flag) seemed grey to me. The black bird bathing in the toxic rain puddle, however, seemed to Bianca to appear as bright as day itself.
We walked onward, snapping shots of the ancient concrete jungle. Eventually we got to a place under the highway overpass. Without noticing, I almost stepped on a sleeping man who had garbage scattered all around him. Also scattered were bright jelly beans which sprinkled color all over the stone ground.
I needed to pee, and I saw a path, so I told Bianca to wait while I did my business. I went ahead up the path and peed in the bushes. When I finished, I looked up and saw (while not wearing my glasses) old tattered clothes and other colors amidst the trees ahead. I scurried back to Bianca and told her to follow me. I wanted to see what was ahead. As we walked closer it became apparent that these colors were tents that had been erected beneath the brush of the highway. A dog began to bark, which I perceived to be a threat (though later Bianca would tell me the dog was actually excitedly wagging its tail). Someone who I thought was a long-haired man (Bianca told me later it was a female) stepped outside the bushes and stared at us from afar. I stared back, in shock, not knowing how to act.
I was staring back into another world of long ago. I had been here, or dreamt this before. It seemed like minutes before I finally waved. The figure waved back. I paused and awkwardly shouted, "Hello," but the absent response left me pacing back and forth, deciding whether it would be more offensive to welcome myself to the tents or to turn around and leave: a lose-lose situation.
Bianca also looked uncomfortable and we turned around to leave, though something in my conscience didn't like that. Later Bianca said, "That's where Jesus would've gone, you know. The margins of society."
Bianca also remember the childhood dream of living adventurously in a tent, or perhaps a treehouse. I recalled my own similar, early fantasies. I do not know why we turned around, nor do I know why my inner being wants me to return and dwell with those people.
There was recently a shooting in another part of town: Allison Hill - the "pocket of poverty" as local clergy describe it. Katie and I walked to St. Francis of Assisi Cathedral at noon today for their Good Friday prayer walk, where we were to pass by the murder site (though I don't remember that part). We walked around south Allison Hill, stopping at various points to pray, do liturgy, kneel before the cross we carried, etc. As we walked onward, we sang, alternating between English and Spanish, as locals gathered on porches to perplex at our passing.
I had never done a non-Protestant Holy Week, but Katie helped me realize why I enjoyed the Catholic way. Catholics emphasize Christ's suffering so heavily. It's true, there is a much longer story of suffering than there is victory, in terms of scripture. Yes, suffering is temporary and joy eternal, but the word passion comes from the Passion of Christ - his suffering, his murdering, his slaughter. These Franciscans do something great by not cheapening Christ's affliction - they make His resurrection actually worth something.
Walking around the city, hearing about pain the whole time (until the final station) was difficult, but the truth is, it was still a nice day outside. My only question is: how long must the tent city suffer before it reaches its rightful atonement? Will the Church see its call, or will we merely wait for the apocalypse?
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