I've been reading Mark Driscoll's book Confessions of a Reformission Rev. Driscoll is a Reformed pastor who started a successful church in Seattle. He's also "The Cussing Pastor" from Blue Like Jazz (gasp!). Admittedly, the first 70 pages or so only moderately kept my attention. But, the second half of the book sucked me in with some really intertaining stories and statements--what I hold to be some good insights on how to both do and not do ministry. I think the major thing that caught my attention, though, is the humor. Here are a few parts that either made me laugh out loud or made me think about the church in unconventional ways:
"Things were starting to get out of hand with the men, so I called a meeting and demanded that all of the men in our church attend. I preached for more than two hours about manhood and basically gave the dad talk to my men for looking at porno, sleeping witih young women, not serving Christ, not working hard at their jobs, and so on. I demanded that the men who were with me on our mission to change the city stay and that the rest leave the church and stop getting in the way....On their way out of that meeting, I handed each man two stones and told them that on this day God was giving them their balls back to get the courage to do kingdom work. Guys put them on their monitors at work or glued them to the dash of their truck and kept them like stones of remembrance from the Old Testament. The next week the offering doubled and the men caught fire. It was a surreal time, since I was basically fathering guys my own age and treating them more like a military unit than a church."
"We also began 'boot camps' for our young men, teaching them how to get a wife, have sex with that wife, get a job, budget money, buy a house, father a child, study the Bible, stop looking at porn, and brew decent beer."
"Next door to our church lived a very large, very loud, and very unpleasant woman. She went to another local church and often walked into our services to publicly cuss us all out. I nicknamed her 'the finger lady' because she often sat on her front porch giving our people the finger and calling them whores and bastards while they walked to the church, as she chain-smoked and perfected her self-induced Tourette's syndrome."
On having diarhhea and having to preach at four services in one day:
"Knowing that I had four services to preach and that each sermon lasted about an hour, I was feeling optimistic during the third service--until I crapped myself about fifteen minutes into the sermon and was left with a terrible dilemma. Do I finish the sermon and just not move much on the stage? Do I say something spiritual like the Holy Spirit just notified me that everyone is to break up into prayer groups, so I could sneak off and clean up the oil slick?
They don't cover this part of the job in seminary, and I was perplexed but chose to just keep going and finish the sermon, which took about another forty-five minutes, during which time I tried to breath out of my mouth to lessen the stench."
Friday, June 22, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
What I'm Reading
Lately, I find myself with an abundance of books. Actually, it's a bit overwhelming at times.
What I'm Reading:
-Liberty For Latin America: How to Undo Five Hundred Years of State Oppression-by Alvaro Vargas Llosa
-Less Than Two Dollars a Day: A Christian View of World Povery and the Free Market-by Kent A. Van Til
-La Capital: The Biography of Mexico City-Jonathan Kandell
-Confession of a Reformation Rev: Hard Lessons From an Emerging Missional Church-Mark Driscoll
What I Hope to Conquer Next:
-Bobos in Paradise-David Brooks (This one's been on my list forever!)
-Opening Mexico: The Making of a Democracy-Julia Preston and Samuel Dillon
We'll see how much progress I make before I head to Mexico. I suspect I will not get all of them read.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Eric Volz Poem
I wrote this poem a few months ago after a letter from Eric Volz was released as a Myspace bulletin. I took quotes of Eric's and responded to them.
The Eric Volz Tragedy: As Observed From 2,855.8 Miles Away
“I live in my head.”
No you don’t, Eric; you live in La Modelo.
You live in steel and grime, horror and danger.
You live in barred freedom, a shrieking silence—
revelatory darkness that blinds the eyes of sanity.
You live tucked away in a neat corner of foreign affairs.
And you are not alone.
Developmental projects.
Concern for future generations.
Sustainability.
Profitability.
Rape?
Murder?
“The best analogy I have come across for being locked up here is that it's like being buried alive.”
There are numerous ways to suffocate
when the oxygen of autonomy is smothered.
Your body copes with sleep.
And sleep is a science—
in this case, a merciful escape from tragedy.
The gracious oasis of God in a barren scene.
“My spirits rise and fall.”
Because injustice billows!
The guilty, free. The innocent, jailed.
Racism abounds, even convicts.
And you are left to be tossed by the sea
of public belief and skepticism—
and hatred. For we are creatures of hate.
“I send my deepest and purest love to every person that reads these lines.”
Perhaps, you do live apart from La Modelo.
To be treated with such contempt by the country
that you call home, by the mother of your
former lover. And yet to express such compassion.
You inhabit another place.
Your soul is a hospital for the wounded.
The Eric Volz Tragedy: As Observed From 2,855.8 Miles Away
“I live in my head.”
No you don’t, Eric; you live in La Modelo.
You live in steel and grime, horror and danger.
You live in barred freedom, a shrieking silence—
revelatory darkness that blinds the eyes of sanity.
You live tucked away in a neat corner of foreign affairs.
And you are not alone.
Developmental projects.
Concern for future generations.
Sustainability.
Profitability.
Rape?
Murder?
“The best analogy I have come across for being locked up here is that it's like being buried alive.”
There are numerous ways to suffocate
when the oxygen of autonomy is smothered.
Your body copes with sleep.
And sleep is a science—
in this case, a merciful escape from tragedy.
The gracious oasis of God in a barren scene.
“My spirits rise and fall.”
Because injustice billows!
The guilty, free. The innocent, jailed.
Racism abounds, even convicts.
And you are left to be tossed by the sea
of public belief and skepticism—
and hatred. For we are creatures of hate.
“I send my deepest and purest love to every person that reads these lines.”
Perhaps, you do live apart from La Modelo.
To be treated with such contempt by the country
that you call home, by the mother of your
former lover. And yet to express such compassion.
You inhabit another place.
Your soul is a hospital for the wounded.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
David Brainerd quote
"September 19, 1747. Near night, while I attempted to walk a little, my thoughts turned thus: How infinitely sweet it is to love God, and be all for him! Upon which it was suggested to me, 'You are not an angel, not lively and active.' To which my whole soul immediately replied, 'I as sincerely desire to love and glorify God as any angel in heaven.' Upon which it was suggested again, 'But you are filthy, not fit for heaven.' Hereupon instantly appeared the blessed robe of Christ's righteousness, which I could not but exult and triumph in." -David Brainerd
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
"True Saints, When Absent from the Body, Are Present with the Lord"
These quotes are from the sermon by Jonathan Edwards based on 2 Corinthians 5:8: "We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be present with the Lord." -2 Corinthians 5:8.
"And when the souls of the saints leave their bodies, to go to be with Christ, they behold the marvelous glory of that great work of his, the work of redemption, and of the glorious way of salvation by him; desire to look into. They have a most clear view of teh unfathomable depths of the manifold wisdom and knowledge of God; and the most b right displays of the infinite purity and holiness of God, that do appear in that way and work; and see in a much clearer manner than the saints do here, what is the breadth and length, and depth and height of the grace and love of Christ, appearing in his redemption. And as they see the unspeakable riches and glory of the attribute of God's grace, so they most clearly behold and understand Christ's eternal and unmeasurable dying love to them in particular. And in short, they see ever thing in Christ that tends to kindle and inflame love, and every thing that tends to gratify love, and every thing that tends to satisfy them: and that in the most clear and glorious manner, wihtout any darkness or delusion, without any impediment or interruption. Now the saints, while in the body, see something of Christ's glory and love; as we, in the dawning of the morning, see something of the reflected light of the sun mingled with darkness; but when separated from the body, they see their glorious and loving Redeemer, as we see the sun when risen, and showing his whole disk above the horizon, by his direct beams, in a clear hemisphere, and with perfect day."
"...the souls of departed saints with Christ in heaven, shall ahve Christ as it were unbosomed unto them, manifesting those infinite riches of love towards them, that have been there from eternity; and they shall be enabled to express their love to him, in an infinitely better manner than ever they could while in the body. Thus they shall eat and drink abundantly, and swim in teh ocean of love, and be eternally swallowed up in teh infinitely bright, and infinitely mild and sweet beams of divine love; eternally receiving that light, eternally full of it, and eternally compassed round with it, and everlastingly reflecting it back again to the fountain of it."
"And when the souls of the saints leave their bodies, to go to be with Christ, they behold the marvelous glory of that great work of his, the work of redemption, and of the glorious way of salvation by him; desire to look into. They have a most clear view of teh unfathomable depths of the manifold wisdom and knowledge of God; and the most b right displays of the infinite purity and holiness of God, that do appear in that way and work; and see in a much clearer manner than the saints do here, what is the breadth and length, and depth and height of the grace and love of Christ, appearing in his redemption. And as they see the unspeakable riches and glory of the attribute of God's grace, so they most clearly behold and understand Christ's eternal and unmeasurable dying love to them in particular. And in short, they see ever thing in Christ that tends to kindle and inflame love, and every thing that tends to gratify love, and every thing that tends to satisfy them: and that in the most clear and glorious manner, wihtout any darkness or delusion, without any impediment or interruption. Now the saints, while in the body, see something of Christ's glory and love; as we, in the dawning of the morning, see something of the reflected light of the sun mingled with darkness; but when separated from the body, they see their glorious and loving Redeemer, as we see the sun when risen, and showing his whole disk above the horizon, by his direct beams, in a clear hemisphere, and with perfect day."
"...the souls of departed saints with Christ in heaven, shall ahve Christ as it were unbosomed unto them, manifesting those infinite riches of love towards them, that have been there from eternity; and they shall be enabled to express their love to him, in an infinitely better manner than ever they could while in the body. Thus they shall eat and drink abundantly, and swim in teh ocean of love, and be eternally swallowed up in teh infinitely bright, and infinitely mild and sweet beams of divine love; eternally receiving that light, eternally full of it, and eternally compassed round with it, and everlastingly reflecting it back again to the fountain of it."
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
The Subway is a Creepy Place for Sex.
By Jared Weatherholtz
(I was in the subway and I saw a couple making out.)
The subway is a creepy place for sex.
Stumbling fingers reach to strip bodies of
damp shirts. Heated grasps stretch for
weighty satisfaction—a means to an end. Pumping breasts
cannot find a common beat—don’t care to find
a common beat. One pulse chases another in a personal race
for communal pleasure. He will not stop until he has had
his fill. She will not stop until she has had her
unquenchable desires chipped away at. She will be back for more. He will
hunger again. I am always hungry.
The subway is a creepy place for sex. Tell that to the couple making out up front.
Guilt is not an honest way to make a wage. What sorry mother neglected to tell her daughter that? She left a 12-pack of basic Crayola Crayons in my lap. I stared down at the small, pleasant box from outside of my body. I felt connected. I could not be heartless and refuse to pay the old, misguided lady. After all, her mother forgot to teach her the basics: don’t put out until they pay. Or maybe she’d fooled us all: put out until they pay. The subway is the perfect place for life lessons.
A man prepares his blanket like a Japanese wife—submissive and honorable, kneeling to show respect. He lets each corner fall to its particular side from the center hold, straightening the fabric with the palms of his hands—carefully, so as not to disturb the shards. He lets out a warrior’s cry and begins the ritual beating, a self-inflicted pain for the pleasure of the world. (We are so fucked up.) The dance is rhythmic and smooth, contrasting with the heinous cuts he is inflicting. His torso swivels and strikes, swivels and strikes the green broken glass of the blanket. His back begins to bleed, small gashes like new coats of paint on the scars of old walls. He has no face, and no legs—only a bloody torso that cries poverty. The subway is the perfect place for tragedy.
This place is a dichotomy. I have never felt so alive in a landscape of death.
Steel structures and aged concrete make this jungle a vacuum.
Truth be told, I would go crazy being in here for too long.
And sometimes, at 2am, on my route home, I feel the palms of insanity massaging my column, creeping toward my cerebrum.
But on the landscape of death are lived the lives of thousands, no, millions of art’s master characters. Beauty is never more accentuated than when juxtaposed with its counterpart. Tonight I know that steel and concrete are great hosts of life. The subway is the perfect place for romance.
I am hungry.
(I was in the subway and I saw a couple making out.)
The subway is a creepy place for sex.
Stumbling fingers reach to strip bodies of
damp shirts. Heated grasps stretch for
weighty satisfaction—a means to an end. Pumping breasts
cannot find a common beat—don’t care to find
a common beat. One pulse chases another in a personal race
for communal pleasure. He will not stop until he has had
his fill. She will not stop until she has had her
unquenchable desires chipped away at. She will be back for more. He will
hunger again. I am always hungry.
The subway is a creepy place for sex. Tell that to the couple making out up front.
Guilt is not an honest way to make a wage. What sorry mother neglected to tell her daughter that? She left a 12-pack of basic Crayola Crayons in my lap. I stared down at the small, pleasant box from outside of my body. I felt connected. I could not be heartless and refuse to pay the old, misguided lady. After all, her mother forgot to teach her the basics: don’t put out until they pay. Or maybe she’d fooled us all: put out until they pay. The subway is the perfect place for life lessons.
A man prepares his blanket like a Japanese wife—submissive and honorable, kneeling to show respect. He lets each corner fall to its particular side from the center hold, straightening the fabric with the palms of his hands—carefully, so as not to disturb the shards. He lets out a warrior’s cry and begins the ritual beating, a self-inflicted pain for the pleasure of the world. (We are so fucked up.) The dance is rhythmic and smooth, contrasting with the heinous cuts he is inflicting. His torso swivels and strikes, swivels and strikes the green broken glass of the blanket. His back begins to bleed, small gashes like new coats of paint on the scars of old walls. He has no face, and no legs—only a bloody torso that cries poverty. The subway is the perfect place for tragedy.
This place is a dichotomy. I have never felt so alive in a landscape of death.
Steel structures and aged concrete make this jungle a vacuum.
Truth be told, I would go crazy being in here for too long.
And sometimes, at 2am, on my route home, I feel the palms of insanity massaging my column, creeping toward my cerebrum.
But on the landscape of death are lived the lives of thousands, no, millions of art’s master characters. Beauty is never more accentuated than when juxtaposed with its counterpart. Tonight I know that steel and concrete are great hosts of life. The subway is the perfect place for romance.
I am hungry.
To Frida (on repentance)
By Jared Weatherholtz
This is a response to "To Diego (on sorrow)" which is posted in my blog history.
To Frida (on repentance)
Mi vida,
El monstruo soy yo,
¡de verdad!,
con un apetito que nunca cesa.
I have always seen myself in my murals, and shuttered.
I am pregnant with guilt, writhing under your love,
bearing flowers of peace to my smiling wife.
I am weighed down by my own lusts.
Driven down!
I cannot get up, Frida!
I cannot get up.
You were a welcome babe in an ancient world,
the innocence and vigor of my life.
You are a bloody, beating heart among sharpening stones,
a martyr at my own hands.
You cover my infidelities in a pool of red,
and I rest—
while you writhe.
El monstruo soy yo.
We are the entire history of Mexico!
The revolution flowed from our love,
the people’s passion from our very bosoms.
In La Chingada, I painted you with a look of unbelief.
The tension of my body falling powerfully on yours
as I had my way is all too real for me now.
They say we cannot escape heritage,
and I have sealed ours in disloyalty.
I find myself kneeling reverently before a bed of carnations.
My people and your love are the only gods I have ever known.
But these flowers are my shrine.
Their beauty binds, enslaves.
Their shape is my best friend,
who has torn trust and thrown it to the diseased dogs on the street.
You are the innocent victim of an imperialist regime.
The monstrosity I am!
Yo soy el monstruo.
But, mi vida, don’t forget us.
I am you,
Friday. You
are me.
This is a response to "To Diego (on sorrow)" which is posted in my blog history.
To Frida (on repentance)
Mi vida,
El monstruo soy yo,
¡de verdad!,
con un apetito que nunca cesa.
I have always seen myself in my murals, and shuttered.
I am pregnant with guilt, writhing under your love,
bearing flowers of peace to my smiling wife.
I am weighed down by my own lusts.
Driven down!
I cannot get up, Frida!
I cannot get up.
You were a welcome babe in an ancient world,
the innocence and vigor of my life.
You are a bloody, beating heart among sharpening stones,
a martyr at my own hands.
You cover my infidelities in a pool of red,
and I rest—
while you writhe.
El monstruo soy yo.
We are the entire history of Mexico!
The revolution flowed from our love,
the people’s passion from our very bosoms.
In La Chingada, I painted you with a look of unbelief.
The tension of my body falling powerfully on yours
as I had my way is all too real for me now.
They say we cannot escape heritage,
and I have sealed ours in disloyalty.
I find myself kneeling reverently before a bed of carnations.
My people and your love are the only gods I have ever known.
But these flowers are my shrine.
Their beauty binds, enslaves.
Their shape is my best friend,
who has torn trust and thrown it to the diseased dogs on the street.
You are the innocent victim of an imperialist regime.
The monstrosity I am!
Yo soy el monstruo.
But, mi vida, don’t forget us.
I am you,
Friday. You
are me.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Poetry
Poetry for the truly postmodern.
"On Gifts for Grace"
By Bernadette Mayer
I saw a great teapot.
I wanted to get you this stupendous
100% cotton royal blue and black checked shirt,
There was a red and black striped one too
Then I saw these boots at a place called Chuckles
They laced up to about two inches above your ankles
All leather and in red, black or purple
It was hard to have no money today
I won't even speak about the possible flowers and kinds of lingerie
All linen and silk with not-yet-perfumed laces
Brilliant enough for any of the Graces
Full of luxury, grace notes, prosperousness and charm
But I can only praise you with this poem--
It's being is the same as the meaning of your name
Monday, April 30, 2007
The Jesus Videos
Yes, I realize that I am VERY late in discovering these, but they are too funny not to post.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Poetry happens...
...like an accident, a mugging, a love affair, a crime; it happens every day, when, alone, a man's heart begins to think about life.
-Jaime Sabines
-Jaime Sabines
Monday, April 16, 2007
Free Grace.--Rom.iii.24; 1 Cor. xv.10; 1 Tim. i.14
Radford (?)
Self-righteous souls on works rely,
And boast their moral dignity;
But if I lisp a song of praise,
Each note shall echo, Grace, free grace!
'Twas grace that quickened me when dead;
'Twas grace my soul to Jesus led;
Grace brings a sense of pardoned sin,
And grace subdues my lusts within.
Grace reconciles to every loss,
And sweetens every painful cross;
Defends my soul when danger's near;
By grace alone I persevere.
When from this world my soul removes
To mansions of delight and love,
I'll cast my crown before his throne,
And shout, Free grace, free grace alone!
Self-righteous souls on works rely,
And boast their moral dignity;
But if I lisp a song of praise,
Each note shall echo, Grace, free grace!
'Twas grace that quickened me when dead;
'Twas grace my soul to Jesus led;
Grace brings a sense of pardoned sin,
And grace subdues my lusts within.
Grace reconciles to every loss,
And sweetens every painful cross;
Defends my soul when danger's near;
By grace alone I persevere.
When from this world my soul removes
To mansions of delight and love,
I'll cast my crown before his throne,
And shout, Free grace, free grace alone!
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Gustavo Perez Firmat quote
In researching for my thesis, I've come to love Gustavo Perez Firmat, a professor, literary critic, and author who was exiled from Cuba to the U.S. as a child. Aside from caring about the experience of living between two cultures (which is simply fascinating), the man loves books. Here's a quote that validates and feeds my desire to build a personal library.
"el que tenga 2500 libros en casa no quiere decir que los haya leído. Me gusta comprar libros que nunca tendré la oportunidad, ni siquiera las ganas, de leer. Siempre he creído que la compañía de un libro puede ser tan beneficiosa como su lectura. "
"Having a library of 2,500 books in my house doesn't mean that I have read them all. I like to buy books that I'll never have the opportunity, nor the desire, to read. I have always believed that the company of a book can be as beneficial as reading it."
"el que tenga 2500 libros en casa no quiere decir que los haya leído. Me gusta comprar libros que nunca tendré la oportunidad, ni siquiera las ganas, de leer. Siempre he creído que la compañía de un libro puede ser tan beneficiosa como su lectura. "
"Having a library of 2,500 books in my house doesn't mean that I have read them all. I like to buy books that I'll never have the opportunity, nor the desire, to read. I have always believed that the company of a book can be as beneficial as reading it."
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
quote on justification by faith alone
This is an excerpt from Martin Luther's On Chrisitan Liberty, a fantastic little book explorating the doctrine of justification by faith alone that you should go buy if you don't already have it.
"The third incomparable benefit of faith is that it unites the soul with Christ as a bride is united with her bridegroom. By this mystery, as the Apostle teaches, Christ and the soul become one flesh [Eph. 5:31-32]. And if they are one flesh and there is between them a true marriage--indeed the most perfect of all marriages, since human marriages are but poor examples of this one true marriage--it follows that everything they have they hold in common, the good as well as the evil. Accordingly the believing soul can boast of and glorify in whatever Christ has as though it were its own, and whatever the soul has Christ claims as his own. Let us compare these and we shall see inestimable benefits. Christ is full of grace, life, and salvation. The soul is full of sins, death, and damnation. Now let faith come between them and sins, death, and damnation will be Christ's, while grace, life, and salvation will be the soul's; for if Christ is a bridegroom, he must take upon himself the things which are his bride's and bestow upon her the things that are his. If he gives her his body and very self, how shall he not give her all that is his? And if he takes the body of the bride, how shall he not take all that is hers?
"The third incomparable benefit of faith is that it unites the soul with Christ as a bride is united with her bridegroom. By this mystery, as the Apostle teaches, Christ and the soul become one flesh [Eph. 5:31-32]. And if they are one flesh and there is between them a true marriage--indeed the most perfect of all marriages, since human marriages are but poor examples of this one true marriage--it follows that everything they have they hold in common, the good as well as the evil. Accordingly the believing soul can boast of and glorify in whatever Christ has as though it were its own, and whatever the soul has Christ claims as his own. Let us compare these and we shall see inestimable benefits. Christ is full of grace, life, and salvation. The soul is full of sins, death, and damnation. Now let faith come between them and sins, death, and damnation will be Christ's, while grace, life, and salvation will be the soul's; for if Christ is a bridegroom, he must take upon himself the things which are his bride's and bestow upon her the things that are his. If he gives her his body and very self, how shall he not give her all that is his? And if he takes the body of the bride, how shall he not take all that is hers?
Sunday, April 01, 2007
A Palm Sunday Post
"In the Cross of Christ I Glory"
Words by John Browning
In the cross of Christ I glory,
Towering o'er the wrecks of time.
All the light of sacred story,
Gathers round its head sublime.
Words by John Browning
In the cross of Christ I glory,
Towering o'er the wrecks of time.
All the light of sacred story,
Gathers round its head sublime.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Eric Volz
You may have heard about a man named Eric Volz who has been unjustly sentenced to 30 years in prison in Nicaragua. Eric was born and raised in Nashville and, after earning a degree in Latin American Studies in California, moved to Nicaragua to work as an editor for EP magazine. His ex-girlfriend was recently killed 2 hours from where 10 witnesses say that Eric was. However, Eric has been tried and convicted of the murder. The judge threw out all testimonies placing Eric 2 hours away from the murder and convicted Eric with no evidence linking him in any way to the crime.
This was all just a story to me until I found out that Eric's stepfather recently resigned from his position as Dean of Students at Belmont University. After seeing photos of Eric's parents, I realized that I actually went to their house as an entering freshman. The students were broken down into small groups and we all went to visit a faculty member's house. I remember being very encouraged by Eric's parents' comments about the Belmont Spanish Department. I also remember them talking about their son who had studied Latin American Studies in California. We are connected to this.
Please pray for this terrible injustice. Please research this more at these websites:
www.myspace.com/freeericvolz
http://www.friendsofericvolz.com
This was all just a story to me until I found out that Eric's stepfather recently resigned from his position as Dean of Students at Belmont University. After seeing photos of Eric's parents, I realized that I actually went to their house as an entering freshman. The students were broken down into small groups and we all went to visit a faculty member's house. I remember being very encouraged by Eric's parents' comments about the Belmont Spanish Department. I also remember them talking about their son who had studied Latin American Studies in California. We are connected to this.
Please pray for this terrible injustice. Please research this more at these websites:
www.myspace.com/freeericvolz
http://www.friendsofericvolz.com
Thursday, March 22, 2007
If you don't know who this man is, you need to...
Francis Shaeffer is well-known for his philosophical and theological thought, his teachings on connecting faith and culture, and the establishment of L'Abri Fellowship, a welcoming retreat-type set-up where people can come to seek honest answers about faith and Christianity. This article is a great introduction to the strides of Shaeffer to spread a thinking, weeping Christianity.
Friday, March 16, 2007
The Three Amigos?
I just found out that Che Guevara and Fidel Castro had a very close friend named Mario Chanes de Armas who accompanied them in early Revolution talks and activities. This obituary is a glimpse into the Castro regime and the tragedy of crossing a dictator. It is also an interesting gauge of the transformation of the Cuban Revolution from a democratic ideal for the people to a Communist push for dictatorial power.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Mexico City Pics
Thanks to my friend Trey for sending me this link to some incredible (and overwhelming!) pics of Mexico City, where I will spend the next two years of my life!
http://www.mustangevolution.com/forum/t26103
(scroll down cause the first pics are a little weird)
http://www.mustangevolution.com/forum/t26103
(scroll down cause the first pics are a little weird)
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
How to Kill a Chicken (Mother to Daughter)
By Jared Weatherholtz
Ain’t no shame in killin’
for the sake o’ sustenance.
We gotta eat, baby,
and this here farm
is our supply.
So go out back behind the shed,
and corner Lucy at the edge of the fence.
I know she’s your favorite, baby,
but we raised her for food.
Ain’t no animal deserves life over humans.
So say your goodbyes to Lucy,
and when ya through,
pick her up gently,
just like when you pet
her to calm her nerves in thunderstorms.
Make your way to the
Bloody Stump,
stretch her neck taut
over the splintered surface,
close your eyes,
And swing. Swing hard, baby, and swift.
And turn your head, cause bloods a’gonna spurt.
But we gotta eat, baby. Remember that.
We gotta eat.
When the body falls to the ground,
Lucy’s gonna raise cane, baby.
I mean, she’s gonna run ‘round with no head on.
But don’t worry, cause Lucy’s gone then.
She don’t feel no pain.
That’s just her spirit, makin’ one final lap.
Lucy’s lived a good life, baby.
Most chicken’s don’t have half of what she has.
But a family’s gotta eat.
And you gotta learn to be a woman.
Ain’t no shame in killin’
for the sake o’ sustenance.
We gotta eat, baby,
and this here farm
is our supply.
So go out back behind the shed,
and corner Lucy at the edge of the fence.
I know she’s your favorite, baby,
but we raised her for food.
Ain’t no animal deserves life over humans.
So say your goodbyes to Lucy,
and when ya through,
pick her up gently,
just like when you pet
her to calm her nerves in thunderstorms.
Make your way to the
Bloody Stump,
stretch her neck taut
over the splintered surface,
close your eyes,
And swing. Swing hard, baby, and swift.
And turn your head, cause bloods a’gonna spurt.
But we gotta eat, baby. Remember that.
We gotta eat.
When the body falls to the ground,
Lucy’s gonna raise cane, baby.
I mean, she’s gonna run ‘round with no head on.
But don’t worry, cause Lucy’s gone then.
She don’t feel no pain.
That’s just her spirit, makin’ one final lap.
Lucy’s lived a good life, baby.
Most chicken’s don’t have half of what she has.
But a family’s gotta eat.
And you gotta learn to be a woman.
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