What Do I Know of Holy?

Filled with awe and wonder, they all screamed. They all whispered and all asked me
About this God. About the wonderful relationship I had with this God. And in my pride I gave away bits and pieces of my so-called knowledge of this powerful God. What it took to know him, who he was, his grace, his love. And deeper into my ignorance I dug, thinking that I had figured Him out. I knew everything. Most of all, I knew I was faithful. I still clearly re-call a conversation I had with my mother about the status of my faith, I think I said something to the prideful extent of counting myself lucky for never having doubted God. What little I knew Him, how little my faith was.

Now I'm caught up in a whirlwind of doubt. Of questions. Of tears and pain, and deep loneliness. For a world in which the belief you stood upon wasn't real is a world that is ripping and tearing at the seams.
Like W.K. Clifford writes on the ethics of belief, that a true belief is one that has "stood in the fierce light of free and fearless questioning."
The blatant acceptance of what I constantly heard had finally hit me. Not because I believed it to be untrue, but because it was not truly a belief I held, in the sense that I did not really delve into it deeply.
"To know all about anything is to know how to deal with it under all circumstances," Clifford writes.
I owed that God. To really delve into true knowledge of his word, of Him, of His truth. To delve into the doubts, into the fears, into the questions and discussions. If I really had said so many years ago that I loved Him, I owed Him the right to get to know Him. For how can you truly love someone if you don't fully know them? How could I truly believe in Him, if I didn't fully know Him? If I hadn't asked the hard questions, and forced an answer out?

If I had just believed simply and purely, would that even be real belief?

I once thought I knew Him. So fully, so perfectly. And sometimes I wish I could go back to my happy ignorant state, and I am by no means saying that I do know Him know. Because I don't.

He is bigger,
He is more mysterious, more confusing, more earth-shattering than ever. And I don't have Him figured out one bit.

I'm trying, and sometimes it seems as if my tries lead straight to the back of the darkest alley.

But sometimes in the powerful wind as the autumn sun sets it seems as if I can feel something. As if I can almost hear something.
And I dare to hope, beyond the tears and loneliness and pain, that I've stepped closer to Him even if only for that moment.

"Night of Fire-Pascal"

The year of grace 1654
Monday, 23 November, feast of Saint Clement, Pope and Martyr, and of others in the Martyrology.
Eve of Saint Chrysogonus, Martyr and others.
From about half past ten in the evening until half past midnight.

Fire

'God of Abraham, God of Isaac, God of Jacob,' not of philosophers and scholars.
Certainty, certainty, heartfelt, joy, peace.
God of Jesus Christ.
God of Jesus Christ.
My God and your God.
'Thy God shall be my God.'
The world forgotten, and everything except God.
He can only be found by the ways taught in the Gospels.
Greatness of the human soul.
'O righteous Father, the world had not known thee, but I have known thee.'
Joy, joy, joy, tears of joy.
I have cut myself off from him.
They have forsaken me, the fountain of living waters.
'My God wilt thou forsake me?'
Let me not be cut off from him for ever!
And this is life eternal, that they might know thee, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom thou hast sent.'
Jesus Christ.
Jesus Christ.
I have cut myself off from him, shunned him, denied him, crucified him.
Let me never be cut off from him!
He can only be kept by the ways taught in the Gospel.
Sweet and total renunciation.
Total submission to Jesus Christ and my director.
Everlasting joy in return for one day's effort on earth.
I will not forget thy word. Amen.

powerful video of life on the streets in Ecuador.

http://vimeo.com/28154713

Si Te Tengo A Ti

Ecuador-Quito, is complex. Far more complex than I remembered. With the busy streets teeming with automobiles, most new and silver cars; with people of many different racial backgrounds, and with the sweet complexity of the poor and the rich and the huge gap between them.
Coming back is always different. I always wondered what I was coming back to. Except for my family, there is nothing here I have ties to, or so I have thought. I always felt more at home in El Salvador, which baffles me for I didn't live there as long as I have lived here.
Quito is the place where I grew up, I guess. It's a place where I found my identity. Where I found God, or my simplified version of Him. Where my best friend and I raveled tales of adventure and romance of ourselves in some far away country. Where I sipped tea with her in my later years, and we discussed the turmoils of college life. So coming back now, and not having her here has been a challenge to say the least. But maybe through it I have seen another complexity of this city I guess I never really knew, maybe because I never bothered to know because after all this didn't feel like home to me.
But God has opened my eyes. To this city teeming with life, with sorrow, with pain, with abuse; and I have also seen joy, peace, love beyond what we deem natural.
As a college student coming back home, one believes one's mind is full of knowledge that is so radical that must be desperately shared with our parents. Unfortunately, one also believes that our philosophies and our "new-found" way of life somehow is better and must therefore be critical of that of our parents.
But in my so-called "new and improved" life, I realized I had not moved at all. I was still the same, young and bitter sixteen year old I once was. Thinking I had changed.
And as I am enjoying the community my parents have here I have begun to notice, the love that oozes from their very pores. They have changed, are changed and are changing. They have begun this new adventure, this new church, that comes with all these struggles, a lot of pain, and tears. And yet I can truly see that they do not do it for themselves. And in my selfishness, I have criticized.
And I, I have remained stagnant.
Coming back to this place where I am automatically drawn to the books of my youth, and the songs of praise I once knew by memory, and the adventure my heart used to yearn for; I realized I have not moved. Barely if anything. I may not snap at people as often as I used to, but anger still had a grip on me, even the in the cold depths of Michigan winters. I just had learned to bury in my books.
And here where life used to seem so pointless, I have seen what love was meant to do.
How it moves people.
I have seen what Jesus does.
And as I spoke with my dad of our struggles and of life, I could hear it clear as day, the love. Jesus' Love in Him for the people of Ecuador. My dad, a foreigner in Ecuador, who has known a powerful culture shock that has made him think more than once about returning home.
Jesus' love for His people has been injected into His veins, and has inspired Him each day-beyond the doubt, beyond the pain.
And he is a changed man.
Not because of anything he could do, but because of Jesus.
Oh that my faith were stronger. Fortunately, Jesus' love is. It goes beyond everything I once knew.
Beyond my anger, beyond my doubt, beyond my lack of movement.
Maybe all it took was going back and catching a glimpse of who I once was and still am, to find hope and inspiration in the Savior who can mold me and move me.
For I have tried, I have tried pretending to be different, ignoring the lack of change, and all to no avail.
So movement, change may be hard for me. But it is only God who can move in me. And I truly believe that I can do all things through God who gives me strength.

Tu Bandera-Jesús Adrian Romero

Como en un pais extraño me encontre sin ti
No entendia el idioma, ni las cosas que vivi
Y corri a buscar sin ver tu rostro entre la gente

Y aun sin conocerte
Convencido estaba de encontrarte a ti, de encontrarte a ti
Y en medio de mi confución se alzaba tu bandera
se enarbolaba como el sol diciendome que fuera
y a ti te siguiera
y asi me refugie en la cruz y en tu bendito amor
nunca imagine la vida que ahora vivo en ti
ni en la gracia que me diste cuando a ti volvi
mas a hora se que en ti yo tengo lo que anhelo
tengo vida plena tengo paz eterna
si te tengo a Ti.
Si te tengo a ti.

Can I have some water?

How many times do we unconsciously take some water to drink? How many times does our thirst pull us out of our seats to grab some water from the fridge or the sink and to pour ourselves a drink of water. Yet there is something so deep about asking someone for some water. Something so humbling. After all water is something that is so essential for our survival. For it is the liquid that makes up our blood, there’s only so much that we can live without before our kidneys begin to shut down. It is something that is so necessary and yet so humbling to ask for. So why do we shy away from people who have been ostracized by society who are only asking us or water. More than that maybe even a little bit of our time. TO just sit and talk, to ask about their lives. To ask about their today. For the last weeks I have been reminded on our fixation on time, and a story in the Bible keeps coming to my mind. It is in Mark 5.

It talks about this centurion, Jairus, who comes to Jesus asking him to heal his daughter, telling Jesus that she is close to death and he must come quickly.

So Jesus and the centurion embark off to go heal this man’s daughter. They are on the way, in a sea of people-probably rushing as fast as they can. The father probably fretting thinking of his daughter and the little time she has before she enters death’s door, maybe even walks a few steps ahead. Constantly looking back at Jesus in an attempt to get him to hurry.

Jesus is following this man, with his disciples around him. The tip of his cloak is gently touching the ground below him, when suddenly he feels a tug. And as if energy has escaped from his entire body.

Jesus stops.

“Who touched me?” he asks.

The disciples bewildered at his question, probably even laugh and say, “Master, we are surrounded by people. We are elbow to elbow next to people. How can you ask if someone has touched you.”

“No,” he insists, “Someone has touched me.”

Jairus is watching as this unfolds, he watches Jesus as he asks and he can’t help but fear the worst of his daughter. Doesn’t this man care? Isn’t he supposed to be the savior to all? Does he not know that she is dying?

And out of the corner a women escapes her fear and speaks up,

“It is I. I am the one who has touched you.”

She tells Jesus of how she has suffered of a bleeding problem all of her life. But she heard of Jesus and his power to heal and she thought that maybe if she could just even touch the end of his cloak she will be healed.

Jesus looks at her and listens intently, loving her as she shakes in fear as she speaks.

She tells him that as soon as she touched his cloak she felt completely healed. Jesus tells her, “Go. Your faith has healed you.”

Jairus sees one of the synagogue leaders beginning to approach him, and he knows by the look on his face that his daughter is gone. He doesn’t even need to hear him, when he announces, “It is too late. She is dead. Why bother the teacher?” Jairus’ heart breaks. If only they could have gotten there on time. If only they wouldn’t have stopped. If only, if only…

“It is not too late.” Jesus announces. And Jairus dares to hope.” Let’s see the girl.” As soon as he enters Jairus’ house, Jesus sees the weeping women and asks them, “Why are you weeping? For the girl is not dead, she is sleeping.” The weepers laugh at him, for they know that she is dead.

He enters the girls’ room. Bends down to her and says to her, “Rise up!”

and in an instant the girl rises, her eyes open. She is alive again!

He instructs them to give her food and something to drink.

I can’t even imagine what Jairus is feeling at this point. For a moment he lost all hope. He heard of her death, and yet here is Jesus who just raised his daughter up from the dead. Who truly is this man? And wouldn’t this teach him, teach us so much about time, and the importance that we put on time. The importance of reaching out to those in need. Oh that we would stop in our tracks to those living around us and ask them. Ask them about their lives. Ask them about their loves. Offer them a drink of water, when their mouths are so thirsty. Oh that I may be humble enough, and unafraid to approach those around me. Those in the streets that come into coffee shops in the need of water. To see beyond the ticking in our clocks, and see those in deep need. To see beyond our worldly restraints. And trust and love unconditionally, irregardless of the situations. To look at those that cry out for a minute of our attention. Oh that I may be more like Jesus and understand that time is to be spent. Spent wisely in lives. That we may even catch a glimpse and understand what it was that Jesus wanted to say. And to understand why the outcasts, the prostitutes are so important to him.