on revolution—reform your spirit first

It is of absolute necessity to live with internal joyful, exuberance for life while in the same breath, in firm resolve, standing against, or confronting, all that is wrong in the world. Our confrontations should be short, firm and strategic. As though the vivacious stream of consciousness was suddenly interrupted by a sobering message, only to draw us back into a fuller joy. No one should dwell endlessly in the despair of all that has gone amiss. Mourning and retreat are but seasons—paths back to joyful, vivacious life.

Or one could incite revolution out of anger—you will need to correctly direct the angry masses into desired end.

forgetting Zion

Psalms 137
1 By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion. 2 There on the poplars we hung our harps, 3 for there our captors asked us for songs, our tormentors demanded songs of joy; they said, "Sing us one of the songs of Zion!" 4 How can we sing the songs of the Lord while in a foreign land?

I memorized this passage when I was not more than 10. I remember the images of expatriated people, mourning on riverbanks, caught in my mind. I pitied their sadness. I too was sad for them. Recently, I ran into a song—a take off this psalm. I love its depressive mood. I love that it is sung in a low base rumble. I’ve played it a million times. It grips the soul of this expatriate. The poetry, the imagery, the subtle message--absolutely amazing!

By the Rivers Dark

By Leonard Cohen

By the rivers dark
I wandered on.
I lived my life
In Babylon.

And I did forget
My holy song:
And I had no strength
In Babylon.

By the rivers dark
Where I could not see
Who was waiting there
Who was hunting me.

And he cut my lip
And he cut my heart.
So I could not drink
From the river dark.

And he covered me,
And I saw within,
My lawless heart
And my wedding ring,

I did not know
And I could not see
Who was waiting there,
Who was hunting me.

By the rivers dark
I panicked on.
I belonged at last
To Babylon.

Then he struck my heart
With a deadly force,
And he said, ‘This heart:
It is not yours.’

And he gave the wind
My wedding ring;
And he circled us
With everything.

By the rivers dark,
In a wounded dawn,
I live my life
In Babylon.

Though I take my song
From a withered limb,
Both song and tree,
They sing for him.

Be the truth unsaid
And the blessing gone,
If I forget
My Babylon.

I did not know
And I could not see
Who was waiting there,
Who was hunting me.

By the rivers dark,
Where it all goes on;
By the rivers dark
In Babylon.

reader poll

What would you like to hear about?
At any given time there are numerous diverse categories of topics cooking in my brain that I could blog about/record for future usefulness.

parables—typically of the church.
parabolic message revealed—would you like to give my commentary of the message of my parables posted, with the certain understanding that my expressed message is not exhaustive.
encounters—these are stories of my adventures in strategically or accidentally wandering into the hub of the life and reality of “the other”—the alien, the poor, the rich and strangers. I have not written about these much because these encounters are very sacred to me because of the people they involve. I don’t want to exploit them for an interesting story. I would like to find a way of doing that.
reform and revolution—This is a topic that has always been close to my heart. I would like to write about strategy and principles, as well as character. I have been aiming at this target with my parables but parables are supposed to be provocative at an emotional level. This approach would bring out the scientist and the Cassandra in me.
formative principles—I have a number of principles I live by or would like to live by in greater fullness, which I am on one hand attempting to process and crystallize into a succinct theological expression but on the other hand is inseparably married to strategic action and ultimately leads to impact my “lived in world” by perpetuating the spirit of this Christian principle
stories of self and home—I throw these in to let people see my humanness. I believe it important to be touchably human and real.
scripture—I would like to express what I find fascinating in scripture.
dreams--Some people say dreams don't matter. Some place them in a closed category of the subversive human consciousness. To some, they are just fun or terrifying. What happens when they are true? Why are there so many people secretly hoping for meaning to be spoken into their dreams?

depressed about the state of the church

Every once in a while I get really depressed about the state of the church. Everything seems wrong. Some people attempt solutions to the ongoing cycle of sin passed from person to person, generation to generation, class to class, yet ultimately, if one is to be real with him/herself, we all contribute to the brokenness and perpetuate more, except for by the grace of God, which seems far too absent. In these times, I find great comfort in reading Ezekiel 34, reading myself into the bad shepherd character, for I too am that bad shepherd. I also understand Christ’s role in redeeming the bad shepherd. However, I am comforted by the fact that God himself will shepherd his sheep…despite me…despite the church.

Ezekiel 34

…'This is what the Sovereign Lord says: Woe to the shepherds of Israel who only take care of themselves! Should not shepherds take care of the flock? 3 You eat the curds, clothe yourselves with the wool and slaughter the choice animals, but you do not take care of the flock. 4 You have not strengthened the weak or healed the sick or bound up the injured. You have not brought back the strays or searched for the lost. You have ruled them harshly and brutally. 5 So they were scattered because there was no shepherd, and when they were scattered they became food for all the wild animals. 6 My sheep wandered over all the mountains and on every high hill. They were scattered over the whole earth, and no one searched or looked for them.

…10 This is what the Sovereign Lord says: I am against the shepherds and will hold them accountable for my flock. I will remove them from tending the flock so that the shepherds can no longer feed themselves. I will rescue my flock from their mouths, and it will no longer be food for them. 11 "'For this is what the Sovereign Lord says: I myself will search for my sheep and look after them. 12 As a shepherd looks after his scattered flock when he is with them, so will I look after my sheep. I will rescue them from all the places where they were scattered on a day of clouds and darkness. 13 I will bring them out from the nations and gather them from the countries, and I will bring them into their own land. I will pasture them on the … 15 I myself will tend my sheep and have them lie down, declares the Sovereign Lord. 16 I will search for the lost and bring back the strays. I will bind up the injured and strengthen the weak, but the sleek and the strong I will destroy. I will shepherd the flock with justice.

17 "'As for you, my flock, this is what the Sovereign Lord says: I will judge between one sheep and another, and between rams and goats. 18 Is it not enough for you to feed on the good pasture? Must you also trample the rest of your pasture with your feet? Is it not enough for you to drink clear water? Must you also muddy the rest with your feet? 19 Must my flock feed on what you have trampled and drink what you have muddied with your feet? 20 "'Therefore this is what the Sovereign Lord says to them: See, I myself will judge between the fat sheep and the lean sheep.

animal hospital

I went to visit the most famous animal hospital. And no stranger sight did I behold! I was enticed to come and observe the healing it boasted of. “All diseases treated for free!” I had never heard of such generosity and success. Yet through the door I did walk to visit with the recovering patients. They were tired but happy—happy their surgery was a success. I spoke with the goat, whose beard and horns had been removed. He eyed himself in the mirror, pleased at his transformation. The camel too was on the mend. His back held an elegant curve. “Hump removal surgery,” he said, “It’s quite the thing.” The llama was next. I’ve been much too arrogant he said, “They shortened my neck to just the right size. And enlarged my head to fit my body size.” The cow was next and she was a sight to behold. They took her udder and erased her spots, narrowed her nose and shortened her tongue. “They’ve freed me from my bondage to humans,” she said. “No more will I be milked for what I’m worth.”

The surgery rooms were labeled by types: cosmetic surgery, structural surgery, and heart surgery. The waiting lists were long at the first. Few dared the second. And the third had no waiting at all. Our areas of specialization are very particular, I was told. The bookkeeping department was overworked and understaffed. Documents, patient records, analysis notes and x-rays lay in large stacks everywhere, waiting to be filed. Yet these administrative and periferal issues were negligible in comparison to the successful surgeries.

The surgeries were the success story. The public relations department was the best of its kind. What more could one ask for in a hospital?

at home

I went home to my parents this past weekend. Friday night we’re sitting around chatting (remember, no TV). The following are some snippets of the conversation.

The topic of my parents’ 34th anniversary having been yesterday came up. Most of us had forgotten and were giving each other the oops face, while the smoothest talker was covering for the rest of us. “So, Mom and Dad what special thing did you do for your anniversary?” My mom’s quick response was, “nix. Mia, hen haut schafed (Nothing. We worked hard).” Well, did you forget?” we asked. “No!”my dad said gruffly, “After 34 years, how could you forget?”

…Well then, I suppose German peasant culture would be the extreme opposite of the celebratory Hispanic culture I’ve come to be a part of. (Friends: Please note, we children were shocked at our parents’ response…shocked but not without understanding. Rarely, did my parent have the luxury of engaging in so called "celebratory activities").

One thing I have to explain before telling the next anicdote is how sometimes especially the women’s traditional attire becomes cumbersome on the farm. Occasionally, the white head coverings are pinned to our hair didn’t stay on. Once, my father was hauling manure out of the calf barn when he happened upon a covering, in the manure. Wonder what happened there? ...We’ve left our skirts behind in barbed wire fences, burned our butts on the hot tin roof we were sliding down and gotten cockaburrs in unthinkable places. Despite the occasional inconveniences of our way of life, we were better for the wear and we did wear our “bonnets” religiously, all the time. After all, obedience to God was more important than any inconvenience encountered. And since wearing the covering is a constant sign of God’s authority and protection over us, to go without was practically unchristian. So, there were often debates about whether the worldly people who didn’t wear a covering were not Christian or if only those who rejected this teaching were in essence taking off their salvation.

Mom is telling the stories of her summer lawnmowing adventures. They have a big farm site that they keep mowed and groomed to picture perfection. So Mom had been mowing under some low hanging trees, when she discovered…

“That you had lost her head in the branches a few trees back,” I said.

“No, I lost my covering.” Mom said.

“So, when I doubled back, I picked my covering out of the tree and put it on again.”

“Well, did the tree become a Christian?” my sister asked.

“Yeah, Mom, it became a Christian and then you came back around and took its salvation away again.”

stranger encounters: Henry

I’m gonna start telling my stranger encounter stories. I don’t know what has been goin on but I seem to have been runnin into the most interesting strangers recently. Perhaps, it’s because it’s spring. Maybe it’s because I’ve finally pulled my head out of my books long enough to actually see the world I walk in. Or perhaps it is as the law enforcement people at the community meeting said last night, there is just a lot of loitering going on in the East Side this summer, linked to increased housing foreclosures, rising unemployment etc. Anyway...here's to a summer of waking up and looking into the eyes of the stranger beside you.

A homeless man introduced himself to me and offered me a cigarette last Sunday morning. I had walked to the park for some fresh air and solitude. It was early. I couldn’t sleep due to the adrenaline high from the previous day. I was sitting in the grass next to the manmade babbling brook as the sun levitated off the horizon.

He had been standing next to his bicycle weighed down with an awkwardly large garbage bag of essentials, I suppose. He came over to where I was sitting under a tree and asked if my name was Brenda. He asked if I knew of an Amy, Greta, Rachel or Rebecca. I told him, “no.” He asked me if I was native American. I said, “no.” He was drinking water out of a reused orange juice bottle filled with dill pickle spears. He wore a construction helmet and gloves with the fingers cut off. He was courteous but had an instructive tone in his voice as he told me about my neighborhood, the name of which he got off the t-shirt I was wearing. He told me about the Ford Plant… “Now let me tell you something about their product: wasteless, wireless, smokeless, paperless, engineless, fruitless, potless, workless…” By then a middle aged blue collar had taken it upon himself to walk by and interrupt. “You are a no good piece of (expletive), he said, addressing the homeless guy. “I know what you are up to,” he insisted. The two men start to argue loudly, each attempting to out talk the other. The early morning risers start to stare our direction. I tell the blue collar, “Thank you and I’m fine, however, I would rather enjoy the morning without arguing and I was holding my own.” The blue collar seemed satisfied and moved on.

I ask the homeless man what he will be doing today. He told me he’ll be hanging out a bit longer until the churches open up. I thanked him for the good conversation and walked back home. He was pleasant. He was generous: he offered me a cigarette. He asked me what I wanted for breakfast, although all we could pursue was an imaginative wish feast. I asked him his name. His name was Henry.