Our extended visit to the States is in full swing! In less than three weeks, we have crossed the ocean, celebrated my birthday with Matt & Nancy in Austin, Texas, had a great, but short, time with Janice’s mother and her brothers’ families in Gulfport, Mississippi, had a not-so-profitable visit to the Greek Consulate in Atlanta, Georgia, been officially reoriented with our organization and returned to Texas.
The San Antonians have already made us feel so welcome. Randy met us at the airport and we shared a great Tex Mex dinner with Joann & John David and Barbara on Friday evening. Emmanuel brought us the loaner vehicle on Saturday and we figured out how to get back to our temporary home with only one freeway mistake. On Sunday, we worshipped with Trinity Baptist Church, in whose guest residence we are temporarily residing and even figured out how to arm and disarm the security system!
Since we have been adopted Texans for over forty years, we are happy to be back where the Lone Star flies high and proud. Today, in San Antonio, when we enjoyed a quick, refresher walk through the Alamo and some vintage Texas culinary delights at a place called “Good Time Charlie’s,” I felt the urge to lift a glass of root beer and propose a toast to Texas.
So…, Here’s to Texas:
Where “beer belly” and “country fried” are redundancies, at least to some!
Where unsweetened tea is an option, as opposed to Mississippi, where sweet is naturally assumed!
Where Tex Mex stands for much more than just spicy food!
Where the locals know themselves to be a part of a distinct southwestern culture, yet also celebrate their global connectedness!
Where Blue Bell still rings my bells!
Where Halloween tricksters began early by cutting up and carting off the front license plate on the vehicle, which has been generously loaned to us, while we’re in Texas!
Where, contrary to the Greek bureaucracy, we managed to get replacement license plates in only two days, despite the reality that the vehicle's owners currently live in India!
Where a delightful, informative and free newspaper can be appropriately entitled “Much Ado”!
Where some of our luggage will wait for us, while we travel about the country raising funds and friends for PORTA – the Albania House in Athens!
Where Pastor Les Hollon still makes house calls and has an open door policy!
Where Baptists know themselves to be among a blessed family, but where their vision is wide enough to include Albanian immigrants in Athens, Greece!
Where, despite the various versions of the “new normal” around the globe, time-tested and eternal values are still held by loads of good people!
Where, despite the xenophobia of some and the nearness of the border, a welcome to the stranger is as warm as jalapenos are hot!
Thanks, Texas! You did not birth us, but you helped to raise us and you keep on raising our sights and our hopes!
Monday, October 31, 2011
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Head Stones or Stepping Stones?
On our recent holiday in the southwest coastal and midlands regions of England, we visited the small village of Lyndhurst, still known as the capital of The New Forest, because William the Conqueror established the area as a royal hunting ground, back in 1079. The Church of St. Michael’s and All Angels perches precariously at the top of a steep hill, overlooking the tiny town. Like many historic church buildings today, my guess is that most visitors are travel-weary tourists like me, intrigued by its architecture and history rather than by devout worship of God and a serious intent to follow Jesus.
The church and its grounds, with the aged cemetery surrounding its venerable walls, stand as a silent, yet poignant and compelling historical statement; without uttering a sound, the place speaks in brick, mortar and moldy ornaments of the passage of centuries and the persistence of the venerable institution known in the Bible as the “Bride of Christ.” In my travel guide, I read of this little church’s claim to fame. Among those buried in the church yard, the church boasts of Alice Liddell, Lewis Carroll’s inspiration for Alice of his famous Alice in Wonderland. Her burial plot has, today, been cordoned off and a full bed of roses now grows over this otherwise little-known woman’s body.
What struck me as most interesting, however, was not the burial ground of a woman pseudonymously immortalized many years ago by a writer of a famous children’s story. What intrigued me were the head stones of many other “regular” persons who lived and died years ago, whose families placed their mortal remains and stone markers in the old church yard. The years have not been kind to those ancient grave stones. With the passage of time, they have fallen down and, doubtless, they and even the graves themselves have been crowded out with the inevitable “population explosion” of the continuing deaths of others, generation after generation.
What are the living to do with these old grave markers, citing the brief or lengthy life spans and “sacred to the memory” of those long gone and now, mostly forgotten? Well, the wardens and leaders of the Church of St. Michael’s and All Angels have come up with a rather practical solution to this somewhat indelicate problem. They have chosen to recycle the venerable stone markers and reposition them as steps along the foot path leading up the hill to the church building! I do not know when one has been dead long enough for one’s tomb stone to be removed from the graveyard to the hill side, but it obviously happens. At some point, by some ecclesiastical dictate, the markers are transitioned from the noble and ceremonial, but challenging task of standing erect at the top of the hill to the more plebian, but functional duty of lying down on the side of the hill, the better to assist modern-day visitors to ascend the heights.
As I stepped on top of the names, dates and loving tributes, I thought to myself how effectively and exactly this pragmatic, mobility-assist solution expresses one of my life wishes! Write it down if you have to! Take note and do not forget! If there is any memory of me after my days on this earth have ended, I want the remembrance never to be carved and captured in an otherwise useless and ceremonial head stone. Find a way to place any appropriate tribute, rather, as a stepping stone. Let whatever recollection of my life some may elect to recall be used in a handy, helpful manner, the better to stabilize the foot-sore feet and assist the daunting journeys of fatigued pilgrims in the struggle of their uphill, earthly and eternal climb!
The church and its grounds, with the aged cemetery surrounding its venerable walls, stand as a silent, yet poignant and compelling historical statement; without uttering a sound, the place speaks in brick, mortar and moldy ornaments of the passage of centuries and the persistence of the venerable institution known in the Bible as the “Bride of Christ.” In my travel guide, I read of this little church’s claim to fame. Among those buried in the church yard, the church boasts of Alice Liddell, Lewis Carroll’s inspiration for Alice of his famous Alice in Wonderland. Her burial plot has, today, been cordoned off and a full bed of roses now grows over this otherwise little-known woman’s body.
What struck me as most interesting, however, was not the burial ground of a woman pseudonymously immortalized many years ago by a writer of a famous children’s story. What intrigued me were the head stones of many other “regular” persons who lived and died years ago, whose families placed their mortal remains and stone markers in the old church yard. The years have not been kind to those ancient grave stones. With the passage of time, they have fallen down and, doubtless, they and even the graves themselves have been crowded out with the inevitable “population explosion” of the continuing deaths of others, generation after generation.
What are the living to do with these old grave markers, citing the brief or lengthy life spans and “sacred to the memory” of those long gone and now, mostly forgotten? Well, the wardens and leaders of the Church of St. Michael’s and All Angels have come up with a rather practical solution to this somewhat indelicate problem. They have chosen to recycle the venerable stone markers and reposition them as steps along the foot path leading up the hill to the church building! I do not know when one has been dead long enough for one’s tomb stone to be removed from the graveyard to the hill side, but it obviously happens. At some point, by some ecclesiastical dictate, the markers are transitioned from the noble and ceremonial, but challenging task of standing erect at the top of the hill to the more plebian, but functional duty of lying down on the side of the hill, the better to assist modern-day visitors to ascend the heights.
As I stepped on top of the names, dates and loving tributes, I thought to myself how effectively and exactly this pragmatic, mobility-assist solution expresses one of my life wishes! Write it down if you have to! Take note and do not forget! If there is any memory of me after my days on this earth have ended, I want the remembrance never to be carved and captured in an otherwise useless and ceremonial head stone. Find a way to place any appropriate tribute, rather, as a stepping stone. Let whatever recollection of my life some may elect to recall be used in a handy, helpful manner, the better to stabilize the foot-sore feet and assist the daunting journeys of fatigued pilgrims in the struggle of their uphill, earthly and eternal climb!
Friday, July 22, 2011
Dream Drapery!
Like it was yesterday, I can still recall that cold winter’s January morning when they took me out to Walden Pond. With snow on the ground and ice on the top of the water, I crunched the frozen turf near Concord, Massachusetts and walked slightly uphill toward the still-remaining stone outline of what once was Thoreau’s tiny cabin. At only five years of age, the boy Thoreau had first glimpsed the tiny lake and its welcoming woods and his life was shaped by the encounter. He (and many of us, for that matter) would be forever changed by the child’s seemingly innocent visit to a humble, but becoming, peasant-looking natural habitat. Thoreau would later describe it this way: "When I was five years old, I was brought from Boston to this pond, away in the country, — which was then but another name for the extended world for me. [...] That woodland vision for a long time made the drapery of my dreams."
The world beyond as “dream drapery.” What poetic imagery! What an apt descriptor! What a powerful reality!
For most of my father’s life, Lauderdale County, MS provided the drapery for his window on the world. The hangings gathered around and surrounding his world outlook were understandably somewhat provincial and often drawn over much of the window’s already limited view. I remember when, just before his death, we travelled together for my older son’s graduation in California. Because it was so far removed from his ordinary window on the world and his treasured window dressing, Pop called the Southwest Airlines flight from Mississippi to California “the trip of a lifetime.”
No matter how cosmopolitan or provincial our point of view, we all have dream draperies. All of us have some kind of “window dressing” on our weltanschauungen (world view). Each one of us looks out on a world, whether wide or narrow, that is shaped and, in some powerful ways, affected by whatever immediately surrounds it. Often, the drapery is emotional or psychological. As likely, it is also political, economic, cultural and ethnic. We tend to view the world in light of what we have come to accept as customary and limited; our perspective is defined by what we perceive to be its outer edges. Our hopes and dreams are focused largely by what has come to surround our outlook.
Some have been known to belittle “window dressing,” as if it is of little consequence. My sense, to the contrary, is that, in this case, the draperies with which and by which our culture and experience have caused us to frame our world-view are most influential. One of life’s big challenges is to get close to our personal draperies and to push them back, allowing us a wider view of an even wider world. Of course, there is value in choosing to look out on the world from different windows, from others’ perspectives. But, before one moves to another window, a great beginning place is to pull back the drapes surrounding one’s own, personal “picture window.”
Do you “see”?
The world beyond as “dream drapery.” What poetic imagery! What an apt descriptor! What a powerful reality!
For most of my father’s life, Lauderdale County, MS provided the drapery for his window on the world. The hangings gathered around and surrounding his world outlook were understandably somewhat provincial and often drawn over much of the window’s already limited view. I remember when, just before his death, we travelled together for my older son’s graduation in California. Because it was so far removed from his ordinary window on the world and his treasured window dressing, Pop called the Southwest Airlines flight from Mississippi to California “the trip of a lifetime.”
No matter how cosmopolitan or provincial our point of view, we all have dream draperies. All of us have some kind of “window dressing” on our weltanschauungen (world view). Each one of us looks out on a world, whether wide or narrow, that is shaped and, in some powerful ways, affected by whatever immediately surrounds it. Often, the drapery is emotional or psychological. As likely, it is also political, economic, cultural and ethnic. We tend to view the world in light of what we have come to accept as customary and limited; our perspective is defined by what we perceive to be its outer edges. Our hopes and dreams are focused largely by what has come to surround our outlook.
Some have been known to belittle “window dressing,” as if it is of little consequence. My sense, to the contrary, is that, in this case, the draperies with which and by which our culture and experience have caused us to frame our world-view are most influential. One of life’s big challenges is to get close to our personal draperies and to push them back, allowing us a wider view of an even wider world. Of course, there is value in choosing to look out on the world from different windows, from others’ perspectives. But, before one moves to another window, a great beginning place is to pull back the drapes surrounding one’s own, personal “picture window.”
Do you “see”?
Dream Drapery!
Like it was yesterday, I can still recall that cold winter’s January morning when they took me out to Walden Pond. With snow on the ground and ice on the top of the water, I crunched the frozen turf near Concord, Massachusetts and walked slightly uphill toward the still-remaining stone outline of what once was Thoreau’s tiny cabin. At only five years of age, the boy Thoreau had first glimpsed the tiny lake and its welcoming woods and his life was shaped by the encounter. He (and many of us, for that matter) would be forever changed by the child’s seemingly innocent visit to a humble, but becoming, peasant-looking natural habitat. Thoreau would later describe it this way: "When I was five years old, I was brought from Boston to this pond, away in the country, — which was then but another name for the extended world for me. [...] That woodland vision for a long time made the drapery of my dreams."
The world beyond as “dream drapery.” What poetic imagery! What an apt descriptor! What a powerful reality!
For most of my father’s life, Lauderdale County, MS provided the drapery for his window on the world. The hangings gathered around and surrounding his world outlook were understandably somewhat provincial and often drawn over much of the window’s already limited view. I remember when, just before his death, we travelled together for my older son’s graduation in California. Because it was so far removed from his ordinary window on the world and his treasured window dressing, Pop called the Southwest Airlines assisted flight from Mississippi to California “the trip of a lifetime.”
No matter how cosmopolitan or provincial our point of view, we all have dream draperies. All of us have some kind of “window dressing” on our weltanschauungen (world view). Each one of us looks out on a world, whether wide or narrow, that is shaped and, in some powerful ways, affected by whatever immediately surrounds it. Often, the drapery is emotional or psychological. As likely, it is also political, economic, cultural and ethnic. We tend to view the world in light of what we have come to accept as customary and limited; our perspective is defined by what we perceive to be its outer edges. Our hopes and dreams are focused largely by what has come to surround our outlook.
Some have been known to belittle “window dressing,” as if it is of little
consequence. My sense, to the contrary, is that, in this case, the draperies with
which and by which our culture and experience have caused us to frame our
world-view are most influential. One of life’s big challenges is to get close to our
personal draperies and to push them back, allowing us a wider view of an even
wider world. Of course, there is value in choosing to look out on the world from
different windows, from others’ perspectives. But, before one moves to another
window, a great beginning place is to pull back the drapes surrounding one’s
own, personal “picture window.”
Do you “see”?
The world beyond as “dream drapery.” What poetic imagery! What an apt descriptor! What a powerful reality!
For most of my father’s life, Lauderdale County, MS provided the drapery for his window on the world. The hangings gathered around and surrounding his world outlook were understandably somewhat provincial and often drawn over much of the window’s already limited view. I remember when, just before his death, we travelled together for my older son’s graduation in California. Because it was so far removed from his ordinary window on the world and his treasured window dressing, Pop called the Southwest Airlines assisted flight from Mississippi to California “the trip of a lifetime.”
No matter how cosmopolitan or provincial our point of view, we all have dream draperies. All of us have some kind of “window dressing” on our weltanschauungen (world view). Each one of us looks out on a world, whether wide or narrow, that is shaped and, in some powerful ways, affected by whatever immediately surrounds it. Often, the drapery is emotional or psychological. As likely, it is also political, economic, cultural and ethnic. We tend to view the world in light of what we have come to accept as customary and limited; our perspective is defined by what we perceive to be its outer edges. Our hopes and dreams are focused largely by what has come to surround our outlook.
Some have been known to belittle “window dressing,” as if it is of little
consequence. My sense, to the contrary, is that, in this case, the draperies with
which and by which our culture and experience have caused us to frame our
world-view are most influential. One of life’s big challenges is to get close to our
personal draperies and to push them back, allowing us a wider view of an even
wider world. Of course, there is value in choosing to look out on the world from
different windows, from others’ perspectives. But, before one moves to another
window, a great beginning place is to pull back the drapes surrounding one’s
own, personal “picture window.”
Do you “see”?
Monday, June 13, 2011
Auto-Mad-Ick!
Perhaps it is a highly specialized form of road rage. I don’t actually know! All I know is that I am angry at the guy who picked my pocket on the bus in Athens last week! I should be accustomed to it by now, since it has happened to me twice in the six years I have lived in Athens and once in the two years I lived in Tirana, Albania, before that.
I’m classifying it as a type of road rage because that scum stole my driver’s license. The money, you can have, but my driver’s license??? My credit cards and even my bank card can be replaced; I rarely use them over here. But, my driver’s license??? Surely not! Did you know that the Texas Department of Motor Vehicles will allow one to renew a driver’s license online, but will not permit one to replace a lost or stolen license in this most efficient manner? Oh well, I’ll be standing in line, in person, at a DMV office in the Lone Star state in late October!! I’ll bring along my Kindle and a pillow!
Meanwhile (and this is why I am so angry), my driving privileges have effectively been taken away by the low-life who felt that I should subsidize his unsupportable lifestyle. I remember well when Pop, my father, had his eye surgery, years ago. Before the operation, we called a family council and “announced” to him that, due to his deteriorating eyesight, he must turn-in his keys. You don’t understand. My father was raised in an auto enthroning culture. Born in Mississippi in the twenties, while Henry Ford was building Model T’s and Model A’s and was making them readily available for humble, rural folks like my father and his seven brothers, an automobile was always a not-so-subtle sign of manhood for Pop. When Pop opened his service station, it was just one more step in the beatification of the beautiful, bulbous-fendered, running board equipped American automobile.
When, at the tender age of twelve years old, Pop taught me to drive and when he let me take the family car on dates at age 13, he initiated me into the holy-of-holies and I became an acolyte; pretty soon, I was a devout worshipper. Despite my short stature (so short that I had to sit on my clarinet case to see over the dash board of the 1940 Chevy!), my less-than-velvet complexion and the total absence of biceps where biceps were supposed to be, I was transported around automobiles; I was convinced that this little adult, early-achiever had achieved a near God-like, stud status whenever I slid beneath the steering wheel.
I have been behind the wheel of my own personal vehicle since the I was 15. When no one else had wheels, I had wheels! When others were reduced to begging for a lift, I never had to look for my “ride.” I learned to drive a “stick shift,” “3-on-the –tree” and 4-on-the-floor.” Rear speakers were more sacred to me than sneakers!Forever, I have known how to double-clutch or to drive with one arm around my best girl. Most of the time, I can still parallel park and usually I can back-up at speeds equaling the maximum speed limit on most rural highways.
Before Janice and I left the States for this Balkan chapter of our lives, I sold no less than four personal automobiles. Even when we lived in the relatively auto-less land of Albania, I had a Land Rover Discovery at my fingertips. I have driven automobiles on several continents, on both sides of the roadway, up curving, switch-back, mountainous terrain, down rural lanes with vegetation reaching inside the driving compartment, on the German Autobahn, in rain, sleet, snow & gloom of night, in congested, Athenian gridlock, on Westheimer during drive-time in hot & humid Houston, Texas and in places where cars were never actually intended to go!
But now, see howthe mighty have fallen! Now, it has come to this. I must sit in the “shotgun seat” while my lovely wife takes command. It’s not that she is in the least incapable. On the contrary, she is an excellent driver! It’s just that this “Captain Kirk” has been removed from the flight deck of the Starship Enterprise and has been relegated to the lowly status of mere passenger! It’s a Drivin’ Miss Daisy role reversal!
I’m trying to be philosophical and positive about it. It is just another “learning opportunity.” It’s the only wise and smart thing to do. It will provide an entirely new perspective for me; now, I’ll understand better what Janice goes through. It’s an “early warning” signal, prophesying for me that dreaded day in the future when Matt & Doug will come to me in their beneficent maturity, like I came to Pop and take the keys from me. But, oh, it is so hard!
I’m classifying it as a type of road rage because that scum stole my driver’s license. The money, you can have, but my driver’s license??? My credit cards and even my bank card can be replaced; I rarely use them over here. But, my driver’s license??? Surely not! Did you know that the Texas Department of Motor Vehicles will allow one to renew a driver’s license online, but will not permit one to replace a lost or stolen license in this most efficient manner? Oh well, I’ll be standing in line, in person, at a DMV office in the Lone Star state in late October!! I’ll bring along my Kindle and a pillow!
Meanwhile (and this is why I am so angry), my driving privileges have effectively been taken away by the low-life who felt that I should subsidize his unsupportable lifestyle. I remember well when Pop, my father, had his eye surgery, years ago. Before the operation, we called a family council and “announced” to him that, due to his deteriorating eyesight, he must turn-in his keys. You don’t understand. My father was raised in an auto enthroning culture. Born in Mississippi in the twenties, while Henry Ford was building Model T’s and Model A’s and was making them readily available for humble, rural folks like my father and his seven brothers, an automobile was always a not-so-subtle sign of manhood for Pop. When Pop opened his service station, it was just one more step in the beatification of the beautiful, bulbous-fendered, running board equipped American automobile.
When, at the tender age of twelve years old, Pop taught me to drive and when he let me take the family car on dates at age 13, he initiated me into the holy-of-holies and I became an acolyte; pretty soon, I was a devout worshipper. Despite my short stature (so short that I had to sit on my clarinet case to see over the dash board of the 1940 Chevy!), my less-than-velvet complexion and the total absence of biceps where biceps were supposed to be, I was transported around automobiles; I was convinced that this little adult, early-achiever had achieved a near God-like, stud status whenever I slid beneath the steering wheel.
I have been behind the wheel of my own personal vehicle since the I was 15. When no one else had wheels, I had wheels! When others were reduced to begging for a lift, I never had to look for my “ride.” I learned to drive a “stick shift,” “3-on-the –tree” and 4-on-the-floor.” Rear speakers were more sacred to me than sneakers!Forever, I have known how to double-clutch or to drive with one arm around my best girl. Most of the time, I can still parallel park and usually I can back-up at speeds equaling the maximum speed limit on most rural highways.
Before Janice and I left the States for this Balkan chapter of our lives, I sold no less than four personal automobiles. Even when we lived in the relatively auto-less land of Albania, I had a Land Rover Discovery at my fingertips. I have driven automobiles on several continents, on both sides of the roadway, up curving, switch-back, mountainous terrain, down rural lanes with vegetation reaching inside the driving compartment, on the German Autobahn, in rain, sleet, snow & gloom of night, in congested, Athenian gridlock, on Westheimer during drive-time in hot & humid Houston, Texas and in places where cars were never actually intended to go!
But now, see howthe mighty have fallen! Now, it has come to this. I must sit in the “shotgun seat” while my lovely wife takes command. It’s not that she is in the least incapable. On the contrary, she is an excellent driver! It’s just that this “Captain Kirk” has been removed from the flight deck of the Starship Enterprise and has been relegated to the lowly status of mere passenger! It’s a Drivin’ Miss Daisy role reversal!
I’m trying to be philosophical and positive about it. It is just another “learning opportunity.” It’s the only wise and smart thing to do. It will provide an entirely new perspective for me; now, I’ll understand better what Janice goes through. It’s an “early warning” signal, prophesying for me that dreaded day in the future when Matt & Doug will come to me in their beneficent maturity, like I came to Pop and take the keys from me. But, oh, it is so hard!
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Chaos Theory, Butterfly Wings and Immigrant Parenting!
In 1972, Edward Norton Lorenz, mathematician and meteorologist, articulated what has come to be known as chaos theory. This intriguing hypothesis, with applications in such disciplines as physics, economics, biology, philosophy and meteorology, assumes a systemic connectedness in the universe and asserts that large influences can sometimes result from very small, seemingly unrelated actions within a system. In the attempt to figure out why long-range weather forecasting was such an unpredictable business, Lorenz first spoke of the impact of the flapping of a sea gull’s wing on the formation of a hurricane; later, using more vivid and relatable imagery, he coined the phrase “butterfly effect” to explain how small actions in atmospheric systems could be responsible for vast and unanticipated changes. Lorenz asked: “Does the flap of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil set off a hurricane in Texas?”
Although I have had considerable experience with chaos of several distinct types, I am, of course, far out of my league in even bringing up such topics. On the other hand, along my chaotic mental pathways, I thought of Lorenz’s “butterfly effect” recently, while talking with a young Albanian friend of mine. The thirty-something young man was married a few years ago; in addition to his new wife, when he said “I do,” he received a pre-teen son, his new wife’s child from a previous marriage. Since they married, the new couple has conceived a baby of their own, just two years ago. So this guy has gone from being single, with no kids, to being married and the father of two kids in very short order. Perhaps now you can understand why my mind bolted toward chaos theory!
My Albanian friend is very concerned, because he wants to do a good job in this most daunting of human responsibilities - fatherhood. He told me that, judging from his own experience as a son, he needed to improve on the parenting model that his father had given him. Although I tried to remain neutral, his firm conviction is that the autocratic, distant, dictatorial and physically abusive pattern which he inherited from his dad leaves much to be desired.
I was very impressed that this young guy wanted very much to be a “good dad” and was so excited about all that he is learning in this regard. He told me, for example, that he has learned never to hit his child in the face. He has concluded that, when all other means have been exhausted and it is necessary for him to use corporal punishment on his older stepson, he will only paddle him on the behind. He also said that he has decided that he will only tell the older boy to do something a couple of times. If the boy still refuses to do what he wants him to do, he will not instruct him endlessly, but will simply move the child to a select place and impose what you and I might call a “time out” in this “punishment zone.”
Knowing that Albanian immigrants in Athens have precious few resources of any kind and even fewer on subjects such as child-rearing, I asked him where he was getting this learning. This is when the “butterfly wing” flitted across the screen of my mind! My Albanian friend told me that he learned these parenting devices from television. Since he is mostly unemployed these days, with the Greek economic system in the toilet, he has lots of time to watch TV, while his wife is at her job and he is home with the kids. On television, he loves to watch that program where the British Nanny comes to the home of the parents who are having trouble with their kids. She observes the kids acting out and checks to see how the parents are handling the misbehavior. After a few days, the Nanny makes suggestions and institutes new behavior management regimes.
As my friend spoke, I almost could hear the flap of butterfly wings! I couldn’t help but wonder if, when this young man and his wife used their hard-earned money to buy that television, they had any idea how this “entertainment device” might help to shape the all-important emotional development of their kids. You can tell me that these basic child-rearing lessons are small or simplistic or perhaps still very unsophisticated. You can tell me that this guy still has a long way to go. But Lorenz and I will tell you that the tiny flap of a butterfly wing can change the weather!
Although I have had considerable experience with chaos of several distinct types, I am, of course, far out of my league in even bringing up such topics. On the other hand, along my chaotic mental pathways, I thought of Lorenz’s “butterfly effect” recently, while talking with a young Albanian friend of mine. The thirty-something young man was married a few years ago; in addition to his new wife, when he said “I do,” he received a pre-teen son, his new wife’s child from a previous marriage. Since they married, the new couple has conceived a baby of their own, just two years ago. So this guy has gone from being single, with no kids, to being married and the father of two kids in very short order. Perhaps now you can understand why my mind bolted toward chaos theory!
My Albanian friend is very concerned, because he wants to do a good job in this most daunting of human responsibilities - fatherhood. He told me that, judging from his own experience as a son, he needed to improve on the parenting model that his father had given him. Although I tried to remain neutral, his firm conviction is that the autocratic, distant, dictatorial and physically abusive pattern which he inherited from his dad leaves much to be desired.
I was very impressed that this young guy wanted very much to be a “good dad” and was so excited about all that he is learning in this regard. He told me, for example, that he has learned never to hit his child in the face. He has concluded that, when all other means have been exhausted and it is necessary for him to use corporal punishment on his older stepson, he will only paddle him on the behind. He also said that he has decided that he will only tell the older boy to do something a couple of times. If the boy still refuses to do what he wants him to do, he will not instruct him endlessly, but will simply move the child to a select place and impose what you and I might call a “time out” in this “punishment zone.”
Knowing that Albanian immigrants in Athens have precious few resources of any kind and even fewer on subjects such as child-rearing, I asked him where he was getting this learning. This is when the “butterfly wing” flitted across the screen of my mind! My Albanian friend told me that he learned these parenting devices from television. Since he is mostly unemployed these days, with the Greek economic system in the toilet, he has lots of time to watch TV, while his wife is at her job and he is home with the kids. On television, he loves to watch that program where the British Nanny comes to the home of the parents who are having trouble with their kids. She observes the kids acting out and checks to see how the parents are handling the misbehavior. After a few days, the Nanny makes suggestions and institutes new behavior management regimes.
As my friend spoke, I almost could hear the flap of butterfly wings! I couldn’t help but wonder if, when this young man and his wife used their hard-earned money to buy that television, they had any idea how this “entertainment device” might help to shape the all-important emotional development of their kids. You can tell me that these basic child-rearing lessons are small or simplistic or perhaps still very unsophisticated. You can tell me that this guy still has a long way to go. But Lorenz and I will tell you that the tiny flap of a butterfly wing can change the weather!
Friday, April 1, 2011
Pearls in the Making!
It was Frederico Fellini, the noted Italian film director, who said that “all art is autobiography.” In that vein, Fellini also said that “the pearl is the oyster’s autobiography!”
Although the ancient Greeks liked to suppose that pearls were the tears of the gods, the crude reality is much different. In fact, a pearl is a natural gem created by a living organism. Under the right circumstances, when a foreign object is introduced into a mussel or oyster, the creature coats the irritation with a substance called nacre, the very same material with which it builds its shell. Layers of nacre are required to make a shiny pearl.
If that be the case, then by metaphorical parallel, Albanians in Athens, “foreign irritants” lodged within the life of Greece, are, at least potentially, pearls in the making! I can’t help but notice that pearls are made out of the irritating conflict between that which does not belong and the “belonging environment“ of living organisms.
Note also that it is the very substance with which the oyster or mussel protects itself that pearls are made. Thus, Greek resistance to Albanians’ presence is the “stuff” from which the Albanian gem is being created.
Today, most pearls are cultured; that is to say, they are actually created in artificial settings, since natural oyster beds have been largely removed, due to overfishing. It remains true, however, that the most valuable of pearls are those found in natural settings, created in the “real world.”
Today, in the hardscrabble reality of Athens, Greece, I am going looking for my Albanian friends - pearls in the making!
Although the ancient Greeks liked to suppose that pearls were the tears of the gods, the crude reality is much different. In fact, a pearl is a natural gem created by a living organism. Under the right circumstances, when a foreign object is introduced into a mussel or oyster, the creature coats the irritation with a substance called nacre, the very same material with which it builds its shell. Layers of nacre are required to make a shiny pearl.
If that be the case, then by metaphorical parallel, Albanians in Athens, “foreign irritants” lodged within the life of Greece, are, at least potentially, pearls in the making! I can’t help but notice that pearls are made out of the irritating conflict between that which does not belong and the “belonging environment“ of living organisms.
Note also that it is the very substance with which the oyster or mussel protects itself that pearls are made. Thus, Greek resistance to Albanians’ presence is the “stuff” from which the Albanian gem is being created.
Today, most pearls are cultured; that is to say, they are actually created in artificial settings, since natural oyster beds have been largely removed, due to overfishing. It remains true, however, that the most valuable of pearls are those found in natural settings, created in the “real world.”
Today, in the hardscrabble reality of Athens, Greece, I am going looking for my Albanian friends - pearls in the making!
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Nothin' But a Hound Dog!!
The grieving family had been escorted slowly and with dignity and difficulty, from the “holding stall” to the chapel. The area where local Greek Orthodox funerals originate reminds me of a less-than-dirty but far-from-clean, over-used, cattle stall; built with no doors on one end and open to the elements, families collect there, the room dominated by a simple, fiber-board casket. They grieve publicly and often loudly, while others stand around and watch, with a few self-designated persons close-by to provide support. Friends have, of course, already been to the home of the deceased, but now, they arrive, as if for the first time, to hug the loved ones again and to hold on more tightly to each other.
When those in charge declare that it is “time,” the priest leads the procession out into the weather, walking slowly toward the chapel. They follow the casket and pass by many similar “stalls,” built, in anticipation of those days, like this one, when funerals are scheduled back-to-back. The other “stalls” are filled with mourners of yet others, waiting their turn for the brief, Greek Orthodox funeral service in the cemetery chapel on a hillside on the outskirts of Piraeus, Greece, the port town adjacent to Athens.
After a stylized Greek Orthodox liturgy with little if any mention of the deceased, much repetition and some mellifluous male chanting, the family passes, one last time, by the now-open casket. In a typical Greek Orthodox funeral ceremony, the lips of the deceased may be kissed, but those on the icon of Jesus are most definitely kissed.
As Janice and I stood outside the chapel, awaiting that long, rocky walk, up and around to the open gravesite, a mangy, pitiful-looking, street dog proudly walked up. Sensing who was in charge, he ambled over to the Greek Orthodox priest. As a minister who has shared many unexpected happenings in the pursuit of serious reverential duty, I watched with interest, to see what the clergy person would do.
He kept his ministerial dignity. He never bent his silk-robe-covered body. From behind his full beard and beneath his pointed hat, a most loving and warm smile nearly broke forth and made its presence known to us. Holding a formal, black umbrella and a somber expression, both the seasoned holy man’s protection against the “worst case,” the priest gently rubbed the dog’s back and neck. The tip of the umbrella seemed to carry with it sacred oil, magical incense and the stuff of blessing. For a few moments, while the family reassembled for the final procession, the weary old dog willingly received the priestly blessing and seemed, somehow, lighter on his feet.
Too soon, it was time to move on; the priest “shooed “ away the mongrel, his momentary canine care replaced by the “higher calling” of leading the family to an open hole, where they would leave the mortal remains of their loved one on top of some other soul whose family had rented the gravesite three years before him. There, in the wind of an overcast day, they would bid him a last farewell.
Oh, what gift that God could give us, to provide for hurting humanity the sweet solace and genuine comfort offered to that old dog on that sad day! If it is true that “every dog has his day,” then, when my day comes, I want my family to be cared for like that. Rub their backs! Do not condemn them for their awkward grief! Embrace them, welcome them, stand with them in the neighborhood of the dead and dying and treat them with profound respect and gentle kindness!
When those in charge declare that it is “time,” the priest leads the procession out into the weather, walking slowly toward the chapel. They follow the casket and pass by many similar “stalls,” built, in anticipation of those days, like this one, when funerals are scheduled back-to-back. The other “stalls” are filled with mourners of yet others, waiting their turn for the brief, Greek Orthodox funeral service in the cemetery chapel on a hillside on the outskirts of Piraeus, Greece, the port town adjacent to Athens.
After a stylized Greek Orthodox liturgy with little if any mention of the deceased, much repetition and some mellifluous male chanting, the family passes, one last time, by the now-open casket. In a typical Greek Orthodox funeral ceremony, the lips of the deceased may be kissed, but those on the icon of Jesus are most definitely kissed.
As Janice and I stood outside the chapel, awaiting that long, rocky walk, up and around to the open gravesite, a mangy, pitiful-looking, street dog proudly walked up. Sensing who was in charge, he ambled over to the Greek Orthodox priest. As a minister who has shared many unexpected happenings in the pursuit of serious reverential duty, I watched with interest, to see what the clergy person would do.
He kept his ministerial dignity. He never bent his silk-robe-covered body. From behind his full beard and beneath his pointed hat, a most loving and warm smile nearly broke forth and made its presence known to us. Holding a formal, black umbrella and a somber expression, both the seasoned holy man’s protection against the “worst case,” the priest gently rubbed the dog’s back and neck. The tip of the umbrella seemed to carry with it sacred oil, magical incense and the stuff of blessing. For a few moments, while the family reassembled for the final procession, the weary old dog willingly received the priestly blessing and seemed, somehow, lighter on his feet.
Too soon, it was time to move on; the priest “shooed “ away the mongrel, his momentary canine care replaced by the “higher calling” of leading the family to an open hole, where they would leave the mortal remains of their loved one on top of some other soul whose family had rented the gravesite three years before him. There, in the wind of an overcast day, they would bid him a last farewell.
Oh, what gift that God could give us, to provide for hurting humanity the sweet solace and genuine comfort offered to that old dog on that sad day! If it is true that “every dog has his day,” then, when my day comes, I want my family to be cared for like that. Rub their backs! Do not condemn them for their awkward grief! Embrace them, welcome them, stand with them in the neighborhood of the dead and dying and treat them with profound respect and gentle kindness!
Monday, January 31, 2011
WASTED SPACE!
Janice’s grandfather, Grover Cleveland Riley, was known affectionately in the family as Papa. When I came into the family, Papa was in his eighties and had already survived two World Wars, the Depression, continuing tough times on his farm in Mississippi and the turbulence of the sixties civil rights struggles; in addition, he had outlasted two wives. He was, at the time, “breaking-in” (his words) yet a third wife. Somewhere in storage we still have (I hope) super 8 motion picture images of the aged but strong Papa, walking barefoot behind a mule, plowing his field in the cold of winter!
A few years after I married Janice, Papa’s once robust health began to fail. I remember one time, in the last hospital confinement before his death in the early ‘70’s, when my father was visiting with Papa in his room. Back when hospitals limited the number and times of visitors for patients, long days alone in his room were only occasionally broken by visits from family members and new friends, such as my father. On that day, my father would later recount to us that Papa looked directly at him and said: “Newell, there’s lots of wasted space in this room!” With much time to himself, the bed-ridden Papa must have been staring for hours from his bed, up into the ceiling and walls of his hospital room. With that limitation of the social world that often characterizes the elderly and, most especially, those confined to a hospital room, Papa sought to make conversation out of the imminent realities of his current situation.
Although Papa has been gone from us for many years now, so much of his life remains. Janice remembers how he always had orange slices candy for her; we recall the warmth (if not, oppressive heat) of those small heaters that burned in winter in the bedroom of his small, un-insulated, frame house. When Papa wanted to tell me that an idea or a project was not worth his while, he would say, “Son, there just ain’t no percentage in it!” To this day, when I tell Janice that I do not choose to become involved in a particular undertaking, I’ll borrow this well chosen syntax from Papa. Among our top remembrances of Papa, however, is, ironically, always his notice that “There’s lots of wasted space in this room.”
I suppose it is natural that, when one’s life begins to slow down and when one is faced with the reality that his days are numbered, one begins to reflect on inefficiency and waste. I take Papa’s statement to my father as reflecting on more than simply the construction design parameters of a hospital room from years ago. In a much larger sense, Papa was evidencing what I and others feel who have lived a few years and who, daily now, must acknowledge the reality that this life of ours is precious and fleeting.
With the perspective of some years, we are discovering that some projects must be abandoned because “there just ain’t no percentage” in them. And, with the benefit of maturity and a more keen concern for overall efficiency, we bemoan the sad reality of life’s abundant waste.
Oh God, show us how to so invest ourselves and our lives in such a careful manner that there can be an expectation of profound percentage of return and help us to join You in ridding this inefficient old world of its many costly and hurtful wastes!
A few years after I married Janice, Papa’s once robust health began to fail. I remember one time, in the last hospital confinement before his death in the early ‘70’s, when my father was visiting with Papa in his room. Back when hospitals limited the number and times of visitors for patients, long days alone in his room were only occasionally broken by visits from family members and new friends, such as my father. On that day, my father would later recount to us that Papa looked directly at him and said: “Newell, there’s lots of wasted space in this room!” With much time to himself, the bed-ridden Papa must have been staring for hours from his bed, up into the ceiling and walls of his hospital room. With that limitation of the social world that often characterizes the elderly and, most especially, those confined to a hospital room, Papa sought to make conversation out of the imminent realities of his current situation.
Although Papa has been gone from us for many years now, so much of his life remains. Janice remembers how he always had orange slices candy for her; we recall the warmth (if not, oppressive heat) of those small heaters that burned in winter in the bedroom of his small, un-insulated, frame house. When Papa wanted to tell me that an idea or a project was not worth his while, he would say, “Son, there just ain’t no percentage in it!” To this day, when I tell Janice that I do not choose to become involved in a particular undertaking, I’ll borrow this well chosen syntax from Papa. Among our top remembrances of Papa, however, is, ironically, always his notice that “There’s lots of wasted space in this room.”
I suppose it is natural that, when one’s life begins to slow down and when one is faced with the reality that his days are numbered, one begins to reflect on inefficiency and waste. I take Papa’s statement to my father as reflecting on more than simply the construction design parameters of a hospital room from years ago. In a much larger sense, Papa was evidencing what I and others feel who have lived a few years and who, daily now, must acknowledge the reality that this life of ours is precious and fleeting.
With the perspective of some years, we are discovering that some projects must be abandoned because “there just ain’t no percentage” in them. And, with the benefit of maturity and a more keen concern for overall efficiency, we bemoan the sad reality of life’s abundant waste.
Oh God, show us how to so invest ourselves and our lives in such a careful manner that there can be an expectation of profound percentage of return and help us to join You in ridding this inefficient old world of its many costly and hurtful wastes!
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Thirty-nine Tumbling Tangerines!
Like every other Athenian, I go to the grocery stores often. Not every day, but close to it. The smaller size of our kitchen and, for many folks, the diminutive size of refrigerators in these parts makes essential a regular return to the grocer. Recently, I was returning from such an errand, loaded down with my permanent, ecologically-conscious grocery bag and also carrying several of the earth-polluting, small plastic bags. On my back and over my shoulder, I carried a web-sack of tangerines.
Those semi-tart and sometimes sweet, but not-so-juicy tangerines with their built-in easy-open outer skin and convenient servable pieces (We had something similar in Mississippi where I grew up; we called them satsumas!) serve as great in-between-meal snacks and make me believe I am eating something healthy for a change. On this particularly cold winter day, I was hobbling along on the sidewalk at the top of one of the hills in the business section near our place.
I could see her ahead, sitting on the sidewalk, holding her baby. This Roma (Gypsy) mother of no more than sixteen years routinely sits on her behind on the cold pavement, with legs folded in front of her, one forearm cradling a nearly newborn and the other arm extended, her cupped hand begging for Euro coins. This is her family’s preferred space to beg. I suppose it’s a good location, what with the generous population of middle-class Greeks who walk by each day and the higher-than-average percentage of retired folks who live in the neighborhood.
I was prepared to focus on keeping my precarious, nearly seventy-year-old balance, to shift the weight of my many packages and to resist eye-contact as I walked by, towering over her from my six-foot position of “superiority.” I always struggle with the tension between helping to feed a hungry baby and not wanting to co-depend and enable a subtle system that perpetuates both poverty and the over-population that aids and abets it. Like most “sophisticated” people on the street, I have perfected the skill of largely ignoring the woman-child and her baby and just walking on by.
No more than twenty feet from her, my web-bag broke, spilling thirty-nine tangerines on the sidewalk! Wish you could have seen those tennis ball-sized, rolling, orange, fruit balls as they spread out on the sidewalk and commenced, PacMan style, to chase each other down the incline! Everybody took notice! My fellow pedestrians just stepped aside, allowing the rolling fruit to gain momentum, rapidly descending the hill.
For the first time ever, I saw the face of the little begging mother on the street. Normally, she keeps her head and eyes down; only occasionally does she look up into the glazed-over eyes of the people passing by, pleading both with her words and with her face. But, with thirty-nine cascading citrus balls rapidly rolling her way, in terror, she looked up.
And, then, she did the expected thing. With her free hand and her legs, she began to corral those run-away satsumas and draw them into her skirt and other unmentionable portions of her body, now mostly spread flat on the ground. With dexterity and rapidity, she rescued every one of them, allowing none to get through her hastily-arranged fruit-dike.
Well – then and there, I decided that I was making a “generous” donation of fruit to her hungry family!
Those semi-tart and sometimes sweet, but not-so-juicy tangerines with their built-in easy-open outer skin and convenient servable pieces (We had something similar in Mississippi where I grew up; we called them satsumas!) serve as great in-between-meal snacks and make me believe I am eating something healthy for a change. On this particularly cold winter day, I was hobbling along on the sidewalk at the top of one of the hills in the business section near our place.
I could see her ahead, sitting on the sidewalk, holding her baby. This Roma (Gypsy) mother of no more than sixteen years routinely sits on her behind on the cold pavement, with legs folded in front of her, one forearm cradling a nearly newborn and the other arm extended, her cupped hand begging for Euro coins. This is her family’s preferred space to beg. I suppose it’s a good location, what with the generous population of middle-class Greeks who walk by each day and the higher-than-average percentage of retired folks who live in the neighborhood.
I was prepared to focus on keeping my precarious, nearly seventy-year-old balance, to shift the weight of my many packages and to resist eye-contact as I walked by, towering over her from my six-foot position of “superiority.” I always struggle with the tension between helping to feed a hungry baby and not wanting to co-depend and enable a subtle system that perpetuates both poverty and the over-population that aids and abets it. Like most “sophisticated” people on the street, I have perfected the skill of largely ignoring the woman-child and her baby and just walking on by.
No more than twenty feet from her, my web-bag broke, spilling thirty-nine tangerines on the sidewalk! Wish you could have seen those tennis ball-sized, rolling, orange, fruit balls as they spread out on the sidewalk and commenced, PacMan style, to chase each other down the incline! Everybody took notice! My fellow pedestrians just stepped aside, allowing the rolling fruit to gain momentum, rapidly descending the hill.
For the first time ever, I saw the face of the little begging mother on the street. Normally, she keeps her head and eyes down; only occasionally does she look up into the glazed-over eyes of the people passing by, pleading both with her words and with her face. But, with thirty-nine cascading citrus balls rapidly rolling her way, in terror, she looked up.
And, then, she did the expected thing. With her free hand and her legs, she began to corral those run-away satsumas and draw them into her skirt and other unmentionable portions of her body, now mostly spread flat on the ground. With dexterity and rapidity, she rescued every one of them, allowing none to get through her hastily-arranged fruit-dike.
Well – then and there, I decided that I was making a “generous” donation of fruit to her hungry family!
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Armless Jesus!
I have no idea why he has no arms and hands. Most likely, his normal body was compromised before it could be formed in utero because, years ago, his mother was given thalidomide early in her pregnancy. Sold in a number of countries from 1957 until 1961, the drug was withdrawn from the market after being found to cause horrendous birth defects. He is probably one of thousands who today are living evidence of an almost forgotten medical tragedy in modern times.
I came across him on a leafy, downtown, pedestrian walkway in my town of Athens, Greece. With a plastic cup held firmly in his mouth, shaking his head up and down, he was begging for money from passersby. His toothy grin beamed above the lip of the cup as the lady in front of me deftly dropped-in a couple of Euro coins. Still shocked by what I saw, I determined to put some money in his cup when I returned from delivering the papers to my lawyer’s office. To my disappointment however, five minutes later, when I stepped back onto the pedestrian walkway, he was nowhere to be found.
Walking back to the trolley stop, I couldn’t shake the image of that tall man with no arms, bouncing his head up and down, hoping for coins to drop in a cup tightly clamped between his teeth. Even as I boarded the trolley and stood next to another man with arms, hands and a guitar, singing beautiful Greek love songs and also asking for donations, I couldn’t erase the picture of the armless man. In the swift, kaleidoscopic collision of many mental eruptions, lubricated by a generous dose of survivor’s guilt, I simultaneously wondered how he emptied the coins from the cup, how he got the cup in his mouth in the first place, what he did with the coins, why such things are allowed to happen to human beings and why you and I are so blessed to have the use of both arms and hands?
Almost immediately, as the trolley moved slowly through the mid-day gridlock, I recalled that well-worn Christian prose by Annie Johnston Flynt that affirms the essential truth that “Christ has no hands but our hands to do his work today.” St. Teresa of Avila, speaking to us rather than for us, earlier made the same point when she stated that “Christ has no body now on earth but yours, No hands but yours, No feet but yours.” While I believe that these sentiments are profoundly correct – that you and I are the means by which the work of Christ is continued in our world – the armless man on the street reminded me that the first half of Annie and Teresa’s statements remains also sadly true. In our world today, Christ (sometimes) has no hands or arms at all!
It was Jesus himself who, in his classic parable of the sheep and goats, told us that “whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.” (Matthew 25:45) You may recall that he said this in response to those who were confused and defensive in responsive to Jesus’ critique of those who saw him hungry, thirsty, estranged, unclothed, sick or in prison and failed to respond. “When did we see you in this shape and did not help you?” (my summary of Matthew 25:44), they genuinely asked. Jesus’ reply indicates that, in some mysterious way, he is so intimately identified with hurting humanity that he is somehow present whenever anyone suffers.
If I take Jesus’ words seriously, then, on the street in Athens, Greece, I actually saw living, cup-bouncing, coin-clanking, teeth-jarring, head-bobbing proof that “Christ has no (arms and) hands!” Now, what am I to do with that?
I came across him on a leafy, downtown, pedestrian walkway in my town of Athens, Greece. With a plastic cup held firmly in his mouth, shaking his head up and down, he was begging for money from passersby. His toothy grin beamed above the lip of the cup as the lady in front of me deftly dropped-in a couple of Euro coins. Still shocked by what I saw, I determined to put some money in his cup when I returned from delivering the papers to my lawyer’s office. To my disappointment however, five minutes later, when I stepped back onto the pedestrian walkway, he was nowhere to be found.
Walking back to the trolley stop, I couldn’t shake the image of that tall man with no arms, bouncing his head up and down, hoping for coins to drop in a cup tightly clamped between his teeth. Even as I boarded the trolley and stood next to another man with arms, hands and a guitar, singing beautiful Greek love songs and also asking for donations, I couldn’t erase the picture of the armless man. In the swift, kaleidoscopic collision of many mental eruptions, lubricated by a generous dose of survivor’s guilt, I simultaneously wondered how he emptied the coins from the cup, how he got the cup in his mouth in the first place, what he did with the coins, why such things are allowed to happen to human beings and why you and I are so blessed to have the use of both arms and hands?
Almost immediately, as the trolley moved slowly through the mid-day gridlock, I recalled that well-worn Christian prose by Annie Johnston Flynt that affirms the essential truth that “Christ has no hands but our hands to do his work today.” St. Teresa of Avila, speaking to us rather than for us, earlier made the same point when she stated that “Christ has no body now on earth but yours, No hands but yours, No feet but yours.” While I believe that these sentiments are profoundly correct – that you and I are the means by which the work of Christ is continued in our world – the armless man on the street reminded me that the first half of Annie and Teresa’s statements remains also sadly true. In our world today, Christ (sometimes) has no hands or arms at all!
It was Jesus himself who, in his classic parable of the sheep and goats, told us that “whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.” (Matthew 25:45) You may recall that he said this in response to those who were confused and defensive in responsive to Jesus’ critique of those who saw him hungry, thirsty, estranged, unclothed, sick or in prison and failed to respond. “When did we see you in this shape and did not help you?” (my summary of Matthew 25:44), they genuinely asked. Jesus’ reply indicates that, in some mysterious way, he is so intimately identified with hurting humanity that he is somehow present whenever anyone suffers.
If I take Jesus’ words seriously, then, on the street in Athens, Greece, I actually saw living, cup-bouncing, coin-clanking, teeth-jarring, head-bobbing proof that “Christ has no (arms and) hands!” Now, what am I to do with that?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
