I just recently come to the conclusion that the truth is, even though we have made spectacular leaps in technology, medicine, economics and the like in the past century, Man has not changed a bit since the day the Lord decided to see what he could make with a pile of dirt. (I know, I know. I'm a little slow on the uptake). I recently watched a movie that confirmed that there are at least two things in this world that have never changed. The first is Presidential campaigns. And the second is that there has always been a Hitler.
Idi Amin Dada called himself the "last king of Scotland" because he believed that he was the greatest pacifier of the world and that, because he was a friend of the British Isles, they would ask him to come in and rule their land for them as well as his own. (At least, that's how they put it in the movies). He believed he was truly restoring his country, and he had so much ambition, he believed that when he was finished he could do the same for other counties. And so, as President Amin (Forest Whitaker) traveled through Uganda, he promised the people there that while he was in office he would change Uganda. He would start new clinics to help those with severe medical conditions and severe financial problems. There would be work and food for everyone. There would be no more war (after of course, he disposed of some minor parties that he believed wished him dead). In a nutshell, he seemed to be promising them that their land "should be fair and all her people one." (Sound like anyone you have heard lately?) And yet somehow we were surprised to find that within a few months things had not changed at all. That all the new President's vows were empty and all a big show and things were actually sliding back into the well rather than racing up the mountain.
(NOTE: I am not, at this juncture, by any means bashing our President or those running for the office. I merely think it ironic that all around the world those who come into power can promise us the same things and in the end the same thing happens every time (at least to some extent). To some degree some promises are dropped by the wayside in a state of brokenness. Some of those in office just do it in a much more pronounced and obvious way than others).
President Amin could sweat talk the people until the day he died, if he was given the chance. He would promise them a sugar coated Uganda with chocolate syrup and even one of those embalmed cherries on top. With his deep, almost musical, voice booming over the heads of unsuspecting crowds, he told them, "I am the General of the Ugandan Armies, but underneath the coat, I am just like you." No wonder he won them so fast! Not only did he promise them paradise on a gold platter, but he did it with a mellifluous voice and humility too! (Course, I'm a sucker for beautiful voices, so I guess I can't speak for everyone). Yet underneath the neatly tailored army uniform, trimmed with tassels and medals was not just another Ugandan, it was another Hitler.
A dear friend once told me that "words are medicine." They can be used to heal or they can be used to kill, if they are given in the wrong prescription at the wrong time. Both Hitler and Amin must have known that, because that is what they did. They used their words like a drug on their people to give them a patriotic high so to speak. But overtime, the people began to feel the effects as it wore off, and they couldn't make the drug work anymore. After time the drug stops working and you have to turn to something else. But, when the people won't take the drug anymore, that puts the distributer out of a job causing them to turn somewhere else (to be exiled or die as Hitler and Amin eventually were).
So, I guess the question is, when the world is faced with Hitlers and Amins (not forgetting the Stalins and the Castros or even the Nero's and the Mussolinis!), how many people do they have to kill before we can see through the sugar coating? Why do we only allow those who would destroy us have the gift of rhetoric? Should not the "art of speaking well" be also given to those who would use it for the well being of others?
The last question then becomes, are we fated to always be cursed with tyrants and murderers as our captains? And the answer is yes, as long as there is still Sin and Satan in this world. But there is a solution to all of this that is often overlooked. "Wherever there is injustice, you will find us. Wherever there is suffering, we'll be there. Wherever liberty is threatened, you will find.... " not the Three Amigos unfortunately. Some one much, much more helpful. Though the world be broken and smashed by Satan and his host of generals, there is always going to be Christ with is arms stretched wide.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Friday, August 22, 2008
Long Beach
A distinct smell greeted me Thursday morning as I awoke on my sister's carpeted floor. Long Beach.... The delicate smell of ocean water consistently drifting over the squished houses and apartment complexes. All day I sat on the floor, now holding my niece, now writing letters, now playing with the cat, now simply enjoying the breeze. But as the day wore on, the less I could stand simply sitting there doing nothing. It was as if the wind was asking me to come out and play - to come out and explore as he does each day.
And so this evening I walk east, away from the setting sun. He gently blows the small whisps of hair out of my face, curling it ever so slightly. I stop to smell some small white flowers that grace a mission style house.
I continue to walk, met regularly with the pattern of white, pink and yellow flowers.
I stop in front a plain house, having nothing to say about it except for the distinct foliage that flowers the north side of the house. Bright hues of pink, red, yellow and apricot roses catch my eye. But there is one flower that makes me stop in my tracks and simply wonder. Amongst the bright cheery colors of summer and life is a small cactus-like flower whose color is foreign. It is a purple flower, yet not a lavender purple, or even an Eggplant purple - no it is but one shade lighter than black. It sticks out like the black sheep among a fold of pure white, innocent ones. Seeing it reminds me of the death that comes to us every year, of Ash Wednesday before easter, of Good Friday before the Resurrection.
But I must leave off my musings, for at the end of the walk stands a single solitary form. A middle-aged man is walking my way and I must not be idle about someone else’s house. His bare feet make gentle innocent chatter with the sun-warmed concrete. I must fight to hold in the laughter. “Here is a man” I thought to myself, “that probably keeps a very respectable job with a very quiet and respectable family, judging from the houses on the block, and he has the courage to walk down the side walk in a T-shirt and gym shorts - not afraid of what the neighbors and strangers think.” My joy and admiration for this complete stranger makes me want to skip past him, laughing.
A feeble smile starts to break from his face as we come closer to each other. As we pass, we exchange a nervous “hello” and “good evening.” (Now that we have passed, I wonder why it is so hard for me to conjure up these feelings of freedom and joy when I am with those who are so close to me. Why is it so easy to be fearless with strangers)?
I skip across the road and turn down ‘the street where they live.’ A very familiar smell tickles my nose as I pass one of the more run down houses, and I nearly burst out laughing as an image passes through my mind. An image of someone very close to me smoking a honey-coated pipe - discussing theology over scotch and tobacco in a perfect stranger’s house. It is a house whose floors are covered in the most revolting 70’s green shag carpet - A house darkened by cheep venetian blind, bathed in the smell of tobacco smoke and where Bud Light cans are hidden like Easter-eggs amongst the grass-like carpet and furniture.
I quell my fancies once again as I approach a man, shirtless and heavily bearded, watering his small plot of earth. As I approach the small mound upon which he stands as ruler, I could not get out any intelligent verbiage so I simply smiled at him, communicating with my eyes that I wished him as good an evening as I had. Though his beard and long white hair protected his face, I detected as I passed by, a small chuckle breaking through his weathered and time worn face.
I have arrived back at the front door. I sigh as my adventures for the evening have ended and I reach out for the button on the elevator. But anyone who was watching my next actions might have thought I touched a snake or heavily electrified piece of metal. I turned away from the elevator just as the heavy doors were sluggishly opening. I turned the corner and started bounding up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I had too much energy now to idly ride the elevator to my final destination.
As I reached the front door, the breeze rushed past me, kissing my cheek as if to say goodbye. I turned and faced the god of wind as if to tell him not to utter such sounds, but perhaps he was only saying “until next time” - perhaps he will call me away tomorrow too. It was not so, though. For thus ends my adventures in Long Beach.
And so this evening I walk east, away from the setting sun. He gently blows the small whisps of hair out of my face, curling it ever so slightly. I stop to smell some small white flowers that grace a mission style house.
I continue to walk, met regularly with the pattern of white, pink and yellow flowers.
I stop in front a plain house, having nothing to say about it except for the distinct foliage that flowers the north side of the house. Bright hues of pink, red, yellow and apricot roses catch my eye. But there is one flower that makes me stop in my tracks and simply wonder. Amongst the bright cheery colors of summer and life is a small cactus-like flower whose color is foreign. It is a purple flower, yet not a lavender purple, or even an Eggplant purple - no it is but one shade lighter than black. It sticks out like the black sheep among a fold of pure white, innocent ones. Seeing it reminds me of the death that comes to us every year, of Ash Wednesday before easter, of Good Friday before the Resurrection.
But I must leave off my musings, for at the end of the walk stands a single solitary form. A middle-aged man is walking my way and I must not be idle about someone else’s house. His bare feet make gentle innocent chatter with the sun-warmed concrete. I must fight to hold in the laughter. “Here is a man” I thought to myself, “that probably keeps a very respectable job with a very quiet and respectable family, judging from the houses on the block, and he has the courage to walk down the side walk in a T-shirt and gym shorts - not afraid of what the neighbors and strangers think.” My joy and admiration for this complete stranger makes me want to skip past him, laughing.
A feeble smile starts to break from his face as we come closer to each other. As we pass, we exchange a nervous “hello” and “good evening.” (Now that we have passed, I wonder why it is so hard for me to conjure up these feelings of freedom and joy when I am with those who are so close to me. Why is it so easy to be fearless with strangers)?
I skip across the road and turn down ‘the street where they live.’ A very familiar smell tickles my nose as I pass one of the more run down houses, and I nearly burst out laughing as an image passes through my mind. An image of someone very close to me smoking a honey-coated pipe - discussing theology over scotch and tobacco in a perfect stranger’s house. It is a house whose floors are covered in the most revolting 70’s green shag carpet - A house darkened by cheep venetian blind, bathed in the smell of tobacco smoke and where Bud Light cans are hidden like Easter-eggs amongst the grass-like carpet and furniture.
I quell my fancies once again as I approach a man, shirtless and heavily bearded, watering his small plot of earth. As I approach the small mound upon which he stands as ruler, I could not get out any intelligent verbiage so I simply smiled at him, communicating with my eyes that I wished him as good an evening as I had. Though his beard and long white hair protected his face, I detected as I passed by, a small chuckle breaking through his weathered and time worn face.
I have arrived back at the front door. I sigh as my adventures for the evening have ended and I reach out for the button on the elevator. But anyone who was watching my next actions might have thought I touched a snake or heavily electrified piece of metal. I turned away from the elevator just as the heavy doors were sluggishly opening. I turned the corner and started bounding up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I had too much energy now to idly ride the elevator to my final destination.
As I reached the front door, the breeze rushed past me, kissing my cheek as if to say goodbye. I turned and faced the god of wind as if to tell him not to utter such sounds, but perhaps he was only saying “until next time” - perhaps he will call me away tomorrow too. It was not so, though. For thus ends my adventures in Long Beach.
Monday, August 11, 2008
little pieces parts
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