When we had finally sat down to tea on the corner of Aroma and Ayacucho, I began to realize how right I was.One of the four young girls we were seated with was the same who only weeks ago had betrayed her true identity as the Christ. Now, as clefa fumes filled our lungs (which was most unavoidable since the half of us were inhaling every moment the police were out of sight), this was confirmed.
When we arrived at the Terminal, two gringos and two middle-class Bolivians, we certainly did not blend in.We met up in an area generally not frequented in the evening hours by people like us and crossed over to a corner where cleferos and cleferas could be found around this time any night.That is where we found three of our new friends, the forth met up with us conveniently as we sat down for tea.They were evidently quite high courtesy of the clefa they had been sniffing since early that afternoon (clefa is glue used by shoe repairmen, looks like liquid honey, and smells like rubber cement).We started up some awkward conversation.They responded as longtime friends and made us feel quite welcome on their corner of this world.
So, back to sitting for tea, which was when it dawned upon me that these four girls would never be so welcomed into our homes as we had been welcomed into theirs (and I dare not speak of our churches!).Thus, Jesus confirmed.I have heard that he was one to welcome all, to interact with those around him indifferent to their differences, loving all the same.
I returned that night (only four days past) and thought about how they would have undoubtedly all invited my company for the rest of the evening and night if I should have accepted such an offer.I thought, too, of how though I had pondered it a moment, I decided I could would not have invited their company, even though I am sure they would have, indeed, accepted such an offer.
I am not sure what I ought to do with this realization.
I met the Christ two weeks back.She was sprawled out on a worn-out strip of grass in front of the Coronilla, sniffing glue out of a small plastic container that once held Tolavi sour cream.It seems a rather outlandish thing that she should be doing something so unbecoming now that I write it out so plainly, but at the moment it seemed perfectly expectable.She was lazily awaiting dusk, the time when the vocation of those young girls at the Terminal generally begins, when I encountered her.
This isn’t the first time for me.Once, I sat with her late into the evening on the curb of Cordova in downtown Vancouver talking about a strange church where street kids hang out and shoot up in the bathrooms before the service.Another time, in Kitchener, I followed him to the house of a widow from Czechoslovakia where I changed a light bulb and heard a heartbreaking tale in a language I did not understand but in tears I knew too well.
Each time, sadly enough, I left the Christ where I had found him (or he had found me) and I moved along.For some time I have seen these encounters as moments of turning or change meant to direct my path or something spiritual like that.Now I am questioning this.The problem is, when I go, Christ stays.
Tonight, if you would believe me, the Christ is walking the streets here in Cochabamba, glue in hand, along the same route she has walked these past seven years.Tonight, she will feel again the Passion that has been inflicted upon her all this time, and drift off to sleep alone, cold, hungry.And tonight, as always, I will fall asleep with effort trying to not think of her lest I Awake and do something Foolish.
Last night
As I danced with God
She kissed me quite suddenly
That I asked,
“So fast?”
And she responded,
“So slow?”
And for this I should like to warn you friend –
If you would think to ask Her to a dance
That She is not at all
One for dawdling.
As children, most of us enjoyed “what is different” activities. My son has several colouring books where these can be found and I find myself giddily racing (a four year old) to discover the differences first. What is interesting, is I have never played a game to my recollection on “what is the same”. I wonder if, perhaps, this is why we are so swift to point out what distinguishes and separates one from another, be it in the area religious, physical, philosophical, cultural. A good activity, I suppose, would be for us to plan a day during which we make note of “what is the same” all around us.How fun!
Hesitation is the biggest obstacle to spontaneity and the antonym to willingness. We most often exchange hesitation(s) for justification(s) and thus avoid altogether the necessity of willful exercise. But this elusion is illusion and the sum of what we have not done is quite simply one of two things: fear or hate. The two, to be sure, are not so greatly different.Fear has at its roots selfishness and hate, otherlessness. This is the great dilemma for the individual; constantly confronted by moments of decision, towards hesitation or willingness, we often proclaim ourselves fearful and hateful individuals, else risk the unknown results of courage and love.
Somewhere, in the midst of this all, God got lost. She must have, because once there were rumours that she walked with some, in a garden, on dusty paths of some peaceful countryside no-longer. Presently, looking, we find her not. Now some have said, quite convincingly, that her shadow was seen weaving the crippled streets and slums of some of the most inhospitable parts of the earth.But why hide oneself in a place so obscure and dark that so few will dare even venture to seek you out?Does she truly not long to be found? This seems doubtful, and so I say that no matter where she finds herself, most certainly God has gotten herself lost.
