¡España es Bonita!

For those of you who may not know, I recently—very recently as I’m still here and return to Belfast tomorrow—got the chance to visit my friend Megan in Salamanca, Spain. She’s currently studying and working at a campus ministry for the Universidad de Salamanca when she’s not entertaining guests. (Which she does well!) I’ve had an amazing time, but one of the coolest experiences was church yesterday morning. I went with Megan and her flatmate Nicole to the church they attend here (one of the few non-Catholic churches in the city. Spain is still a predominately Catholic nation, and when I say ‘Catholic’ I mean the religion, not the socio-political standpoint of Northern Ireland.) Church starts at noon and generally runs until 1.15 or 1.30. It was quite an experience. Besides the fact that I understood about 1% of what was said it was really different. The guy who seemed to be acting at the pastor said some stuff which I assume to be the welcome, then read a Scripture passage, then prayed. We then sang a song (which sounded cool—‘Bendito Es,’ which means ‘Blessed Is’) and then the floor was opened to whoever wanted to say anything. Somebody would pray and read Scripture, and then someone else would shout out a song they wanted to sing and we’d all join in. And mega props to the praise band! As musical numbers were a part of the ‘free for all’ worship style no one in the band knew what we were singing before anyone else, but they played really well. We all had the same worship book full of songs, but they sounded like they’d rehearsed together for hours. My favorite was ‘Maravillosa Cruz.’ I sang the verses in English and did my best at the chorus in Spanish. We sang ‘Lord I Lift Your Name on High,’ too, which was pretty cool. (But in Spanish, of course.) After several people had read and prayed and we sang about 5 or 6 songs, we had Communion. There were 2 celebrants (one of whom was also the bass player,) and 4 people passed the elements around. It was low-key but very worshipful; reverent while being approachable and down-to-earth. The whole experience made me think that this was probably what the early church was like: a bunch of friends gathered together to read and pray and sing and learn from each other, and to share the bread and wine as they might share pinchos and sangria. Not irreverently and without thought, but naturally, like it’s second nature. It should be second nature. Of course now I want to try Communion with tortillas and sangria. I think it would be yummy. And I don’t think God would mind.

pinchos--Spanish 'pub grub'--and sangria

For more pictures from Spain, click the 'Bonita Salamanca' link under Picture Gallery to the left.

sunday

the day has dawned,

the women have returned,

the tomb is empty,

and still I am in disbelief.

"Are you really here?

Are you really risen?

Have you really conquered death?"

I can scarcely

take it in.

I fall face down in the dirt

because that's the only place

I'm worthy enough to be.

I left you.

I spent the last hours

far from the cross,

drowning my sorrows

in all but you.

I left behind

all that I

thought true.

I betrayed

all that I

thought sacred.

still, you are here for me.

still, you rose for me.

still, you conquered death for me.

all I can do

is spit the dust

from my mouth,

lift my heart

to heaven

and cry,

"Alleluia!

Alleluia!

Alleluia!"

saturday

were I a disciple
would I not have spent
the last hours
far from the cross?
attempting to
drown my sorrows
in wine?
in the company
of friends?
leaving behind
all that I
had thought true?
would I have
betrayed all
that I
thought sacred?
my head screams,
"NO!"
my heart admits,
"yes."
who are you?
where are you?
how can you be
who you claim you are?
yea, though I know
the end of the
Story--
I walk through
the Valley
of the
Shadow of Death
Thy rod and
Thy staff
are far from me
only because I
fail to reach
out and take them.
I am a
disciple
yet I doubt.
I am a
disciple
yet I fear changes.
I am a
disciple
yet I wonder,
"will you really rise?"
the morning
holds the answers.
I
will have
to wait
and see.
and
believe.

Q&A

After nearly seven months on the Emerald Isle, working and living in what was once one of the most volatile and violent places on Earth, there is a recurring question that keeps popping up from back home: ‘Why is so much animosity still present in Northern Ireland? With as far as they’ve come, why is there still so much hatred?’ Good question. I’ve posed this to some people who I’ve gotten to know here; some of the women and the men who I work with on a daily basis, who grew up here, who lived through the Troubles and who are now trying to live on the other side of it. Unfortunately, they don’t know either. It all goes back to 1640 when the whole Plantation began. (If you haven’t read ‘History Lesson,’ or if it’s been a while, pause now to go back and get the nutshell history of Northern Ireland from the 1640’s to the present.)

As far as I can see, and as far as a lot of people are concerned, it’s more a habit than anything else. Catholics hate Protestants. It’s just how it is. But the odd thing is I haven’t seen this attitude played out except in a select few instances. (So select, in fact, I can count them on one hand with fingers left over.) I work with two men in the Men’s Group at WAVE, Gary and Ciran. Gary grew up in the Shankill (read: Protestant) and Ciran grew up in the Falls (read: Catholic.) Even today people from these bordering neighborhoods in West Belfast don’t mix, or mix rarely but only in neutral territory, but Gary and Ciran are nearly inseparable. By their own admission they probably grew up throwing rocks and bottles at each other and setting fire to each other’s houses. But they’ve managed to gain a sense that there has to be something bigger than all this fighting; there has to be something else than carrying around hatred for your whole life. They’ve managed to find the human in each other and it’s a pretty cool thing.

St. Patrick’s Day has just passed, and yes, it was quite an experience. Apart from the fact that we (the other YAVs and I) were able to celebrate St. Paddy’s in Ireland (the island of Ireland, not the country) was pretty cool. But it was also quite an experience to see how much of a cross-community event it was. Typically, St. Pat’s is seen as a ‘Catholic holiday’ while the 12^th of July is seen as a ‘Protestant holiday.’ (That gets us into marching season and bonfires, which we’ll cover when we get there. But back to March 17.) There was a parade from City Hall with floats and bands and performers and all the usual parade paraphernalia. There was green everywhere—of course—and lots of flags. The Irish Tri-Color was flown, worn, paraded, painted and displayed by nearly everyone. But even St. George’s Cross, the flag most associated with Ulster and Protestantism, was displayed and used in the parade. There was nothing but a jovial atmosphere, a celebratory time, people enjoying being off work and out of school. It was also a gorgeous day with clear sunny skies. Even at the pubs later that day and into the evening it was upbeat, pleasant and like any other holiday. (For pictures, click the link at left for the web album 'Pipes, Pints and Patrick'.) Prior to the holiday I kept getting warnings from people to stay out of certain places—mostly around the university area—since riots and fights were expected. My thought was, ‘Does this have more to do with St. Patrick’s Day in a religiously and politically unstable environment or the fact that large numbers of college students living in one of the most densely populated areas in the UK have an excuse to drink mass quantities of alcohol?’ Having been a recent college student, I’m gonna say the latter. (Not to say that politics and religion didn’t play any role at all, but as far as I know, there were no major riots or fights this year.)

Many of the youth that I work with go to integrated schools and have Catholic friends (and Muslim friends and agnostic friends and gypsy friends…) and they don’t see the big deal either. Now, they’re not necessarily going to go running through the opposing neighborhood at night waving a Union Jack, but at least they know and admit that there are real people, kids just like themselves, on the other side of that peace wall. That’s a big step forward.

So why all the animosity still? It doesn’t appear that anyone knows. Why have more miles of peace wall gone up in the last 12 years since the ‘Good Friday’ Agreement than in the 30 years before it? I can’t tell you. But is there hope? Yes. And is there love? Yes. Eventually, I’m sure we won’t need the answers to these questions anymore, because no one will have a reason to ask them.