Save, oh Lord, and have mercy upon our most holy ecumenical pontiff, John Paul, the Pope of Rome. (Prayed throughout the Divine Liturgy)
I thought the following links might be of interest to readers at this time:
John Paul Papacy -- a section of the Daughters of St. Paul website that gives the history of John Paul II, as well as what happens when a pope dies, how is a new pope elected, etc.
What the Cardinals Believe -- lists all the cardinals in the college, where they come from and a few relevant articles about most of them.
God of power and mercy
you have made death itself
the gateway to eternal life.
Look with love on our dying brother, John Paul
and make him one with your Son in his suffering and death,
that sealed with the blood of Christ,
he may come before you free from sin. (From The Catholic Prayer Book)
Thursday, March 31, 2005
My Little Michelle
My little Michelle broke her foot the other night. She fell off the bed when I turned over in my sleep and crashed onto the hardwood floor. The next night as I curled up in bed with her, I noticed a clinking sound in her right sock. Probing softly in the darkness, I could feel pieces of porcelain where her foot should be.
A broken right foot.
Just like me.
I bought the doll a few years ago at my therapist’s suggestion. She thought it would be good for me to have a tangible representation of my inner child. I balked at first. It just sounded so very cheesy, pop-psyche like. Something forty-five year old yuppies from San Marin wearing crystals do. But, I figured I would humor her. Show good faith on my part in getting better.
So, I headed for the Goodwill thrift store. After looking through the piles of plastic, cloth and rubber dolls on the shelves, I found a brown-haired doll with hands, feet and head made of porcelain but a body made of cloth. She was dressed in a velvet green pinafore over a black and white blouse with a lace ruffle collar. Little ivory cotton bloomers and socks. No shoes but she did have a display stand. And though her eyes were brown and mine are green, and her hair was far thicker than mine will ever be, she felt like what I’d imagine myself as a little girl would look like.
Once I got her home, I ditched the stand. Decided maybe her hair could use a comb. Before I knew it, I was sitting on the floor brushing and braiding her hair. Planning little clothes to make for her. Trying to figure out the best way to shod her feet.
And when those times have come when the sadness of the past has overwhelmed me, I have found it very comforting to hold her and rock her and stroke her hair. Of giving some part of me the affection and care I did not get.
It’s not that my parents where horrible people. They were flawed, but not evil. Young and unsure about what to do with a child they weren’t expecting.
Actually, I say parents with a plural, but it was really just my mom. At least, until she finally told my father about me when I was eighteen. They met at a party when they were nineteen and broke up before my mom realized she was pregnant with me. But she was in love with somebody else by the time she did realize and decided what my father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Or me.
Or who would have been my grandparents and aunt.
And so she married this new guy she was in love with, thinking that he’d be my dad and everything would work out happily ever after.
Sorta like how teenagers think.
And when I started talking as a toddler and people thought I was a midget because I used big words, she figured I’d probably do just as good a job being left to “keep an eye” on her adulterous husband as any other adult would.
And I’d be just as patient and understanding at four years old when she divorced him as any other adult would.
And when she married again when I was eight, I’d be just as good a candle-lighter at her wedding as any other adult would.
And when she had another baby girl when I was ten, I’d be just as good at caring for her as any other adult would.
I mean, how many other ten-year-olds get to spend their summer vacations and holidays and days when the babysitter was sick with their own real baby doll to bath and change and feed and dress and push around in a stroller?
When I was a teenager I began writing a novel about my inner little girl. I named her Allie and set her in a small Oregon town in 1897. She had everything I lacked: a caring father, a healthy body, a willful spirit, a childhood.
I lost my healthy body a month before my baby sister was born when I broke my right ankle. At first I just thought it was another broken bone. I’d broken my arm the summer before and it healed up perfectly. During the three months I was in various casts, I understood that I couldn’t walk the mile to school and be on safety patrol. But nobody told me I couldn’t play kickball, so I did.
And when I played right after the cast came off, I ended up back in the emergency room where another one was put back on. After months of playing and more casts, I finally understood what no adult had bothered to tell me.
But not playing kickball anymore meant that I got even fatter. And it’s not like I wasn’t fat enough already as the doctors constantly harangued. And as my stepfather made certain to point out to me.
He also pointed out, in verbally and physically painful ways, that I was not allowed to have a willful spirit. After one particularly traumatic incident in which he broke it like porcelain on a hardwood floor, I created Allie. Gave her my willful spirit for safekeeping.
And my dream of a healthy body.
And someone to care for me.
And a childhood.
But now I want my spirit and dreams back.
I began trying to figure out how to get them back when I was getting to know my biological father, who six years earlier abruptly found out he had an eighteen-year old daughter when my mom called him up one day. And even more after he decided he couldn’t do the father-daughter thing. And particularly after I got to know my grandfather and he instructed me to be my own person a few months before he died.
I hunted for them madly after I had surgery on that right ankle and in the knee above it six years ago and ended up with blood clots in my lungs and then hemorrhaging on the blood thinners and clotting some more and developing some ephemeral but palpably debilitating condition called Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.
But, several months ago when my nieces were spending the night, one of them saw my little Michelle doll sitting on my chair. “She kind of looks like you ‘Chell,” she said as she picked it up.
My doll.
Who is not fat.
Who has brown eyes.
Who has thick hair.
I wanted to grab my niece and kiss her and tell her that was one of the sweetest, happiest things she could have ever said. Instead, I smiled at her softly as she turned to argue with her sister about whose turn it was to use the computer.
Yep. My doll.
Who somehow absorbed the willful spirit I gave away for safekeeping all those years ago.
The willful spirit that refuses to be ashamed of my curvy body and has finally come to accept the leisurely life my illness has brought.
That insists on caring for myself rather than only caring for others.
That clings to my doll with all I have these days as I work at sifting through all the pieces of me.
The doll whose porcelain right foot I glued back together. Yet, whose feet still remain unshod.
A broken right foot.
Just like me.
I bought the doll a few years ago at my therapist’s suggestion. She thought it would be good for me to have a tangible representation of my inner child. I balked at first. It just sounded so very cheesy, pop-psyche like. Something forty-five year old yuppies from San Marin wearing crystals do. But, I figured I would humor her. Show good faith on my part in getting better.
So, I headed for the Goodwill thrift store. After looking through the piles of plastic, cloth and rubber dolls on the shelves, I found a brown-haired doll with hands, feet and head made of porcelain but a body made of cloth. She was dressed in a velvet green pinafore over a black and white blouse with a lace ruffle collar. Little ivory cotton bloomers and socks. No shoes but she did have a display stand. And though her eyes were brown and mine are green, and her hair was far thicker than mine will ever be, she felt like what I’d imagine myself as a little girl would look like.
Once I got her home, I ditched the stand. Decided maybe her hair could use a comb. Before I knew it, I was sitting on the floor brushing and braiding her hair. Planning little clothes to make for her. Trying to figure out the best way to shod her feet.
And when those times have come when the sadness of the past has overwhelmed me, I have found it very comforting to hold her and rock her and stroke her hair. Of giving some part of me the affection and care I did not get.
It’s not that my parents where horrible people. They were flawed, but not evil. Young and unsure about what to do with a child they weren’t expecting.
Actually, I say parents with a plural, but it was really just my mom. At least, until she finally told my father about me when I was eighteen. They met at a party when they were nineteen and broke up before my mom realized she was pregnant with me. But she was in love with somebody else by the time she did realize and decided what my father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Or me.
Or who would have been my grandparents and aunt.
And so she married this new guy she was in love with, thinking that he’d be my dad and everything would work out happily ever after.
Sorta like how teenagers think.
And when I started talking as a toddler and people thought I was a midget because I used big words, she figured I’d probably do just as good a job being left to “keep an eye” on her adulterous husband as any other adult would.
And I’d be just as patient and understanding at four years old when she divorced him as any other adult would.
And when she married again when I was eight, I’d be just as good a candle-lighter at her wedding as any other adult would.
And when she had another baby girl when I was ten, I’d be just as good at caring for her as any other adult would.
I mean, how many other ten-year-olds get to spend their summer vacations and holidays and days when the babysitter was sick with their own real baby doll to bath and change and feed and dress and push around in a stroller?
When I was a teenager I began writing a novel about my inner little girl. I named her Allie and set her in a small Oregon town in 1897. She had everything I lacked: a caring father, a healthy body, a willful spirit, a childhood.
I lost my healthy body a month before my baby sister was born when I broke my right ankle. At first I just thought it was another broken bone. I’d broken my arm the summer before and it healed up perfectly. During the three months I was in various casts, I understood that I couldn’t walk the mile to school and be on safety patrol. But nobody told me I couldn’t play kickball, so I did.
And when I played right after the cast came off, I ended up back in the emergency room where another one was put back on. After months of playing and more casts, I finally understood what no adult had bothered to tell me.
But not playing kickball anymore meant that I got even fatter. And it’s not like I wasn’t fat enough already as the doctors constantly harangued. And as my stepfather made certain to point out to me.
He also pointed out, in verbally and physically painful ways, that I was not allowed to have a willful spirit. After one particularly traumatic incident in which he broke it like porcelain on a hardwood floor, I created Allie. Gave her my willful spirit for safekeeping.
And my dream of a healthy body.
And someone to care for me.
And a childhood.
But now I want my spirit and dreams back.
I began trying to figure out how to get them back when I was getting to know my biological father, who six years earlier abruptly found out he had an eighteen-year old daughter when my mom called him up one day. And even more after he decided he couldn’t do the father-daughter thing. And particularly after I got to know my grandfather and he instructed me to be my own person a few months before he died.
I hunted for them madly after I had surgery on that right ankle and in the knee above it six years ago and ended up with blood clots in my lungs and then hemorrhaging on the blood thinners and clotting some more and developing some ephemeral but palpably debilitating condition called Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.
But, several months ago when my nieces were spending the night, one of them saw my little Michelle doll sitting on my chair. “She kind of looks like you ‘Chell,” she said as she picked it up.
My doll.
Who is not fat.
Who has brown eyes.
Who has thick hair.
I wanted to grab my niece and kiss her and tell her that was one of the sweetest, happiest things she could have ever said. Instead, I smiled at her softly as she turned to argue with her sister about whose turn it was to use the computer.
Yep. My doll.
Who somehow absorbed the willful spirit I gave away for safekeeping all those years ago.
The willful spirit that refuses to be ashamed of my curvy body and has finally come to accept the leisurely life my illness has brought.
That insists on caring for myself rather than only caring for others.
That clings to my doll with all I have these days as I work at sifting through all the pieces of me.
The doll whose porcelain right foot I glued back together. Yet, whose feet still remain unshod.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
"Catholics love to love their Papa"
Opening the Papacy to New Ways of Thinking (washingtonpost.com)
Other members on the Progressive Christian Bloggers Network have probably already blogged this article, but I thought I would post it anyway as Sidney Callahan does such a beautiful job of explaining the complexity of emotions in regard to the Holy Father. While liberals tend to focus on criticizing John Paul, Callahan is a liberal Catholic who appreciates how much this pope has contributed to the Church while still acknowledging the difficulties she has with his penchant for centralizing authority and refusing to engage in a much needed broad discussion of gender and sexuality.
It's an article that had me nodding the whole way through and smiling at the end. Do read it if you can. It does require registration with the Washington Post, which is free, even if a pain in the ass.
Other members on the Progressive Christian Bloggers Network have probably already blogged this article, but I thought I would post it anyway as Sidney Callahan does such a beautiful job of explaining the complexity of emotions in regard to the Holy Father. While liberals tend to focus on criticizing John Paul, Callahan is a liberal Catholic who appreciates how much this pope has contributed to the Church while still acknowledging the difficulties she has with his penchant for centralizing authority and refusing to engage in a much needed broad discussion of gender and sexuality.
It's an article that had me nodding the whole way through and smiling at the end. Do read it if you can. It does require registration with the Washington Post, which is free, even if a pain in the ass.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Christ Is Risen! Indeed He is Risen!
"Christ is risen from the grave.
By death he trampled death
and to those in the grave he granted life."
(The chorus or Apolytikion sung throughout the Divine Liturgy on Pascha, the feast of the Resurrection of our Lord from the grave, as well as throughout the fifty days of Pascha until Pentacost.)
This is my very favorite icon. In it, Christ is grabbing the hands of Adam and Eve in Hades, representing victory over death that came through the Fall. What better image than that of Christ descending into Hell to rescue mankind. Coming into the depth of our suffering and taking hold of us.
Christ is Risen! Indeed He is Risen!
Maseeh al Qam! Haq al Qam! (Arabic)
Christos Annesti! Alithos Annesti! (Greek)
Christos Voskrese! Voistinu Voskrese! (Church Slavonic)
Friday, March 25, 2005
Hail Mary
It feels odd not to be fasting on Great and Holy Friday. But, it's one of those once in a lifetime occurrences when the Feast of the Annunciation falls on this somber day. And in the Eastern Church, we don't move dates. So, tonight we commemorated both the beginning of God's finite form and its end with the only Divine Liturgy served on Holy Friday since 1931 as well as the traditional vespers service complete with procession and burial of Christ's icon shroud. The combined liturgies lasted for three hours. Ample time to contrast the joy of God becoming Immanuel -- God with us -- and the suffering such empathy entailed.
The Feast of the Annunciation is an important feast day that always breaks the fasting of Lent, and even though Holy Friday is usually one of few days of strict fasting in the Church calendar, we broke it to celebrate the wonderful news that Mary would carry the Son of God. For our particular parish, it's an even more special feast for it was on this feast day five years ago we first celebrated Divine Liturgy in our new church.
Growing up Evangelical Protestant, the idea that a feast day honoring Mary would be considered important enough to celebrate while commemorating the death of Christ was unimaginable. Mary was simply a footnote at Christmas. Someone forgotten about after the manger scene has been packed away along with the Santa ornaments.
Looking back, I can't help but feel it reflects a bit of misogyny. I do appreciate the argument that no one should take away the focus from Christ. Yet, no one seemed to be disturbed about using men from St. Paul to born again NFL players to demonstrate the glory of Christ.
And not that the Catholic and Orthodox Churches don't have histories of misogyny either where Mary becomes the proto-type for women being "saved through motherhood" as St. Paul suggests (or at least interpreted/translated as suggesting). But, it was radically different for me to have a woman held in such high esteem. A woman about whom whole liturgies are written and chanted, like the Akathist hymn chanted during Lent with its remarkable metaphors. Mary becomes the palace of God. The ark of the new covenant. The mercy seat. The heavenly bridge. The one carrying the earth's foundation. The living paradise in which is planted the Tree of Life. The Bride of God who carried the healer of the human race. The birthgiver of the world's salvation.
Indeed, men are left out of the process in which God becomes flesh. There is Mary, who does not become pregnant through a man, but is overshadowed by the Holy Spirit, traditionally the feminine form of God. The only male involved is the fetal Christ.
Mary is the first Christian. The first to believe in Jesus, as we see in the wedding at Qana where she asks him to change water to wine. And from that miracle we learn, as my godfather often quotes his old Maronite priest, if you want to get Jesus to do something, get his mom to ask.
My Evangelical friends and relatives still adjusting to my Catholicism often ask me why we pray to Mary. I explain by first asking them a question: why do you ask someone to pray for you? At some point, St. James' admonition that the prayers of a righteous man availeth much comes up and I then ask why not ask someone close to Christ? And who closer than his mother?
And she's not just his mother. On this day, as he hung on the cross, Jesus looked down and saw his mother and said to John, "behold your mother." And to Mary he said, "woman, behold your son." He gave us Mary and gave Mary us. As I thought about this tonight while we sang "the spotless Virgin wept with maternal tenderness," I started to tear up. The same thing that happens whenever I sing the last line of the Paraklesis hymn -- "oh unexplainable wonder, how do you nurse the Master?" Mary becomes the nurturing mother who comforts us at her breast. Who bothers her Son on our behalf, just as she did for the wedding host in Qana all those years ago.
Yes, such boldness suggests that she was not a meek, passive woman. While she was willing to be used by God -- "behold the handmaid of the Lord; may it be to me as you have said" -- she must have had nerves of steel to allow herself to be impregnated without a husband. To withstand all the gossip. Maybe even trouble with the religious authorities. Or to raise the Son of God. I mean, what do you say when your son disappears for a couple of days and when you find him, he simply seems to shrug and say "well, don't you know I'd be in my father's house?" And certainly she doesn't mince words in the Magnificat about the relationship between the powerful and the poor that the one in her womb would seek to overturn. "He has shown might with is arm, dispersed the arrogant of mind and heart. He has thrown down the rulers from their thrones but lifted up the lowly. The hungry he has filled with good things; the rich he has sent away empty."
Rich Mullins, my favorite singer and an Evangelical Protestant who was in the process of becoming Catholic when he died, once talked about how evangelicals always have this problem with Catholics revering Mary, but that perhaps the problem is that we don't revere each other enough. If Holy Friday shows us anything, whether we believe Jesus to be divine or not, it is that we most certainly do not revere each other enough.
So, maybe then a few Hail Marys would not a bad thing.
The Feast of the Annunciation is an important feast day that always breaks the fasting of Lent, and even though Holy Friday is usually one of few days of strict fasting in the Church calendar, we broke it to celebrate the wonderful news that Mary would carry the Son of God. For our particular parish, it's an even more special feast for it was on this feast day five years ago we first celebrated Divine Liturgy in our new church.
Growing up Evangelical Protestant, the idea that a feast day honoring Mary would be considered important enough to celebrate while commemorating the death of Christ was unimaginable. Mary was simply a footnote at Christmas. Someone forgotten about after the manger scene has been packed away along with the Santa ornaments.
Looking back, I can't help but feel it reflects a bit of misogyny. I do appreciate the argument that no one should take away the focus from Christ. Yet, no one seemed to be disturbed about using men from St. Paul to born again NFL players to demonstrate the glory of Christ.
And not that the Catholic and Orthodox Churches don't have histories of misogyny either where Mary becomes the proto-type for women being "saved through motherhood" as St. Paul suggests (or at least interpreted/translated as suggesting). But, it was radically different for me to have a woman held in such high esteem. A woman about whom whole liturgies are written and chanted, like the Akathist hymn chanted during Lent with its remarkable metaphors. Mary becomes the palace of God. The ark of the new covenant. The mercy seat. The heavenly bridge. The one carrying the earth's foundation. The living paradise in which is planted the Tree of Life. The Bride of God who carried the healer of the human race. The birthgiver of the world's salvation.
Indeed, men are left out of the process in which God becomes flesh. There is Mary, who does not become pregnant through a man, but is overshadowed by the Holy Spirit, traditionally the feminine form of God. The only male involved is the fetal Christ.
Mary is the first Christian. The first to believe in Jesus, as we see in the wedding at Qana where she asks him to change water to wine. And from that miracle we learn, as my godfather often quotes his old Maronite priest, if you want to get Jesus to do something, get his mom to ask.
My Evangelical friends and relatives still adjusting to my Catholicism often ask me why we pray to Mary. I explain by first asking them a question: why do you ask someone to pray for you? At some point, St. James' admonition that the prayers of a righteous man availeth much comes up and I then ask why not ask someone close to Christ? And who closer than his mother?
And she's not just his mother. On this day, as he hung on the cross, Jesus looked down and saw his mother and said to John, "behold your mother." And to Mary he said, "woman, behold your son." He gave us Mary and gave Mary us. As I thought about this tonight while we sang "the spotless Virgin wept with maternal tenderness," I started to tear up. The same thing that happens whenever I sing the last line of the Paraklesis hymn -- "oh unexplainable wonder, how do you nurse the Master?" Mary becomes the nurturing mother who comforts us at her breast. Who bothers her Son on our behalf, just as she did for the wedding host in Qana all those years ago.
Yes, such boldness suggests that she was not a meek, passive woman. While she was willing to be used by God -- "behold the handmaid of the Lord; may it be to me as you have said" -- she must have had nerves of steel to allow herself to be impregnated without a husband. To withstand all the gossip. Maybe even trouble with the religious authorities. Or to raise the Son of God. I mean, what do you say when your son disappears for a couple of days and when you find him, he simply seems to shrug and say "well, don't you know I'd be in my father's house?" And certainly she doesn't mince words in the Magnificat about the relationship between the powerful and the poor that the one in her womb would seek to overturn. "He has shown might with is arm, dispersed the arrogant of mind and heart. He has thrown down the rulers from their thrones but lifted up the lowly. The hungry he has filled with good things; the rich he has sent away empty."
Rich Mullins, my favorite singer and an Evangelical Protestant who was in the process of becoming Catholic when he died, once talked about how evangelicals always have this problem with Catholics revering Mary, but that perhaps the problem is that we don't revere each other enough. If Holy Friday shows us anything, whether we believe Jesus to be divine or not, it is that we most certainly do not revere each other enough.
So, maybe then a few Hail Marys would not a bad thing.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Which Circle? - Campus Ministry Cartoon
Which Circle? - Celebrating the truth, beauty and absurdity of college campus ministry
{wiping a tear from my eye from laughing so hard}
This site is precious. Delightful. Funny as hell. It's a satirical look at Campus Crusade, InterVarsity, etc. and if any of you have been involved with said groups, either as a member or through friends, you know there is ample room for satire.
Oh my is there ever.
It's like if Matt Groening spent his Thursday nights in college going to Cru Men's Bible Studies, which usually meant confessing your problem with the Big M and talking about football.
At least, that's what the Bible Study of one former Crusader I know consisted of...
{wiping a tear from my eye from laughing so hard}
This site is precious. Delightful. Funny as hell. It's a satirical look at Campus Crusade, InterVarsity, etc. and if any of you have been involved with said groups, either as a member or through friends, you know there is ample room for satire.
Oh my is there ever.
It's like if Matt Groening spent his Thursday nights in college going to Cru Men's Bible Studies, which usually meant confessing your problem with the Big M and talking about football.
At least, that's what the Bible Study of one former Crusader I know consisted of...
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Football not bombs
The Independent - No way! Jose - Mourihno tackles the Middle East crisis
My boyfriend believes that football (i.e. soccer to you Americans) is far more than a sport. That if football did not exist, there would be far more war in the world. And perhaps if Americans played soccer instead of the more violent American football, there might be more peace. I think he's on to something.
Indeed, in recent years there has been a small but growing movement to use football in an effort to make the world a more peaceful place. There is Football for Peace as well as local ogranizations such as Soccer Not Bombs (which does not appear to have a website). This delightful blog of Aaron Corman. And apparently Cheslea manager Jose Murihno is getting into the act by visiting Israel/Palestine and hosting youth camps made up of Israelis and Palestinians.
Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with a good striker. :)
Update: My boyfriend just sent me this article looking at military tactics using American football vs. soccer.
My boyfriend believes that football (i.e. soccer to you Americans) is far more than a sport. That if football did not exist, there would be far more war in the world. And perhaps if Americans played soccer instead of the more violent American football, there might be more peace. I think he's on to something.
Indeed, in recent years there has been a small but growing movement to use football in an effort to make the world a more peaceful place. There is Football for Peace as well as local ogranizations such as Soccer Not Bombs (which does not appear to have a website). This delightful blog of Aaron Corman. And apparently Cheslea manager Jose Murihno is getting into the act by visiting Israel/Palestine and hosting youth camps made up of Israelis and Palestinians.
Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with a good striker. :)
Update: My boyfriend just sent me this article looking at military tactics using American football vs. soccer.
Monday, March 21, 2005
And the answer is....uh, a tie...sorta
LOL -- this was a good laugh, not because I don't agree with the quiz but more because I think in many ways my beliefs probably do align well with Buddhism. Though, notice that Buddhism and Christianity were tied. I think right now a good mix of the two is a good thing.
Got this from my friend Angie.
I've been doing a lot of emotional house cleaning of sorts lately. I mean, that seems like a good thing to do during Lent. And one of the things I've been thinking a lot about lately is my body.
In the Byzantine Church we believe that worship should be a sensual experience and not just an intellectual one. We kiss icons and light candles. We chew the squishy wine-soaked bread the priest drops into our mouths during Communion (or cruchy bread if it's during the Pre-Santified Liturgy). We chant (sing) the entire Liturgy or listen to others chant. We stand and bow and during Lent do full-bodied prostrations. We breath in the heavy scent of frankencense that the priest incenses throughout the church several times during the Liturgy. We gaze upon icons of the Holy Mother, the Pantocrator, and various events in the lives of the two of them. Frankly, as someone who has a difficult time processing sensory input because of CFIDS/ME, I'm often exhausted by the end. But in a happy sort of way.
It was this sensual element that drew me to the Byzantine Church from my evangelical Protestant upbringing. And it has helped me in my journey to integrate my body into my identity. Shown me that God loves my body so much that He becomes bread and wine that I injest so that He can become part of the very mitochondria of my cells.
Of course, that is not the message I had growing up. In the last few weeks, I've begun to appreciate the unrelenting attack upon who I am as a physical being. The more I think about it, the more I understand how my body and my mind/soul became separate. My body was clearly bad. It was fat and therefore clearly not reflecting the "victorious life in Jesus" my evangelical Protestant upbringing said I should have nor the healthy body my doctors bullied me about not having. It developed sexually too early when I finally had to start wearing a bra when I was nine years old because my breasts were large enough to fill a C cup. It was ill and hurt in ways laboratory tests could not explain.
But in my heart I was desperate to be a good girl. To follow the rules. Since my body was bad, I had to separate it from me. There was my deviant, disobedient body and my ever so obedient mind/soul craving what I understood to be "normal." There was my heavy, broken, hurting flesh, and my active, dynamic, bubbly mind/soul longing to be free from what has become, in many ways, my own Abu Ghraib.
As I’ve begun to appreciate the cultural, familial, medical and sexual violence done to my body, I’ve been able to integrate it into who I am as Michelle.
Who is fat.
And short.
And has a beautiful smile.
And soft, luscious skin.
And voluptuous curves.
And large, droopy breasts.
And a jiggly ass.
And a heart that breaks.
And hands and feet that hurt.
And a brain that thinks too much.
A body I want to protect. And nourish. And feel. Not be drafted into, or even actively enlist myself into hating.
A body that, like Baby Suggs, holy, in the above quote from Beloved, says, I got to love.
Each day during Lent we say a special prayer by St. Ephraim of Syria that includes the line, "Grant to me, your servant, a spirit of wholeness of being..."
And indeed, during this Lent, God is answering that prayer in profound ways.
Got this from my friend Angie.
| You scored as Buddhism. Your beliefs most closely resemble those of Buddhism. Do more research on Buddhism and possibly consider becoming Buddhist, if you are not already. In Buddhism, there are Four Noble Truths: (1) Life is suffering. (2) All suffering is caused by ignorance of the nature of reality and the craving, attachment, and grasping that result from such ignorance. (3) Suffering can be ended by overcoming ignorance and attachment. (4) The path to the suppression of suffering is the Noble Eightfold Path, which consists of right views, right intention, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right-mindedness, and right contemplation. These eight are usually divided into three categories that base the Buddhist faith: morality, wisdom, and samadhi, or concentration. In Buddhism, there is no hierarchy, nor caste system; the Buddha taught that one's spiritual worth is not based on birth.
Which religion is the right one for you? (new version) created with QuizFarm.com |
Friday, March 18, 2005
Holistic faith
I read a great article in The Sun (the magazine, not the British tabloid) earlier this week interviewing Yossi Klein Halevi, an author who I'm not familiar with, but after reading this, I want to be. Actually, it wasn't the full interview as The Sun does not have any advertising so buying customers are essential to its survival. But even just the excerpt they printed on the website (via a pdf) has a lot of valuable stuff.
The first aspect of the discussion that intrigued me was Halevi's belief that religion is an essential part in bringing peace to the Holy Land. This is something that I have been thinking about as well and it was encouraging to hear someone else say it also.
In my own life, I have recently felt myself increasingly drawn away from my academic roots in the traditional discipline of history and to a lesser extent, politics, towards what at this moment feels to be a bit more ephemeral, yet more powerful spiritual pressure building up throughout the world, including in the two places which are the focus of my studies: the United States and Palestine/Israel.
I remember years back (eek! fourteen years already!) during my freshman year of college when I was attending Biola University, a prominent Evangelical school with a weekly chapel requirement, a man spoke during one of those weekly chapels who worked in South Africa during apartheid and through its dissolution. He explained that it wasn't until there was repentance and reconciliation among clergy behind the scenes that the end of apartheid was possible. It was a powerful idea for me then and has grown increasingly more powerful in my imagination. Lately I can't help but wonder if my illness is a way of turning me away from the secular pursuit of knowledge to a more dynamic, if quieter, spiritual path.
So, today I went to the World Peach Lunch held each month by the Wholistic Peace Institute, an organization which seeks to incorporate spirituality in the quest for world peace. Alicia Thom, one of the authors of the book I've talked about in past posts, Being Human, spoke about her participation in the 2nd Edinburgh International Festival of Middle Eastern Spirituality and Peace conference a few weeks ago. From the brochure and Alicia's report, it sounded hopeful and exciting. One of the speakers was Abouna Elias Chacour, who's writings and speaking have never ceased to awaken my spirit -- often to point of tears. While Alicia missed his presentation, she did come away with an even greater appreciation of the importance for every culture to tell their stories, as well as shared the sentiment of "better the heaven of unity than the hell of separation."
This need for unity was the other aspect of the Halevi interview that resonated with me. "People of different faiths have always judged each other by what we believe about God rather than by how we experience God's presence." He talked about how reading about mysticism made him realize "an astonishing unity of experience" when it came to encountering the Divine. "It was a seminal moment for me. It made me realize that the claims of religion might actually be true. It helped bring me back to Judaism, but it didn't confine me to Judaism."
Yes! Exactly!
As my gratuitous use of exclaimation marks there suggests, I had a similar seminal moment last week. For awhile now I've been pondering the fact that the world's great religions are so very much alike in many ways. Why do we always look to find what's different? Growing up Evangelical Protestant, we had retreat workshops and Bible Studies devoted to looking at Us versus Them. In my Orthodox supply catalogues are whole pages devoted to books explaining why other religious traditions are wrong and only the Orthodox Church has the correct way to God. We hold the Truth. They are lost.
Yet, when I look at the history of mystical prayer in my Byzantine church, we have traditions that are almost identical to those found in Tibetan Buddhism. At the first Divine Liturgy I ever attended, I was struck by how similar it was to Jewish worship, with a holy of holies behind the iconostasis, the incense that frequently clouded the church, and the chanting that sounded a lot like the chanting of the Torah. During Lent we do prostrations that are almost identical to those I did when I prayed with my Muslim friends while attending the Saturday Islamic school. But, if I embrace the idea that all religions are one, how can I call myself a Christian?
Just as I climbed into bed a week ago, I had my epiphany. In calling myself a Christian, I am stating that Christianity, specifically Byzantine Catholicism and to a lesser extent the Evangelical Protestantism in which I grew up, are the primary constructs through which I understand the Divine. Its rituals and mythos are the primary tools I use to relate to the Divine.
However, I acknowledge that Christianity is an imperfect construct. St. Paul said, "At present we see indistinctly, as in a mirror, but then face to face. At present I know partially, then I shall know fully as I am fully known." While I believe that the Holy Spirit did inspire the Scriptures as well as the (mostly) men who wrote and interpreted them for the Church, they were still finite men who used a finite tool -- language -- to create a finite construct.
I also feel free to to borrow from other religions -- their understanding of the Divine, their traditions, mythos and rituals, to create a fuller, more dynamic relationship with God.
As I wrote that credo of sorts in the journal I keep by my bed, it was as if it broke the spell of needing the approval of people at church under which I've been since I was a little kid from a broken home desperate for the acceptance of the God-fearing people who held my divorced mother in contempt. I no longer care if the Bush-loving, Natural-Family-Planning-only Catholics with whom I share Communion think my syncreticism is sending me to Hell. I can now be a Christian again. I can have a rich, active, potent relationship with God again. I can be whole.
The first aspect of the discussion that intrigued me was Halevi's belief that religion is an essential part in bringing peace to the Holy Land. This is something that I have been thinking about as well and it was encouraging to hear someone else say it also.
"In engaging my Christian and Muslim neighbors in a dialogue of prayer, my goal was to test the possibility that religion, specifically in the Holy Land, could be an instrument for healing rather than hatred...The Oslo peace process, which ended the first Palestinian uprising in 1993, was planned by secular elites who bypassed the vast religious populations on both sides. Now we face a second intifada. There is an urgent need to develop a religious language, and my search for a common language of prayer among the monotheistic faiths was an experiment in that direction."
In my own life, I have recently felt myself increasingly drawn away from my academic roots in the traditional discipline of history and to a lesser extent, politics, towards what at this moment feels to be a bit more ephemeral, yet more powerful spiritual pressure building up throughout the world, including in the two places which are the focus of my studies: the United States and Palestine/Israel.
I remember years back (eek! fourteen years already!) during my freshman year of college when I was attending Biola University, a prominent Evangelical school with a weekly chapel requirement, a man spoke during one of those weekly chapels who worked in South Africa during apartheid and through its dissolution. He explained that it wasn't until there was repentance and reconciliation among clergy behind the scenes that the end of apartheid was possible. It was a powerful idea for me then and has grown increasingly more powerful in my imagination. Lately I can't help but wonder if my illness is a way of turning me away from the secular pursuit of knowledge to a more dynamic, if quieter, spiritual path.
So, today I went to the World Peach Lunch held each month by the Wholistic Peace Institute, an organization which seeks to incorporate spirituality in the quest for world peace. Alicia Thom, one of the authors of the book I've talked about in past posts, Being Human, spoke about her participation in the 2nd Edinburgh International Festival of Middle Eastern Spirituality and Peace conference a few weeks ago. From the brochure and Alicia's report, it sounded hopeful and exciting. One of the speakers was Abouna Elias Chacour, who's writings and speaking have never ceased to awaken my spirit -- often to point of tears. While Alicia missed his presentation, she did come away with an even greater appreciation of the importance for every culture to tell their stories, as well as shared the sentiment of "better the heaven of unity than the hell of separation."
This need for unity was the other aspect of the Halevi interview that resonated with me. "People of different faiths have always judged each other by what we believe about God rather than by how we experience God's presence." He talked about how reading about mysticism made him realize "an astonishing unity of experience" when it came to encountering the Divine. "It was a seminal moment for me. It made me realize that the claims of religion might actually be true. It helped bring me back to Judaism, but it didn't confine me to Judaism."
Yes! Exactly!
As my gratuitous use of exclaimation marks there suggests, I had a similar seminal moment last week. For awhile now I've been pondering the fact that the world's great religions are so very much alike in many ways. Why do we always look to find what's different? Growing up Evangelical Protestant, we had retreat workshops and Bible Studies devoted to looking at Us versus Them. In my Orthodox supply catalogues are whole pages devoted to books explaining why other religious traditions are wrong and only the Orthodox Church has the correct way to God. We hold the Truth. They are lost.
Yet, when I look at the history of mystical prayer in my Byzantine church, we have traditions that are almost identical to those found in Tibetan Buddhism. At the first Divine Liturgy I ever attended, I was struck by how similar it was to Jewish worship, with a holy of holies behind the iconostasis, the incense that frequently clouded the church, and the chanting that sounded a lot like the chanting of the Torah. During Lent we do prostrations that are almost identical to those I did when I prayed with my Muslim friends while attending the Saturday Islamic school. But, if I embrace the idea that all religions are one, how can I call myself a Christian?
Just as I climbed into bed a week ago, I had my epiphany. In calling myself a Christian, I am stating that Christianity, specifically Byzantine Catholicism and to a lesser extent the Evangelical Protestantism in which I grew up, are the primary constructs through which I understand the Divine. Its rituals and mythos are the primary tools I use to relate to the Divine.
However, I acknowledge that Christianity is an imperfect construct. St. Paul said, "At present we see indistinctly, as in a mirror, but then face to face. At present I know partially, then I shall know fully as I am fully known." While I believe that the Holy Spirit did inspire the Scriptures as well as the (mostly) men who wrote and interpreted them for the Church, they were still finite men who used a finite tool -- language -- to create a finite construct.
I also feel free to to borrow from other religions -- their understanding of the Divine, their traditions, mythos and rituals, to create a fuller, more dynamic relationship with God.
As I wrote that credo of sorts in the journal I keep by my bed, it was as if it broke the spell of needing the approval of people at church under which I've been since I was a little kid from a broken home desperate for the acceptance of the God-fearing people who held my divorced mother in contempt. I no longer care if the Bush-loving, Natural-Family-Planning-only Catholics with whom I share Communion think my syncreticism is sending me to Hell. I can now be a Christian again. I can have a rich, active, potent relationship with God again. I can be whole.
"Sometimes I feel like I belong to two peoples," said Halevi, "the Jewish people and a pluralistic people drawn from all faiths. I'm a religious Jew, and the Jewish story is the context in which I try to experience the miraculous. But I'm also a pluralist who believes that all the great religions are 'denominations' of one great religion, which teaches that the unseen is more important than the visible, and that this is a universe of unity and intentionality, despite the surface appearance of chaos."
Yay! I'm actually proud of my senator for a change
The New York Times > In Blow to Bush, Senators Reject Cuts to Medicaid
"The amendment striking the Medicaid cuts, sponsored by Senator Gordon Smith, Republican of Oregon, was by far the most troubling to the Republican leadership"
I'd probably be quite self-deluded to think my letter in the Sojo Call to Action made any difference, but it does make me feel good that MY senator was the one to stand up and say NO to cuts in Medicaid.
I've never been more proud. And you can bet he's getting an email from me telling him so.
"The amendment striking the Medicaid cuts, sponsored by Senator Gordon Smith, Republican of Oregon, was by far the most troubling to the Republican leadership"
I'd probably be quite self-deluded to think my letter in the Sojo Call to Action made any difference, but it does make me feel good that MY senator was the one to stand up and say NO to cuts in Medicaid.
I've never been more proud. And you can bet he's getting an email from me telling him so.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Not so willing anymore
Italy to pull troops out of Iraq - World - Times Online
So, the "Coalition of the Willing" dwindles from it's already infinitesimal numbers. I'm just sorry it took something so awful to get Berlusconi to finally listen to the Italian people.
And the lesson for today kids: "Don't shoot just released hostages, particularly ones who are journalists."
Every once in a while there comes along a tragedy that even Karl Rove cannot spin his way out of.
So, the "Coalition of the Willing" dwindles from it's already infinitesimal numbers. I'm just sorry it took something so awful to get Berlusconi to finally listen to the Italian people.
And the lesson for today kids: "Don't shoot just released hostages, particularly ones who are journalists."
Every once in a while there comes along a tragedy that even Karl Rove cannot spin his way out of.
Sojo call to action
Sojourners and Call to Renewal are trying to get as many people as possible to contact their Senators and Congressmen/women and urge them to vote against Bush's proposed tax cuts for programs that help the poor. If you go to the Sojourner's website, there is an easy form email set up for you to send to the lawmakers of your state. It just takes a few minutes (or longer, depending on how much you chose to edit the form letter) but if enough people email/call/write, they do listen.
Below is my edited version of the form letter that I sent to my Senators and Congresman.
*****************
I write as a believer in Jesus Christ to beg you to consider the effects of President Bush's budget on people living in poverty.
I am one of those millions of Americans who relies on Food Stamps to eat a healthy diet, and Medicaid to pay for my health care, which has deteriorated over the years as a result of Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome. I went from being an energetic graduate student in Arab Studies who was accepted at Harvard, Chicago and Georgetown for graduate studies, to barely being able to leave my house on most days. In September of 2001 I finally had to quit my job as a graduate assistant in Middle East Studies and apply for disability at a time when my country and my students desperately needed such knowledge. It took 20 months to have my SSI claim approved and during that time, food stamps were my ONLY SOURCE OF INCOME.
Could you eat on $140 a month? Could you pay for rent and medical expenses not covered by Medicaid on $579 a month? And now Congress wants to cut this even further? Indeed, my Food Stamps this year were already cut from $140 a month to $107, despite the fact that food costs have skyrocketed the last two years.
At a time when more and more of our budget is being devoted to defense spending, further and extended tax cuts are not in line with the biblical mandate to care for the poor. Neither are the budget's proposed cuts to Medicaid, Food Stamps, and other low-income programs.
I plead with you to vote YES on any amendments that restore funding for Medicaid, Food Stamps, Earned Income Tax Credits, Child Care, and other important work-supports for low-income families.
I urge you to vote YES on any amendments that repeal tax cuts for the wealthiest Americans.
I implore you to vote NO on any budget that goes against central biblical and moral principles by reducing the deficit at the expense of the poor.
When roughly 36 million people like me in this country live below the poverty line, budget priorities, like those being proposed, are outrageous, anti-family, and anti-biblical values.
I trust in God and know that He will take care of me. Will you be His hands and feet to care for the poor? Or will you be one of those of whom He says, "I was hungry and you gave me no food. I was thirsty and you gave me no drink...ill...and you did not care for me..."
**************
Below is my edited version of the form letter that I sent to my Senators and Congresman.
*****************
I write as a believer in Jesus Christ to beg you to consider the effects of President Bush's budget on people living in poverty.
I am one of those millions of Americans who relies on Food Stamps to eat a healthy diet, and Medicaid to pay for my health care, which has deteriorated over the years as a result of Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome. I went from being an energetic graduate student in Arab Studies who was accepted at Harvard, Chicago and Georgetown for graduate studies, to barely being able to leave my house on most days. In September of 2001 I finally had to quit my job as a graduate assistant in Middle East Studies and apply for disability at a time when my country and my students desperately needed such knowledge. It took 20 months to have my SSI claim approved and during that time, food stamps were my ONLY SOURCE OF INCOME.
Could you eat on $140 a month? Could you pay for rent and medical expenses not covered by Medicaid on $579 a month? And now Congress wants to cut this even further? Indeed, my Food Stamps this year were already cut from $140 a month to $107, despite the fact that food costs have skyrocketed the last two years.
At a time when more and more of our budget is being devoted to defense spending, further and extended tax cuts are not in line with the biblical mandate to care for the poor. Neither are the budget's proposed cuts to Medicaid, Food Stamps, and other low-income programs.
I plead with you to vote YES on any amendments that restore funding for Medicaid, Food Stamps, Earned Income Tax Credits, Child Care, and other important work-supports for low-income families.
I urge you to vote YES on any amendments that repeal tax cuts for the wealthiest Americans.
I implore you to vote NO on any budget that goes against central biblical and moral principles by reducing the deficit at the expense of the poor.
When roughly 36 million people like me in this country live below the poverty line, budget priorities, like those being proposed, are outrageous, anti-family, and anti-biblical values.
I trust in God and know that He will take care of me. Will you be His hands and feet to care for the poor? Or will you be one of those of whom He says, "I was hungry and you gave me no food. I was thirsty and you gave me no drink...ill...and you did not care for me..."
**************
Monday, March 14, 2005
Wholeness of being
“...In this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on bare feet in grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They don't love your eyes; they'd just as soon pick em out. No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind, chop off and leave empty. Love your hands! Love them...You got to love it, you! And no, they ain't in love with your mouth. Yonder, out there they will see it broken and break it again. What you say out of it they will not heed. What you scream from it they do not hear. What you put into it to nourish your body they will snatch away and give you leavins instead. No, they do not love your mouth. You got to love it. This is flesh I'm talking about here. Flesh that needs to be loved. Feet that need to rest and to dance; backs that need support; shoulders that need arms, strong arms I'm telling you..." (Toni Morrison, Beloved, New York: Penguin, 1988, p.89)
I've been doing a lot of emotional house cleaning of sorts lately. I mean, that seems like a good thing to do during Lent. And one of the things I've been thinking a lot about lately is my body.
In the Byzantine Church we believe that worship should be a sensual experience and not just an intellectual one. We kiss icons and light candles. We chew the squishy wine-soaked bread the priest drops into our mouths during Communion (or cruchy bread if it's during the Pre-Santified Liturgy). We chant (sing) the entire Liturgy or listen to others chant. We stand and bow and during Lent do full-bodied prostrations. We breath in the heavy scent of frankencense that the priest incenses throughout the church several times during the Liturgy. We gaze upon icons of the Holy Mother, the Pantocrator, and various events in the lives of the two of them. Frankly, as someone who has a difficult time processing sensory input because of CFIDS/ME, I'm often exhausted by the end. But in a happy sort of way.
It was this sensual element that drew me to the Byzantine Church from my evangelical Protestant upbringing. And it has helped me in my journey to integrate my body into my identity. Shown me that God loves my body so much that He becomes bread and wine that I injest so that He can become part of the very mitochondria of my cells.
Of course, that is not the message I had growing up. In the last few weeks, I've begun to appreciate the unrelenting attack upon who I am as a physical being. The more I think about it, the more I understand how my body and my mind/soul became separate. My body was clearly bad. It was fat and therefore clearly not reflecting the "victorious life in Jesus" my evangelical Protestant upbringing said I should have nor the healthy body my doctors bullied me about not having. It developed sexually too early when I finally had to start wearing a bra when I was nine years old because my breasts were large enough to fill a C cup. It was ill and hurt in ways laboratory tests could not explain.
But in my heart I was desperate to be a good girl. To follow the rules. Since my body was bad, I had to separate it from me. There was my deviant, disobedient body and my ever so obedient mind/soul craving what I understood to be "normal." There was my heavy, broken, hurting flesh, and my active, dynamic, bubbly mind/soul longing to be free from what has become, in many ways, my own Abu Ghraib.
As I’ve begun to appreciate the cultural, familial, medical and sexual violence done to my body, I’ve been able to integrate it into who I am as Michelle.
Who is fat.
And short.
And has a beautiful smile.
And soft, luscious skin.
And voluptuous curves.
And large, droopy breasts.
And a jiggly ass.
And a heart that breaks.
And hands and feet that hurt.
And a brain that thinks too much.
A body I want to protect. And nourish. And feel. Not be drafted into, or even actively enlist myself into hating.
A body that, like Baby Suggs, holy, in the above quote from Beloved, says, I got to love.
Each day during Lent we say a special prayer by St. Ephraim of Syria that includes the line, "Grant to me, your servant, a spirit of wholeness of being..."
And indeed, during this Lent, God is answering that prayer in profound ways.
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Longing for Richard Nixon
Yahoo! News - Congress May Cut Food Aid, Not Farm Aid
So, Congress wants to cut Food Stamps to pay for subsidies for farms (i.e. corporations) making millions of dollars.
My food stamps were already cut this year from $140 a month to $107, despite the fact that food prices have skyrocketed. During the 20 months I waited to get approved for Social Security once I had to quit my job because of my illness, food stamps were my sole source of income.
I hesitate to label things evil, but surely this proposal is.
Makes me long for a time when we had a Republican president who actually implemented and funded the Food Stamp program...
So, Congress wants to cut Food Stamps to pay for subsidies for farms (i.e. corporations) making millions of dollars.
My food stamps were already cut this year from $140 a month to $107, despite the fact that food prices have skyrocketed. During the 20 months I waited to get approved for Social Security once I had to quit my job because of my illness, food stamps were my sole source of income.
I hesitate to label things evil, but surely this proposal is.
Makes me long for a time when we had a Republican president who actually implemented and funded the Food Stamp program...
Friday, March 11, 2005
Climate change
The New York Times: Evangelical Leaders Swing Influence Behind Effort to Combat Global Warming
Wow!
Perhaps "progressive" Evangelicals really ARE helping to change the political climate. Consider this quote:
"Christ said, 'What you do to the least of these you do to me,' " Mr. Ball said. "And so caring for the poor by reducing the threat of global warming is caring for Jesus Christ."
Exactly. :)
P.S. OMG - they had sprinklers on in the Park Blocks today when I was walking to the bus! It's freekin' MARCH!
Wow!
Perhaps "progressive" Evangelicals really ARE helping to change the political climate. Consider this quote:
"Christ said, 'What you do to the least of these you do to me,' " Mr. Ball said. "And so caring for the poor by reducing the threat of global warming is caring for Jesus Christ."
Exactly. :)
P.S. OMG - they had sprinklers on in the Park Blocks today when I was walking to the bus! It's freekin' MARCH!
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Ceasefire! What Ceasefire?
MIFTAH--Ceasefire! What Ceasefire?
MIFTAH, The Palestinian Initiative for the Promotion of Global Dialogue and Democracy, catalogues in this article the recent Israeli Defence Force and civilian attacks on Palestinian civilians during this current ceasefire, which have resulted in 8 deaths.
MIFTAH, The Palestinian Initiative for the Promotion of Global Dialogue and Democracy, catalogues in this article the recent Israeli Defence Force and civilian attacks on Palestinian civilians during this current ceasefire, which have resulted in 8 deaths.
For the Soul of the Church
AlterNet: For the Soul of the Church
A great article explaining the complex interplay among race, gender and sexuality in the Anglican Church. And though it's focus is on the Anglican Church, it's certainly equally as relevant in the Roman Catholic Church as the Vatican and conservative Catholics in the "Global North" (Europe and North America) are using more conservative bishops in the "Global South" or non-European communities to support a more traditional stand on gender and sexuality, thereby gaining greater "progressive" legitimacy.
Much to think about.
A great article explaining the complex interplay among race, gender and sexuality in the Anglican Church. And though it's focus is on the Anglican Church, it's certainly equally as relevant in the Roman Catholic Church as the Vatican and conservative Catholics in the "Global North" (Europe and North America) are using more conservative bishops in the "Global South" or non-European communities to support a more traditional stand on gender and sexuality, thereby gaining greater "progressive" legitimacy.
Much to think about.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
A great reason to love Lent
Tonight during the Presanctified Liturgy that we have during Lent, we chanted the following in the Hymns of Vesper for the fifth week of Lent (yep, already week 5):
Beaten in spirit and robbed of my mind,
I fell among contemptable theives who steal away my powers to think.
My soul has been scourged
and I lie on the path of life stripped of virtue.
A priest sees that I suffer from incureable sores,
but passes without a second glance.
A Levite, not wanting to share my deadly pain,
looks down on me and also passes me by.
But You, O Christ, our God,
though born of Mary and not as a Samaritan,
grant me healing because of your love for man
and pour the riches of your mercy upon me.
And who says contextual theology is a new thing?
P.S. I thought I smelled more frankincense than usual tonight.
Beaten in spirit and robbed of my mind,
I fell among contemptable theives who steal away my powers to think.
My soul has been scourged
and I lie on the path of life stripped of virtue.
A priest sees that I suffer from incureable sores,
but passes without a second glance.
A Levite, not wanting to share my deadly pain,
looks down on me and also passes me by.
But You, O Christ, our God,
though born of Mary and not as a Samaritan,
grant me healing because of your love for man
and pour the riches of your mercy upon me.
And who says contextual theology is a new thing?
P.S. I thought I smelled more frankincense than usual tonight.
Smiling while holding your breath
Half the time I automatically delete my email bulletins from ISM because it's just too depressing to read day in and day out what is going on in Palestine. But today had a little piece from Mansour, a nonviolent activist in the town of Biddu on the West Bank which is threatened by the construction of the Separation Wall.
I was sitting with an old man the other afternoon that has 40 dunam of land, half of which he will lose to the construction of the Separation Wall. His name is Abu Ali. He is 68 years old. Ten months ago Israeli bulldozers uprooted olive trees on part of his land.
I was sitting with him and translating for a journalist writing for The Jerusalem Post. He was telling his story of his sons and daughters, the olive trees, how he brought them up day by day, how he raised the trees since they were little children and how they have become a part of his identity.
Abu Ali told this story smiling. I didn't understand why... Maybe because he had always known that this would be the results of the Occupation...Maybe because he knew of the resilience of the olive trees in Palestine. Like the trees, we will remain on our lands despite Israeli government's attempts to uproot us from our land and deny us our national and human rights...
After the interview with the journalist was over, Abu Ali turned to me and asked where I was from and who my parents are. After I answered him he said to me, "Now I will tell you why I'm smiling when I should cry. It is because of you, the new generation, which makes me proud -
continuing the struggle in a different way. I am sure you are a farmer and translated exactly what I said for the journalist." He thanked me and we left the land together to his house where he invited me to drink tea with him.
I saw him again yesterday and I told him about the experience of other villages that succeeded to push the Wall away from their lands and he said, "Now you know why I was smiling before months - because you will be able to do what we couldn't." He left me from there and went to the mosque...
Meeting Abu Ali has helped me realize one of the strengths of the Palestinian people, how our parents and the generations before them support their children. It is only with this support and strength that we can accept the responsibility and trust to ensure that we will continue what they started.
This narrative reminded me of George, the Palestinian man who picked me up at Ben Gurion airport to take me to the Notre Dame Center in Jerusalem last spring. We talked about politics during the ride, and when he asked me what I thought was going to happen, I told him that honestly I was not very optimistic. "Yes, there is no hope," he said. But then he smiled. "But we Palestinians, we always hope." He had just been telling me about an old man he knew who was pleading with Israeli soldiers not to destroy his olive grove that he had tended his whole life, only to be knocked over by the soldiers, who promptly bulldozed his olive grove. Hope seemed both foolish and profoundly courageous.
The next piece in my email bulletin was from Aaron Lakoff, a Canadian Jew who has a great blog that I encourage you to check out.
It was my last day in the country after coming to Israel on a Birthright trip, a free 10-day trip to Israel given to anyone who is young and Jewish. I had come for the ten days and stayed for two
months to work in Palestine. I figured that seeing Israel without seeing Palestine would be selling myself short – it wouldn't really be cashing in on my birthright. This right came easily to me – I simply registered and was on the trip. However, such rights don't come so easily to others...
...The plight of Palestinians was one little story that wasn't mentioned during our Birthright tour. We never heard the stories of places like Deir Yasin, Al Qubaybah, or other Arab villages which were obliterated underneath Israel's creation. At one point during the tour, we were out in the countryside when a tour guide pointed out a patch of cacti, and noted that those were a sign that an Arab village used to be here. Nobody raised an eyebrow, and the group moved on, made to believe that these Arabs must have just packed up peacefully and said goodbye to their new neighbors.
To restore a bit of the sanity lost during this tour, I needed to see some of the camps myself, to see how Palestinian refugees were living today in the West Bank.
One of these visits brought me to the Al Fawar refugee camp, located just south of Hebron...While many Palestinian refugees are humble folks, they have interesting stories to tell. Rafat's parents were born in the Fawar camp, but before that, his grandparents had lived in the village of Beit Jibreen, now renamed to Beit Guvrin in Hebrew, just inside Israel's side of the Green Line. In 1948, when they were forced to leave their homes and lives, the Shawabka family came to Fawar and pitched a tent alongside many others. From 1948 until 1958, Fawar was nothing but rows of tents. Each tent provided meager shelter for a family whose hopes of one day returning to their houses were quickly fading. Refugee camps aren't supposed to be permanent. They are nobody's home. But after a decade of existence, the residents of Fawar weren't going anywhere in the young Jewish state, so the tents came down and permanent buildings went up...
...There isn't much to look forward to when your life is on hold. These people's faces could be turning blue from holding their breath for so long. Even during periods of peace negotiations, there is little optimism – only gasping for air.
Hope really does requires great courage at times. Yes, there are those Palestinians who give into despair and blow themselves and Israelis up. But for everyone of those, there are hundreds of thousands more who don't. Who courageously hope when it seems hopeless.
I have much to learn from this as these days I struggle to find such courage and hope in light of what is going on in Palestine, or even here in Portland where people are suffering from a lack of housing and health care and even food.
I was sitting with an old man the other afternoon that has 40 dunam of land, half of which he will lose to the construction of the Separation Wall. His name is Abu Ali. He is 68 years old. Ten months ago Israeli bulldozers uprooted olive trees on part of his land.
I was sitting with him and translating for a journalist writing for The Jerusalem Post. He was telling his story of his sons and daughters, the olive trees, how he brought them up day by day, how he raised the trees since they were little children and how they have become a part of his identity.
Abu Ali told this story smiling. I didn't understand why... Maybe because he had always known that this would be the results of the Occupation...Maybe because he knew of the resilience of the olive trees in Palestine. Like the trees, we will remain on our lands despite Israeli government's attempts to uproot us from our land and deny us our national and human rights...
After the interview with the journalist was over, Abu Ali turned to me and asked where I was from and who my parents are. After I answered him he said to me, "Now I will tell you why I'm smiling when I should cry. It is because of you, the new generation, which makes me proud -
continuing the struggle in a different way. I am sure you are a farmer and translated exactly what I said for the journalist." He thanked me and we left the land together to his house where he invited me to drink tea with him.
I saw him again yesterday and I told him about the experience of other villages that succeeded to push the Wall away from their lands and he said, "Now you know why I was smiling before months - because you will be able to do what we couldn't." He left me from there and went to the mosque...
Meeting Abu Ali has helped me realize one of the strengths of the Palestinian people, how our parents and the generations before them support their children. It is only with this support and strength that we can accept the responsibility and trust to ensure that we will continue what they started.
This narrative reminded me of George, the Palestinian man who picked me up at Ben Gurion airport to take me to the Notre Dame Center in Jerusalem last spring. We talked about politics during the ride, and when he asked me what I thought was going to happen, I told him that honestly I was not very optimistic. "Yes, there is no hope," he said. But then he smiled. "But we Palestinians, we always hope." He had just been telling me about an old man he knew who was pleading with Israeli soldiers not to destroy his olive grove that he had tended his whole life, only to be knocked over by the soldiers, who promptly bulldozed his olive grove. Hope seemed both foolish and profoundly courageous.
The next piece in my email bulletin was from Aaron Lakoff, a Canadian Jew who has a great blog that I encourage you to check out.
It was my last day in the country after coming to Israel on a Birthright trip, a free 10-day trip to Israel given to anyone who is young and Jewish. I had come for the ten days and stayed for two
months to work in Palestine. I figured that seeing Israel without seeing Palestine would be selling myself short – it wouldn't really be cashing in on my birthright. This right came easily to me – I simply registered and was on the trip. However, such rights don't come so easily to others...
...The plight of Palestinians was one little story that wasn't mentioned during our Birthright tour. We never heard the stories of places like Deir Yasin, Al Qubaybah, or other Arab villages which were obliterated underneath Israel's creation. At one point during the tour, we were out in the countryside when a tour guide pointed out a patch of cacti, and noted that those were a sign that an Arab village used to be here. Nobody raised an eyebrow, and the group moved on, made to believe that these Arabs must have just packed up peacefully and said goodbye to their new neighbors.
To restore a bit of the sanity lost during this tour, I needed to see some of the camps myself, to see how Palestinian refugees were living today in the West Bank.
One of these visits brought me to the Al Fawar refugee camp, located just south of Hebron...While many Palestinian refugees are humble folks, they have interesting stories to tell. Rafat's parents were born in the Fawar camp, but before that, his grandparents had lived in the village of Beit Jibreen, now renamed to Beit Guvrin in Hebrew, just inside Israel's side of the Green Line. In 1948, when they were forced to leave their homes and lives, the Shawabka family came to Fawar and pitched a tent alongside many others. From 1948 until 1958, Fawar was nothing but rows of tents. Each tent provided meager shelter for a family whose hopes of one day returning to their houses were quickly fading. Refugee camps aren't supposed to be permanent. They are nobody's home. But after a decade of existence, the residents of Fawar weren't going anywhere in the young Jewish state, so the tents came down and permanent buildings went up...
...There isn't much to look forward to when your life is on hold. These people's faces could be turning blue from holding their breath for so long. Even during periods of peace negotiations, there is little optimism – only gasping for air.
Hope really does requires great courage at times. Yes, there are those Palestinians who give into despair and blow themselves and Israelis up. But for everyone of those, there are hundreds of thousands more who don't. Who courageously hope when it seems hopeless.
I have much to learn from this as these days I struggle to find such courage and hope in light of what is going on in Palestine, or even here in Portland where people are suffering from a lack of housing and health care and even food.
Monday, March 07, 2005
The cosmetic version of Eastern Europe
It's funny to listen to the neocons go on about the outbreak of democracy across the Middle East. Why, the Iraqis bravely stood up to terrorists and voted for a shi'i majority that will bring them a free government just shy of a theocracy. There are going to be elections in Egypt in which voters will actually get to look at other names before marking Mubarak. Saudi Arabia is letting men vote for their local trash collector (can't you just hear George Bush talking to Crown Prince 'Abdullah -- "C'mon we didn't invade you guys after 9/11 but Iraq. We've protected y'all as best we can but ya gotta throw us a frickin' bone here...). The Palestinians elected the wealthy, corrupt leader of our choice, Mahmoud Abbas. Oh and who can forget the Cedar Revolution in Lebanon.
Well, here's a little polling info about Lebanon from Jim Zogby at the Arab-American Institute they can read while they uncork their champagne.
My godfather calls this so-called flowering of democracy in the Middle East the cosmetic version of Eastern Europe. And let's face it. The neocons are GREAT at cosmetic makeovers. Maybe we could have a new reality show where a group from, say, the Project for the New American Century gets a Middle East country to nip and tuck.
Oh wait, I forgot. That's already going on in Iraq.
Next on Fox: "When makeovers go bad..."
Well, here's a little polling info about Lebanon from Jim Zogby at the Arab-American Institute they can read while they uncork their champagne.
My godfather calls this so-called flowering of democracy in the Middle East the cosmetic version of Eastern Europe. And let's face it. The neocons are GREAT at cosmetic makeovers. Maybe we could have a new reality show where a group from, say, the Project for the New American Century gets a Middle East country to nip and tuck.
Oh wait, I forgot. That's already going on in Iraq.
Next on Fox: "When makeovers go bad..."
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Housekeeping
Just a little reassurance for the five or so of you reading this here blog.
Yep, it does look a bit different. I've changed the template a bit. AND I figured out how to add links. To your left, below the recent posts, you will find links to some old posts and sites that can give you a bit more info regarding the subject matter of my random ramblings. You will also find blogs that I like to read, including a long list of those who are part of the Progressive Christian Blogger Network, as well as links to the newsources that I peruse (though admittedly, not as much lately for the sake of my mental health, but that's another post...).
Hope these changes make your time here a bit more interesting and enjoyable.
Yep, it does look a bit different. I've changed the template a bit. AND I figured out how to add links. To your left, below the recent posts, you will find links to some old posts and sites that can give you a bit more info regarding the subject matter of my random ramblings. You will also find blogs that I like to read, including a long list of those who are part of the Progressive Christian Blogger Network, as well as links to the newsources that I peruse (though admittedly, not as much lately for the sake of my mental health, but that's another post...).
Hope these changes make your time here a bit more interesting and enjoyable.
Friday, March 04, 2005
Et tu Saudi Arabia?
The New York Times: Saudis Join Call for Syrian Force to Quit Lebanon
"Bashar al-Assad, the Syrian president, went Thursday to Riyadh, the Saudi capital, hoping to secure Saudi support before a coming Arab summit meeting. But Saudi officials told Reuters and The Associated Press that Crown Prince Abdullah had delivered an unusually blunt rebuff. Egypt, the other key Arab player, has also called for the withdrawal of Syria from Lebanon...
"As long as the Saudis had organized to protect Syria, Syria could survive this," Mr. Amine said. "That's what makes this so important.""
My are the screws being turned on the Syrians...
"Bashar al-Assad, the Syrian president, went Thursday to Riyadh, the Saudi capital, hoping to secure Saudi support before a coming Arab summit meeting. But Saudi officials told Reuters and The Associated Press that Crown Prince Abdullah had delivered an unusually blunt rebuff. Egypt, the other key Arab player, has also called for the withdrawal of Syria from Lebanon...
"As long as the Saudis had organized to protect Syria, Syria could survive this," Mr. Amine said. "That's what makes this so important.""
My are the screws being turned on the Syrians...
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Warped delightfulness
Yesterday was the last day of the pain class that I've been taking at my county health clinic. For several weeks we've been learning about different perspectives on managing pain. An MD's. A pharmacist's. A naturopath's. A massage therapist's.
As it is the county health department, there was a lot of diversity among the participants, with the exception of our poverty. Many had experienced homelessness as a result of not being able to work because of their chronic pain. Some have no health insurance and vocalized their frustration and desperation to get help quite loudly at times. Indeed, it was often difficult to keep the class on track because almost everyone was desperate to tell their story. To be heard and validated. To share what it is like to live with chronic pain, particularly when you have limited resources.
But as the class came to a close yesterday, a few of us began to talk about how pain also makes you appreciate a lot that most take for granted. One man talked about his experience with homelessness in the midst of his enormous physical pain. He decided to camp out around Mt. Hood and said it was amazing how the sheer physical beauty gave him a tremendous sense of ecstasy in the midst of the horror he was going through. Maybe it'’s because we suffer so much that we all mentioned how we never cease to have that profound awe and wonder at the beauty around us. The grandeur of the mountains and trees, or that moment when the light rail crosses the Willamette on its way east or west and you see the city shimmering in the gentle waves of the water and the vast carpet of trees and houses of Forest Park and the West Hills encircling the skyscrapers and streets and the giant concrete silos and docks guiding the river north. The world is simultaneously exquisitely horrific and wonderful.
Fatigue also has its blessings. It makes me have to rest more. Which lets me see more of the world in all its warped delightfulness. Like the two old men sharing a joint across from me in the Park Blocks where I sat on a bench to rest during my walk. One with a long beard and a crutch. The other with a green jacket and a hat with furry flaps. They bickered and zoned together. Finished and got up and shuffled along in separate directions. Sorta reminded me of that old Simon and Garfunkle song. "Old friends/sat on their parkbench like bookends/...lost in their overcoats waiting for the sun/the sound of the city sifting through trees..." Though I suppose in this case perhaps "lost in their cannabis bliss" might be more appropriate. I'm sure Paul Simon could figure out a way to make that rhyme.
As it is the county health department, there was a lot of diversity among the participants, with the exception of our poverty. Many had experienced homelessness as a result of not being able to work because of their chronic pain. Some have no health insurance and vocalized their frustration and desperation to get help quite loudly at times. Indeed, it was often difficult to keep the class on track because almost everyone was desperate to tell their story. To be heard and validated. To share what it is like to live with chronic pain, particularly when you have limited resources.
But as the class came to a close yesterday, a few of us began to talk about how pain also makes you appreciate a lot that most take for granted. One man talked about his experience with homelessness in the midst of his enormous physical pain. He decided to camp out around Mt. Hood and said it was amazing how the sheer physical beauty gave him a tremendous sense of ecstasy in the midst of the horror he was going through. Maybe it'’s because we suffer so much that we all mentioned how we never cease to have that profound awe and wonder at the beauty around us. The grandeur of the mountains and trees, or that moment when the light rail crosses the Willamette on its way east or west and you see the city shimmering in the gentle waves of the water and the vast carpet of trees and houses of Forest Park and the West Hills encircling the skyscrapers and streets and the giant concrete silos and docks guiding the river north. The world is simultaneously exquisitely horrific and wonderful.
Fatigue also has its blessings. It makes me have to rest more. Which lets me see more of the world in all its warped delightfulness. Like the two old men sharing a joint across from me in the Park Blocks where I sat on a bench to rest during my walk. One with a long beard and a crutch. The other with a green jacket and a hat with furry flaps. They bickered and zoned together. Finished and got up and shuffled along in separate directions. Sorta reminded me of that old Simon and Garfunkle song. "Old friends/sat on their parkbench like bookends/...lost in their overcoats waiting for the sun/the sound of the city sifting through trees..." Though I suppose in this case perhaps "lost in their cannabis bliss" might be more appropriate. I'm sure Paul Simon could figure out a way to make that rhyme.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
The Cedar Revolution?
Wow.
When I read the stories last week, such as the one below from Robert Fisk, about Hariri's funeral and how Maronite Christians and Sunni Muslims and Druze were hand in hand to grieve, I had this brief flicker of hope that perhaps there would be a peaceful revolution that would finally oust the Syrians from Lebanon.
"There was not a gun in sight. Not a shot was heard. Down to the Martyr's Square - the old front line which divided this country for 15 years of war - they walked, shouting: "Syria Out, Out, Out." Young women of both faiths, old men and youths and turbanned Muslim clerics, even some of Hariri's old political enemies, gathered round the great Sunni Muslim mosque which Hariri himself had built. The badly burned body of the billionaire tycoon who reconstructed much of Beirut, murdered along with six bodyguards and his medical attendant on Monday in a car bomb attack, was carried through the streets of west Beirut in an ambulance. It arrived in the square to the sound of Muslim prayer calls and Christian church bells.
Repeatedly denying that they had any hand in Monday's crime, the Syrians warned that Lebanon's unity would be endangered if the Lebanese allowed Hariri's death to turn into a political demonstration. But his murder in fact united the Lebanese against the Syrians.
From the streets of Ashrafieh came young men and women, walking under the banners of the old civil war Christian Lebanese forces - the Phalange who fought so bitterly against the Sunni Muslims and the Druze - but yesterday they marched beside their Sunni and Druze fellow countrymen. Walid Jumblatt, the Druze leader, walked among them, he who had only a few hours earlier warned the Lebanese government that if its officials turned up they would be "pelted with stones and eggs by the people". Thus were Syria's proteges and their colourless ministers humiliated...
...Hariri held a unique position in the post-war society he did so much to revive: he never possessed a militia. Unlike so many, he had no blood on his hands. He was a ruthless businessman, a formidable enemy. But he was clean.
Could the Syrians, who sent their army into Lebanon in 1976 at the request of a Christian president, have dreamed of such a day? Could they have imagined that former Druze and Christian militiamen - who had slit each others' throats in the mountain war of 1983 - would stand together in prayer for Hariri and in mutual antagonism against Syria. By his death, some said yesterday, Hariri had saved Lebanon." (The Independent, February 17, 2005)
But my flicker of hope was indeed brief.
I mean, this is the Arab World. We don't have peaceful, nonviolent revolutions in the Middle East. We have coups and militias and assasinations and civil wars and invasions and ethnic cleansing and whole towns mowed down when they dare speak out against a dictator. Not governments falling because of people sitting in squares with flags talking about religious unity and independence.
Until yesterday.
"People Power brings down Karami's Cabinet" yelled the Daily Star, the main English-speaking newspaper in Lebanon.
"Lebanon's government was swept from power Monday night in the face of a mass protest and increased political pressure sparked by the assassination of former Prime Minister Rafik Hariri two weeks ago."
Bashar al-Assad, the president of Syria and son of Hafiz al-Assad (who, in 1982, leveled parts of the city of Hama when protest broke out there, killing 10,000-20,000 people) is doing some desperate damage control. He handed over Saddam's half brother to Iraq for trial. He's even announced that Syria may pull its troops out of Lebanon within a few months.
The Scotsman has proclaimed it The Cedar Revolution.
It's enough to bring a tear to your eye and give you warm fuzzy goosebumps all over.
At least until Fisk brings me back a little to reality.
"But we should not be so romantic. Lebanon faces a traumatic period of crisis...Will it [Syria] really go? And will its intelligence men go with them? And will the newly "independent" Lebanese then rule themselves with wisdom - or with the same old fearful, corrupt disdain which characterised their pre- war society? Will grief or anger govern post-Hariri Lebanon?"
When I read the stories last week, such as the one below from Robert Fisk, about Hariri's funeral and how Maronite Christians and Sunni Muslims and Druze were hand in hand to grieve, I had this brief flicker of hope that perhaps there would be a peaceful revolution that would finally oust the Syrians from Lebanon.
"There was not a gun in sight. Not a shot was heard. Down to the Martyr's Square - the old front line which divided this country for 15 years of war - they walked, shouting: "Syria Out, Out, Out." Young women of both faiths, old men and youths and turbanned Muslim clerics, even some of Hariri's old political enemies, gathered round the great Sunni Muslim mosque which Hariri himself had built. The badly burned body of the billionaire tycoon who reconstructed much of Beirut, murdered along with six bodyguards and his medical attendant on Monday in a car bomb attack, was carried through the streets of west Beirut in an ambulance. It arrived in the square to the sound of Muslim prayer calls and Christian church bells.
Repeatedly denying that they had any hand in Monday's crime, the Syrians warned that Lebanon's unity would be endangered if the Lebanese allowed Hariri's death to turn into a political demonstration. But his murder in fact united the Lebanese against the Syrians.
From the streets of Ashrafieh came young men and women, walking under the banners of the old civil war Christian Lebanese forces - the Phalange who fought so bitterly against the Sunni Muslims and the Druze - but yesterday they marched beside their Sunni and Druze fellow countrymen. Walid Jumblatt, the Druze leader, walked among them, he who had only a few hours earlier warned the Lebanese government that if its officials turned up they would be "pelted with stones and eggs by the people". Thus were Syria's proteges and their colourless ministers humiliated...
...Hariri held a unique position in the post-war society he did so much to revive: he never possessed a militia. Unlike so many, he had no blood on his hands. He was a ruthless businessman, a formidable enemy. But he was clean.
Could the Syrians, who sent their army into Lebanon in 1976 at the request of a Christian president, have dreamed of such a day? Could they have imagined that former Druze and Christian militiamen - who had slit each others' throats in the mountain war of 1983 - would stand together in prayer for Hariri and in mutual antagonism against Syria. By his death, some said yesterday, Hariri had saved Lebanon." (The Independent, February 17, 2005)
But my flicker of hope was indeed brief.
I mean, this is the Arab World. We don't have peaceful, nonviolent revolutions in the Middle East. We have coups and militias and assasinations and civil wars and invasions and ethnic cleansing and whole towns mowed down when they dare speak out against a dictator. Not governments falling because of people sitting in squares with flags talking about religious unity and independence.
Until yesterday.
"People Power brings down Karami's Cabinet" yelled the Daily Star, the main English-speaking newspaper in Lebanon.
"Lebanon's government was swept from power Monday night in the face of a mass protest and increased political pressure sparked by the assassination of former Prime Minister Rafik Hariri two weeks ago."
Bashar al-Assad, the president of Syria and son of Hafiz al-Assad (who, in 1982, leveled parts of the city of Hama when protest broke out there, killing 10,000-20,000 people) is doing some desperate damage control. He handed over Saddam's half brother to Iraq for trial. He's even announced that Syria may pull its troops out of Lebanon within a few months.
The Scotsman has proclaimed it The Cedar Revolution.
It's enough to bring a tear to your eye and give you warm fuzzy goosebumps all over.
At least until Fisk brings me back a little to reality.
"But we should not be so romantic. Lebanon faces a traumatic period of crisis...Will it [Syria] really go? And will its intelligence men go with them? And will the newly "independent" Lebanese then rule themselves with wisdom - or with the same old fearful, corrupt disdain which characterised their pre- war society? Will grief or anger govern post-Hariri Lebanon?"
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