Older than the Rockies

It's been a couple weeks since the massacre at Virginia Tech. A week full of life abundant with little time to reflect on what happened in Blacksburg. My organization celebrated its 40th anniversary, so pain was eased by the open bars of two major parties - a black tie event for the donors and happy hour saturated with the smell of humanity as hundreds of twenty somethings drank alcohol, watched the Yankee/Red Sox game and networked. Pain was also ignored by my activities. I watched a movie, I prayed, I talked with my girlfriend, I recruited for my program on Facebook and I helped lead the music at church (for the first time, which was something significant). Between work, revelry (and I submit, that this revelry was not unhealthy) and worship, I've had little time to reflect on the what happened in the town of my birth.

Whatever pain I have, it's relatively dull, especially when you compare it to the pain of any of the friends and relatives of the victims (or the perpetrator. Diana Butler Bass has this to say when we think about the murderer's mother, who was reportedly hospitalized with shock: http://www.beliefnet.com/blogs/godspolitics/2007/04/diana-butler-bass-silence-of-murderers.html). My cousin, who I haven't seen in years, is a student at Virginia Tech, but he was not in the building when and where the violence took place. But Blacksburg his home to me, as much as anywhere else in the world. The pain I feel resembled the pain of a childhood house being burnt down. These things are not supposed to happen close to him. The mountains seem to nestle the town in the fall. When I was younger and living in Richmond, VA, my mother would be sure to drive us to visit Christiansburg, Blacksburg's university-less twin sister, just ten minutes away with the car, where my grandmother lived.

The Appalacians are older than the Rockies. Smaller but greener, less wild and more lively. It's a place of age for me. The house my mother grew up in is old; my grandmother was older. Both represented to me quaint pieces of Americana rarely seen. It is also a place of peace. There's something so comforting about mist resting on the shoulders and sleeping mountains. When I was younger, we would stay with my grandmother at Easter time. I would get up early, and Gramma and I would have blessed moments in the kitchen. She would strain my orange juice and put charred pieces of bacon on paper towels that covered her counter-tops. I would sit under my picture and talk to her. We would both listen to the birds. The first birds singing in the spring remained a thrill to my grandmother throughout her 96 years.

Yet, in the fall, the peace would be interrupted for celebration. As if sensing that the harvest was near, the trees would light on fire. Drive over the Blue Mountain parkway in the fall and try not to be amazed by the sea of orange, red and gold. Watch the old mountains dance like my grandmother must have at the barn dances she would describe to me. Old fiddlers and banjoers in worn clothes would accompany the merriment, fingers and wrists rushing to outrun the approaching winter. Thanksgiving, again with Gramma, would end the merriment. Satisfied with the feast, the leaves would drop to the ground, and naked trees would wait for Christmas and springtime.

Virginia Tech belongs in this picture. Grey is a dull color outside of Blacksburg. But it decorates the mountains beautifully, perfectly complimenting every season. The grey "Hokie stones" (http://www.vt.edu/about/documents/HokieStone.pdf) from which the buildings are made are unique to the region. It reminds me of an ancient castle on the Rhine, yet it is also uniquely American, something born in the hills of southwestern Virginia. A campus once for the army now hosts some of the most brilliant engineers in the nation. The football team ain't bad either.

This is my childhood. This was me playing a child-sized guitar with a worshipband in a lecture hall. This is a playground with a hill, a rock and an empty caboose. This is a row of pine trees which mark my own years. This is the beauty of mountains older than the Rockies. This is the part of me, the home and the peace, that was wounded that day. Completely insignificant compared to the lives lost. Yet, both peace, life and home will one day be restored. The peace of Appalachia is just a reflection of what that will be like.

Resurrection

Christian Hofreiter, my church's envoy to Europe, preached an excellent sermon on the Resurrection. To reflect on the this event after the lent season was refreshing and joyous (indeed, this sentence seems to be an understatement). Our hope rests on realities of this resurrection. Jesus is our Rabbi, which means (according a pastor I greatly admire) we try to imitate him in every way, and therefore we will, by His power, follow him on this same path one day. Listen to the sermon, and if you haven't made the decision to join us on this journey, I encourage you to do so.

The sermon can be found on the church website: http://www.rezchurch.org/3.html. It's the 4.8.2007 sermon entitled "I have seen the Lord."

Vonnegut

Never having read Kurt Vonnegut myself, this essay, which the president of my organization passed around today, was a great introduction. In honor of the author, who passed away a couple days ago, read this: http://instruct.westvalley.edu/lafave/hb.html.

Like one crucified

In the Philippines, the Passion Plays are real. At least, more real than many of us would be comfortable with. Sure, millions of Americans went to see Mel Gibson's movie, but check out these devoted Jesus-actors: http://www.spiegel.de/panorama/0,1518,476050,00.html. Sorry, the article itself is in German - I was looking for a similar article in English, but the pictures here are worth a thousand words. Click on the slide show two paragraphs down, and you'll see what I'm talking about.

The pain on the man's face is not acting. Those nails are actually piercing his hands. He and four others do this every year on Good Friday. One of them is a 46 year-old man who has been nailed to a cross every Passion Week for over two decades. Not being the actual Jesus, they don't die for three days and come back to life, of course. They hang on the cross for 5 grueling minutes, after which they are taken down and given medical attention. Jesus, of course, died after six hours, and other condemned men in the days of Rome hung for more than a day. The nails aren't the mega-spikes that went through Jesus' wrists, rather these 9 centimeter long worker-nails are soaked in alcohol to prevent infection and then nailed (more traditionally) through the hands.

The crucified men are devout Catholics (though the Catholic church itself condemns the acts), and they consider their crucifixions acts of worship, as well as sermons. Ruben Enaje, the aforementioned 46 years old intends to be crucified each year as long as he can, according to the Spiegel article.

Jesus, of course, said that we need to take up our crosses and follow him. Of course, that was not literal for most of us. Paul promises that sharing in Christ's suffering is part of being a complete Christian. Many of the earliest Christians were martyred on the cross, just like Jesus. Tradition holds that Peter was crucified up-side down. Perhaps other Christians are (and will be) literally crucified as Christ was.

Jesus, of course, mercifully commands us to remember his suffering through eating and drinking. The sermon here, of course, is the Gospel itself: that by living here the life we were meant to live, and by dying the death and facing the Father's wrath we deserve, we now have life abundant. We sang "Rock of Ages" at church today, reminding that this act was a "double-cure." In living the abundant life, we are overcoming sin, and we are living in God's favor, for eternity. I hope these crucified Philippinos, as they perform this brutal work, remember that it is this kind of grace that has saved them. I hope we remember it to. Happy Easter, everyone.