NOW OR NEVER, Peshawar, Pakistan (Sep 06)

'Are We to Live, or Perish for Ever’;

Interfaith Forum and Other Encounters

Thus read Choudhary Rahmat Ali’s pamphlet in 1933 (then an undergraduate at the University of Cambridge) appealing for a separate Muslim state on behalf of the thirty million Muslims who lived in the 5 northern provinces of India. He appealed for the British governments’ ‘support and sympathy’ in their ‘grim and fateful struggle against political crucifixion and complete annihilation’. Five decades later, ironically another minority in the ancient ‘land of pure’ bound by infant national borders and an adolescent national identity, face similar struggles of political crucifixion. The isolated busthi communities of Christians living in abject poverty, hunger to be a part of a community they have been ostracised from. Long to reassert a national identity and a cultural heritage that spans more than 3000 years; exiled on the accusation that they were traitors to the East and in the pockets of the West. All because they believe in the divinity of a Semitic, who is revered as a Muslim prophet.

It was these communities we visited in the Peshawar busthis (slums), where people struggled not just to survive, but to convince their growing families why community ostracisms and socio-economic starvation not to mention harassment, and prejudice, was worth a belief. Fearful of their lives and loved ones every time the cowboy western democracies exercise their right to put their foot in their mouths (simply because they CAN), these families live in exile in their homeland. The stories of religious persecution, in the wake of the Dutch cartoon controversy made me rethink my culturally introverted indignation at the time. (‘People make fun of Christianity all the time, and no one blinks’ I had thought, ‘This unnecessary reactionism displays a lack of tolerance and collective-identity maturity’ I had judged). Ironically despite being a political-psychologist (paradoxically researching cognitive reasoning and social identity in societies of conflict), I had not wasted much thought or consideration on the consequences of the actions, or roots of the reactions. These poor sweepers and Latrine cleaners had better insight. They clearly identified the national insecurities of the East, in the face of what academics would call ‘the rise of global capitalism induced by western cowboy democracies’. In place of arrogant armchair analysis and academic smugness they understood with compassion and proactive reconciliation. Academic words I used in many a paper like peace building now had a face.
The sheer bravery (or insanity) of some Peshawar diocese youth groups that went on a peace march, the day after schools, missions and churches were bombed and mobbed (and many Christians killed) stirred poignant images of the frail fragments of life we had seen. The bullet scarred Cross in All Saints church, Peshawar, and it story of the 8 martyrs who each died trying to mount a cross on a church that was deceptively built like a mosque (because it was the only way to be able to build it without being shut down at the foundation) took our breath away. This was not just faith or blind martyrdom, but an intuitive understanding and commitment to a persecuted path.

At the Interfaith forum Bishop Mano spoke with a passion and sincerity appealing for a community that stands together against prejudice & violence in these difficult times. The Mullah’s and other Muslim community leaders spoke of a commitment to building relationships with Christian communities and reintegration of alienated Christian populace back into main stream society. Despite the commitment and vision of these liberal minded philanthropists, cynically, I wondered how much of this would become a reality, in the face of growing insecurity and explosive global politics.

Later that week, we (particularly us ‘women’ who are NEVER allowed in this ancient Peshawar mosque) tread gingerly across the alabaster archways richly decorated in heavy floral detail. The glory and the stillness of the marble corridors seemed to inspire communion with God. I felt that a loving omniscient God had abandoned these children of Abraham. Tangled theology of Soteriology and Teleology knotted my brow in accusation weighed in discontent. A few curious and some possibly distressed worshippers looked on, as the mullah conducted us through the mosque. Having been pre-briefed not to speak unless spoken to (given I shouldn’t even be there as a woman), I was pleasantly surprised when the ageing cleric spent some time talking to me with relaxed sincerity and unruffled graciousness, despite my awkward questions about women and worship. There was an unperturbed self possession of a man at peace with God as he spoke of the history, politics and culture that created the current paradigms of worship. My wide eyed stereotypes of fundamentalist, narrow minded men of this primitive frontier province, who were afraid of the insidious potency of modern woman and their ancient authority, disappeared in the bleeding sunset. I was touched at the dignity of the meeting of ideas from such diverse vantage points. It took a man truly at peace with himself to afford such candour and grace, in such a troubled region, inextricably woven into the complex chess games of authority and influence in politics and religion, and responsible for ministering to daily crisis and tragedy. Looking around the tangible beauty of the rose tinted minarets in the softly falling dusk, I felt reassured of a God whose Grace and Wisdom were infinite.

http://www.chaudhryrahmatali.com/now%20or%20never/

http://www.ely.anglican.org/parishes/camgsm/Majestas/1999/August.html#a_challenge_of_faith

http://www.pakistanchristianpost.com/newsviewsdetails.php?newsid=473

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pakistan#Etymology

http://www.pakistanlink.com/sah/04-07-2000.html

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A MOUNTAIN VILLAGE, North West Frontier Province, Pakistan (Sep 06)

Pateka, Earth Quake Relief progress

I could understand why it took days, even weeks to reach some of these remote mountain villages after the earthquake. One year on, despite all the aid activities, much of the roads remained unchanged. The bumpy rodeo ride in the open jeep on rough (and I mean rough!) mountain paths turned our breakfast into milkshake. But the sharp fresh mountain air and breathtaking views distracted any motion sickness. As we clambered from mountain to mountain ascending through earthquake upheaved terrain, holding on to our dear lives as the rickety old jeep swung through hair pin bends and mule tracks, we began to understand the meaning of the term ‘inaccessible’.

We arrived in Pateka, a little mountain village (which comprised of a few rustic habitations dotted around the mountain. as far as we could see) that the diocese of Peshawar had adopted. The projects had captured our imaginations and started to dispel some of last nights despair. We clambered from scheme to scheme, from static basic health units, timber workshops, newly built drinking-water units, to taupe covered temporary schools. The stories here were hopeful despite the obvious devastation. The series of interviews I did (for the CMS report I had to write) took my breath away, and etched in my memory the lessons from the core of humanity. Despair, seemed too tame a word to describe the grief, disorientation and loss. If great pain strips us to the core of humanity as many a philosopher boasts, here was a community, broken to its very primal foundations. Here were entire communities who lost on average at least more than 2 immediate family members, and hundreds of friends and relatives, had their homes, industries, schools, places of worship swallowed up whole by the treacherous mountains. In places like this, cut away from the rest of the world, these small communities were their entire universe.

The breath taking vistas of scarred mountains

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The stock questions I asked most volunteers was what the hardest thing they had to was, in the wake of the disaster. One hollow eyed man shook his head at my naïve frivolity; ‘everything!’ he said. ‘And I would do it over and over again, if it could save more lives, give more children back their fathers. more infants back to their mothers! Nothing about this was EASY!’. Sara, a young trainee nurse elaborated ‘When, you are faced with such devastation you don’t stop to think whether it is hard or easy, you just do all you can to help, and hope and pray something works.’ I realised the post-modern luxuries of cost and self-reflection were afforded to only some parameters of the world. The young Muslim nurse continued gently, perhaps realising the tinges of my shame, guilt, and discomfort. ‘When one has a heart to do such work, to prevent suffering, no one task is harder than the other.’

http://www.oxfam.org.uk/what_we_do/emergencies/country/asian_quake/index.htm

http://www.redcross.org.uk//standard.asp?id=56676&cachefixer

http://www.ifrc.org/what/disasters/response/pakistan/index.asp

Releif projects in Pateka

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THE RUBBLE OF BALAKOT, North-West Frontier Province, Pakistan (Sep. 06)

Dungeons of Debris

I don’t know why it surprised me, the rubble! They were everywhere, huge piles of concrete and debris over whelming everything, even the very mountains. The CMS progress report I was going to write could be summarised into 2 words. 'No progress', or so it seemed that 1^st night we arrived. A year on after the earth quake, all I could see were scarred mountains looking down on piles of rubble, and a scavenger peoples that seemed to have survived nevertheless. Even the photographs that 1^st night, reflect the sense of despair that we felt; of the emptiness despite the scavenging survivors and the dungeons of debris. We heard the stories over and over again, how some of the most beautiful pine fresh mountains that embellished many a travel guide had suddenly been torn apart swallowing up entire villages, whole. We listened, breathing in the awkward still dusk as hollow eyed grown men, told us how their wives and children were swallowed whole by the treacherous ground. We apologised uncomfortably conscious that repeating these stories to every wide eyed visitor that came was probably not helping.

‘The worst was the stench of death’, one volunteer who were among the 1^st rescue workers that arrived at the scene described. ‘It was impossible to find survivors in the piles of the dead. Everywhere you dug you were likely to find dead bodies’, he elaborated as I uncomfortably pried at the mound of soil I was standing on. Night had come with its soft muggy claustrophobic mists and veiled the mountains in morose shadows, and the stories of the 100s of school children that were buried alive were feeding our despairing morbidity. 85 000 people had died in the span of minutes, and worse the rest were still struggling; survival was still a day to day challenge.

As we stood on the bridge looking back on the desolation which had once been a pretty rustic mountain village, I was overwhelmed with a grief that wasn’t mine. Forgotten memories of a charred corpse came seeping back insidiously, choking me with nausea. The river splashed against the bridge as the enormity of the scale of death and destruction became obvious. Despair seemed to lap against the overwhelmed team as they dejectedly watched the river in impotent misery. I was recalling a promise that held that nothing beyond what we could bear would be given to us to carry. I thought of all the death, destruction desolation and despair our generation had seen in reproach. Who could carry this?!! This abandoned generation that I could see no hope or healing for.

Almost in response a knot of children approached us on the bridge wanting their pictures taken. There was no dejection or despair in their countenance. They could have been children from anywhere, and their curiosity and bright bashful faces kindled something akin to hope. As the many encounters of the restoration work we witnessed established, the almost primal beauty of the survivalist resilience and altruistic kinship that knits humanity in the face of overwhelming adversity, is as old as the imposing mountains and as refreshing as the fresh-water springs. But most surprisingly in these hidden depths of divine design is a fulfilment of a promise.

http://www.peshawardiocese.org/earthquakegallery.asp

http://www.interaction.org/newswire/detail.php?id=4471

http://www.uspg.org.uk/news/news_earthquake.php

http://www.cms-uk.org/news/2005/earthquake_kashmir_111005.htm

http://www.globalsecurity.org/military/world/pakistan/earthquake-2005-images.htm

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/south_asia/4327882.stm

http://www.thepakistanquake.com/pakistan-quake-pictures.html

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Albums from Balakot

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DRAGGED BY WILD HORSES, Peshawar, Pakistan (Sep 06)

I didn’t want to go to Pakistan to begin with. ‘Wild horses couldn’t drag me there if they tried’, was what I thought when I 1^st saw the mission brief. Jonah was probably much keener to get to Nineveh. But some inexplicable force dragged me kicking and screaming to go interview and even attend the mission brief. Eventually, despite all my rationalisation of why it was not the best idea, I just couldn’t walk away from it. Being South Asian myself, and having travelled around India quite extensively, I really didn’t see what encounter of cultures I could bring to the venture or what novel experience I would find. Pakistan didn’t sound half as pretty or salubrious as my native island Sri Lanka. And as far as poverty, conflict, destruction and suffering went, I felt I had seen enough to last my mortal years, and I didn’t want to see things unless I was going to do something about it. But I have to admit a part of me was beginning to wonder what I was afraid of seeing or experiencing. Being a contrary soul, I thought it might do my much pampered comfort zone some good, if nothing else. So almost with half hearted acquiescence I decide to go along with this pointless expedition.

Of course sods law working overtime ensured that my visa was not initially admitted, and then 3 days before I was to fly, I sprained one ankle, and then the other. The 1^st while rock climbing and then the other involving (an apparently amusing series of events) running into a volleyball net in a wet muddy field in Criccieth, in the blinding rain and falling awkwardly on my ankle (so called friends found it deeply amusing and filmed the event rather than helping me out of my mind numbing pain). While I could manage a painful hobble it was slowing everyone down which was much less entertaining than the mortifying wheelchair. So by the time I got to London I was providing even more amusement to the mission team who took turns in pushing my wheel chair around Heathrow. But frankly after the ridiculous mile long queues (and you think I jest or exaggerate!!) for the million security checks I was actually deeply grateful that Anna had got me a wheel chair.

When I eventually landed in Peshawar, in the troubled North-west Frontier of Pakistan, I committed my habitual cardinal sin of travel, and thought, ‘now that we are here nothing else can go wrong’. Literally 2 minutes after we landed as I was hobbling from the air craft to the immigration building, I felt vaguely light-headed despite the explosive heat and painfully throbbing ankle and things went a hazy white! I regained consciousness in some sort of a medical room at the airport, and people kept speaking to me in strange tongues (It was like my greatest fear at Soul Survivor had come true!!). I don’t think I helped matters by looking disoriented and not explaining I wasn’t Pakistani and didn’t understand, Urdu, Punjabi or Hindi (and whatever else languages they tried). Finally an English speaking doctor explained that they thought I had had a heart attack as he removed the pressure monitor from my arm. Despite the vibrating heat (and my apparent near heart attack!!!) my head dress was firmly on, and was in fact being ‘fixed’ by disapproving nurse to throttle my still struggling breathing.

Eventually, despite our dramatic entrance we made it to our accommodation, in the heart of the city. Peshawar was all dust, rubble and smog with layers of temporal remnants in mosaic inlay randomly crammed together. Ancient carvings and arabesque marble juxtaposed with the plastic post modern structures. The very plump orange sun swam on the horizon, unsteadily dangling among ancient minarets and unfinished sky scrapers. As the dusk kissed city started calling its citizens to prayer in the remnants of the bleeding sunset, some synesthetic sense awakened drowsily in the exhausted travel fatigue, and recognised a strange new strain of beauty. In the trail of the dust (both literally & metaphorically) that had dragged my travel bruised conscious kicking and screaming, I stopped to find unexpected beauty… everywhere.

Albums from Peshawar

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PLACES WHERE THE FATIGUED SOULS GO TO REST; Criccieth, Wales (Aug 06)

And the Adventurous Dare Explore and Claim!!

There are places that the wounded souls come and unmask, and drink deeply of each others compassion and reassurance; Places young adventurous hearts come seeking something that they can’t quite put a name to; places that are sacred because generations have chosen to join as a compassionate community and come before an omniscient benevolent presence that knows each by name, and worship him. Criccieth is such a place. A place where a group of people have come year after year to drink deeply of each others fellowship, to take off the masks worn through the year in post-modern society and to be themselves, knowing they are loved and accepted as they are. It’s a place where we all thirst for during the year, not because God is contained to a field, but because it is one of those rare places where the ingredients for simple community worship is just right.

While there is some formal teaching in the evening worship meeting, my experience of real teaching comes from that one perfect sunset or on that river bend as you kayak down stream, or battle to climb Snowdon despite all odds. The parables drawn by the Spirit are much more potent than any human teaching. It’s a place that is special to individuals because it is where significant markers in their spiritual journey can be counted from. It is for many a Penniel, where issues are battled with and laid to rest, pockets of pain & fear are confronted and resolved, and for some quite simply the place where they encountered the Divine and found him to be within the grasp of a very personal perception.

Bu t most of all it’s a place of fun and laughter and adventure, a place for living because it is the Fathers joy to see us enjoy his gifts of creation , choice and life!

http://www.cricciethcyfacamp.com/begin.htm

http://www.cpas.org.uk/ventures/content/

Moments from Criccieth 2006

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THE END OF A CHAPTER; Criccieth, Wales (Aug 06)

Round the river bend

All good things must come to an end or joy stagnates into discontent. In this vein I’d like to celebrate 5 fabulous years at Criccieth, where my spirit found rest, resolution and rejuvenation. The nourishment of its green pastures (literally) and joy in its clear cool waters (again quite literally) and now as I move onto new challenges and unknown peoples and places, let me celebrate the glory and wonder that is Criccieth...

Moments from Criccieth 2004

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"And if you would know God be not therefore a solver of riddles.
Rather look about you and you shall see Him playing with your children.
And look into space;
you shall see Him walking in the cloud,
outstretching His arms in the lightning and descending in rain.
You shall see Him smiling in flowers,
then rising and waving His hands in trees. "

-Khalil GIbran (From the Prophet 1923)

Moments from Criccieth 2005

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LIFE IN ABUNDANCE

Gen. 1: 6: “The LORD God formed the man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.”

John 10: 10: “I have come that they may have life, and have it in abundance.”

Proverbs 4: 23: Guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life”

"Life is older than all things living;
even as beauty was winged ere the beautiful was born on earth,
and even as truth was truth ere it was uttered.
Life sings in our silences,
and dreams in our slumber.
Even when we are beaten and low,
Life is enthroned and high.
And when we weep,
Life smiles upon the day,
and is free even when we drag our chains.
Oftentimes we call Life bitter names,
but only when we ourselves are bitter and dark.
And we deem her empty and unprofitable,
but only when the soul goes wandering in desolate places,
and the heart is drunken with over-mindfulness of self. Life is deep and high and distant;
and though only your vast vision can reach even her feet,
yet she is near;
and though only the breath of your breath reaches her heart,
the shadow of your shadow crosses her face,
and the echo of your faintest cry becomes a spring and an autumn in her breast. And Life is veiled and hidden,
even as your greater self is hidden and veiled.
Yet when Life speaks,
all the winds become words;
and when she speaks again,
the smiles upon your lips and the tears in your eyes turn also into words.
When she sings,
the deaf hear and are held;
and when she comes walking,
the sightless behold her and are amazed and follow her in wonder and astonishment."

- Khalil Gibran

from ‘the Garden of the Prophet’

JUDGMENTAL COGNITIVE PSYCHOLOGISTS : Bath, England (Aug 06)

Soul Survivor: Bath, England (Aug 06)

Soul Survivor 06

http://www.soulsurvivor.com/uk/homepage.asp

CYFA excursion to Shepton Malley, for Soul Survivor. Mass camping with 22 000 other strangers is really not a claustrophobics ideal. Nevertheless the 52 strong CYFA group and extended leadership team decided to guilt me for weeks, and then kidnap me when all else failed. (I remember Gareth saying quite decisively!! "You are coming and THAT’S THAT!!!") Despite the reluctant trip, it is impossible to not have fun surrounded by my weird and wonderful youth group who I had missed for weeks while in Fribourg. Throw in a few guitars, blazing sunshine during the day and clear starry skies at night, a BBQ and enormous amounts of steak (and pocket money to buy Chinese and Belgian waffles when you grow tired of the steak every day routine!!- if Fribourg didn’t convert me into a vegetarian this sure will!!) and you get one heck of a good time!!!

If the fabulous teachings of Mike Pilavachi and the extended worship didn’t soothe my travel ruffled soul, the great opportunity to bond with the CYFA group and the nurturing fellowship of the girly tent did. The lively girly chats in female leaders tent about, Stasi Eldredge’s new feminist theology ("we are re-branding Christian feminism!!" said Jess! and "here! here!!!" said Lucinda!! and a new feminist theory was born!) the lack of Mr. Darcys’, the original sin & the hesitant Adam, under the vast velvety skies and diamond stars of Shepton Malley long into the night, made up for the long absences from each others company over the year.

Despite all the fun and laughter there were many things that were a stretch for my comfort zones; the sweeping waves of fainting made the over analytical cognitive psychologist in me a little anxious, and the over cynical matron of Halls in me a little judgmental (instead of focusing on the holy spirit, I think I was busy earmarking the people who would faint!). Nevertheless, the Holy Spirit continued anointing and gifting people despite the judgmental concerns of the cognitive psychologists in the crowds. (I fervently prayed ‘I have never fainted in my life! please don’t let me start now!!’ please don’t gift, prophesy or rest on me and make me do embarrassing things!!) I wasn’t just out of my comfort zone! my comfort zone was a blip on the horizon! Having always thought self control to be a gift of the spirit I didn’t quite understand the ‘undignified worship’ I thought!! As if in response the crowds sang ‘I can be more undignified than this’ (from Dancing generation) and proceeded to dance throughout the big top!

The heart broken, the tormented, the self harming, the emotionally dysfunctional, the physically and psychologically impaired they came in their droves. I sat their thinking, ‘Lord your children seem to be a particularly flawed and needy bunch of people!’ No wonder the secular world thinks we Christians aren’t cool! And then that uncomfortably clear (Uncomfortable because post modern understandings of cognition might categorise it to be schizophrenic) presence reminded me of the parable of the great banquet (Luke 14: 15)

But why? I kept nagging my line of enquiry, ‘does this mean those people with no issues, no life threatening challenges who’s souls haven't been touched by pain don’t get a chance to find you??’. ‘Where are these people! These perfect lives? ‘No one is immune to pain’’; my internal dialogue continued. But not everyone dares to become vulnerable within that pain. When pain digs deep hollow caverns different people fill it with different things, hatred, work obsession, rationalisation, and even good works for its own sake. When all that is expected is a broken heart, and openness and sensitivity to HIS voice (Psalm 51; 17)

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THE COLOURS OF CONTENTMENT, Switzerland (Jul 06)

The Definition of a Robin

the medieval remnants of Ville de Fribourg at the Monastery Kuriousum (just out side my window)

Surrounded by the breath taking beauty of the mountains, comfortably ensconced in a snug monastery ‘inn’ with a myriad of little villages connected by picturesque wooden bridges for me to potter around in for weeks, one would think I would be in 7^th heaven. However, the human condition being quite contrary, I was beginning to feel quite home sick after the initial fortnight of enchantment. The home made everything (from the cheese, bread, honey and even crockery, to the home cured ham) which was exquisite to my palate in the beginning, was now a little ‘samey’; the melodious chimes of the countless steeples which had created an opus of delight, was now bordering on irritating (and waking me up every 15 mins). The captivating charm of the village at the foot of Mt. Sonnenberg had exhausted its little nooks and crannies that I could potter in, and frankly the climb up and down the cobbled mountain daily was wearing me out (really!! who!? cobbles mountains!!!).

The thing about pottering about a strange city (however quaint and picturesque) by yourself is, that it stretches your soul into new shapes and muscles that you didn’t realise could exist, and after a while you are a little tired of the exercise. You just want to back to your little safe misty mosty little corner of the world, and let the rest of you cosy little social tapestry define you. We are not comfortable not being a clear bundle of characteristics, experiences and most importantly being a part of something, or someone.

Evidence of my (not very original) obsession in photographing doors

Even the more sophisticated adventures of the little town of Fribourg, which was only a 15 minute walk away across the Ponte de Jean had exhausted its Jazz festivals, marionette museums, mad Celtic treasure hunts and culturally confused football frenzies. (where the entire city went world-cup mad and tooted their horns till dawn in the hope of drowning out the blessed chiming steeples!!). I was home sick! It was ridiculously hot!! and I was missing the Criccieth planning day in Manchester!!! As a fellow British tourist exclaimed, “You are Home sick for Manchester! in the midst of all this!!?!!?! (The fact that home is in Liverpool is immaterial!!!); the irony wasn’t lost on me. I could almost glimpse the seraphim’s lurching thunderbolts that hissed ‘ingrate!’ across the alpine summits.

Not being grateful for daily blessings is probably a part of our very core nature. If Adam & Eve were grateful for the Garden of Eden, we would still be in Utopia. But we yearn for everything, other than that which is before us. Eve was all too easily convinced (according to Genesis) that God was holding out on her, that there were bigger and better things withheld by divine providence, even when in the midst of Eden. I was a true daughter of Eve in my discontent.

As I was trudging back up the mountain out of breath and exhausted and feeling a little more than guilty for spending most of the lovely warm alpine morning cooped up in a dark and musty internet café, a little Robin started to hop along with me. The little comical thing didn’t take long to cheer me up as it accompanied me a good way up the mountain (I gather in hope of a crumb), and I started to sprout plagiarised poetry in my head about how birds of the field (or in this case the cobbled path) didn’t plough or weave.

Then it happened, a big hulking motorised hunk of mettle just drove over a splat of feathers and beak. I must have stood there gasping and indignant for a good 20 mins. I was upset at cosmic irony of ‘divine providence’ as much as with the hunk of mettle. After I made my way back to the refuge of the monastery, I felt quite foolish for getting upset at the road pressed robin. Being a carnivore I eat animal carcass on a daily basis without a moments hesitation and with great relish. And this bird probably lived a fuller, happier life than farm reared poultry. Hundreds of people die every day of poverty, famine, disease, or political genocide. Being an arm chair academic that measures death and oppression in statistical parameters, I hardly waste my tears on the scatter-grams and box-plots of death.

The doom and gloom of my morose reflections were back. So is that it?! for those poor sods who live in abject poverty, or lethargic indecent wealth, and are then blown up in some vicious explosive by some genocidal maniac or are flattened by a collapsing mountain in a skiing accident. If life, in its every day measures, doesn’t define us (and clearly what ever the conditions, we are incapable living up to the value of salvation) does death measure our worth.

And then I realised that it is Grace that defines us. Grace, was not just a mediation for salvation, but also a definition of all we are. When the psalmists said not a hair on our head falls without his knowledge and not a breath was taken outside His consciousness, that was an expression of grace defining the very milliseconds of our existence. The definitions of the many shapes and forms of our continuous day to day living. The very meaning and truth of our unique and individual lives were woven together and defined by grace! And it is a Grace that is extended beyond death!!

http://www.unifr.ch/pedg/AME/welcome_page.htm

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FAIRY TALES; Montreux, Switzerland (July 06)

Evanescent hues of gold and silver

from Lake Geneva, Château de Chillon, Montreux, Switzerland.

So there I was in the middle of my very own fairy tale. The endless lake shimmered in a perfect sunset, and on the tip of the waters edge, framed perfectly and precisely in the grandeur that can be achieved only by Swiss tradition, the mountains looked over the golden castle.

Inside, the lilting sonata of the minstrels blended in harmony with champagne induced merriment. My palette for aesthetic precision was entirely satisfied on every level. The magic the minstrels wove in the twilight, transformed the courtyard into a medieval tapestry, complete with handsome knights & exquisite ladies’.

In the courtyard, Château de Chillon, Montreux, Switzerland.

When we went in for the fantasy medieval dinner, the magic continued. The gathering of academics, these earnest dreamers of morality, logic & reason, who despite their penchant for the aesthetic would have been as happy in a dreary dungeon with each other for company, was reaching a fever pitch of excitement. The animation of new projects, proposals and papers, the exhilaration of analysis and cross analysis feeding a frenzy of debates, and the quiet and delicate contentment of completed threads of inferences approaching meta theories; this was academic heaven.

In the courtyard, Château de Chillon, Montreux, Switzerland.

“Isn’t this perfect!” I enthused to a charming fellow academic next to me, a native of Montreux; “this is where I want to come when I die!”. “You can’t imagine how fortunate you are living among all this beauty!” “It is a perfect evening” she agreed quite sincerely, and then I noticed my faux pas… she was blind. I escaped looking for the powder room to overcome my awkward embarrassment, and characteristically got lost, and found my self in a tower room.

It was an unlit room that my eyes took time to adjust to, and one open window looked out onto the lake.

I walked over, and for while was lost to the beauty of the shimmering haze before me. A knot of emotions, gratitude, wonder, sorrow, frustration, and fear came from some deep forgotten pocket that I had no idea existed. I ran back to get a knot of friends who could share in my wordless epiphany (and then try capture the evanescent on film).

a peek at eternity, Château de Chillon, Montreux, Switzerland.

AME Banquet, Château de Chillon, Montreux, Switzerland.

Back at the table I found that my blind colleague was an artist. Despite her visual impairment she seemed to have a clear sense of my bewilderment. So she elaborated on her synesthetic experience of colour and the aesthetic. I was suddenly grateful that the creator had not left the blind aesthetically handicapped. And then she explained it quite simply, ‘Beauty is a matter of the Soul!’

He it is, the innermost one,
who awakens my being with his deep hidden touches.
He it is who puts his enchantment upon these eyes
and joyfully plays on the chords of my heart
in varied cadence of pleasure and pain.
He it is who weaves the web of this maya
in evanescent hues of gold and silver, blue and green,
and lets peep out through the folds his feet,
at whose touch I forget myself.
Days come and ages pass,
and it is ever he who moves my heart in many a name,
in many a guise, in many a rapture of joy and of sorrow.

-Rabrindanath Tagore

from Lake Geneva, Château de Chillon, Montreux, Switzerland.

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RUNNING LIKE CLOCKWORK: Fribourg, Switzerland (July 06)

Troubadour Tales

My plane was delayed, so I missed my train from Geneva, and to top it all, I had lost my bank card and was carrying nearly £1000 in cash in my rucksack!! Having had the week from hell in my mad scramble to finish my paper where everything possible went wrong, (possibly due to the sheer marathon of continuous sleeplessness) I arrived at last in Fribourg thinking ‘at least nothing else can go wrong’.

Rule no 1, never, NEVER! NEVER!!!, even think that!


So I promptly found out that there were no taxi’s at that time of the night, and the Hotel I had booked on the web didn’t exist, and the locals didn’t speak much English. Finally I scrambled on a bus in the direction (I hoped!) of the address I had wildly clutched in hand, only to realise that I should have purchased a ticket from Lord knows where, but clearly NOT from the driver. The exasperated bus driver let me on, only because he clearly did not have the patience to try decipher my non existent French. And as we careered round a steep mountain bend, the lights of Fribourg cheerfully disappearing behind me, I panicked!!



The Kuriousum nestled among the mountains of Fibourg

My sheer terror must have shown on my face because a rather clear voice behind me said “you look like you need help!”. I decided to ignore the multiple layered implications and asked for directions. He explained that there was no such Hotel, but a monastery/ Gallery (Kuriosum) that might possibly be renting out rooms. He also explained that my stop was right next to the Prison. My visuals of a fairy tale monastery immediately disappeared to be replaced by a Dickensian nightmare. The kind stranger offered to get down at my stop and guide me up the mountain. Given it was well past midnight, my uncharitable suspicions about handsome psychopathic Samaritans were tying my stomach in knots. Nevertheless we got off near the Prison (which in the dark was a frightening shadowy hunk) to find that the Swiss mean precisely what they say in their address lines. Mt. Sonnenberg WAS a mountain (OK!! so it was a very VERY TALL hill) on which the monastery/ Kuriousum was placed. I only had to drag my trolley bag and rucksack up the curiously cobbled and dysfunctionaly steep Mt. S.

The strange Swiss Samaritan gallantly offered to carry my bags, and I kept offering feeble fragments of explanation (I didn’t dare say "not on your life mate! that is a sizable part of my bank deposit"), as to why I would rather struggle one inch at a time, out of breath and clearly about to knuckle down under the weight. Finally, fatigue and sheer frustration with the situation, made me surrender my bags with a hiss of a prayer to divine providence (which distinctly sounded like "let YOUR will be done if YOUR WILL is to have me mugged on an alpine abscess!!"). I was tired and bedraggled and extremely exasperated with ‘divine providence’ which was not being terribly compassionate or cooperative, I thought!!

The Kuriousum nestled among the mountains of Fibourg

Despite my intuitive mistrust in Divine Grace (rumour has it that we inherited this from Eve), his image bearers in creation (can you blame me in post modern humanity) the stranger turned out to be a friend of the chair of the conference I was attending, and a Philosophy lecturer at the University of Fribourg. He managed to wake up the son of the warden, find my keys, deposit me safely in my hostel, explain my linguistic difficulties to the ‘inn keeper’, and give him his contact details incase there were further complications, and disappear before I found out his name or thanked him properly.

As the charming music of the chiming steeples that echoed around the mountains sang me to sleep, tired and drowsy, wrapped in a snowy robe after an intoxicating lavender bath, I incoherently decided Divine Providence was rather like time. Not everything runs like clock work, but time is not as anal and precise as we would have it be, and yet resolves everything in its own rhythm and place.

Monastery fragments in the compound in Mt. Sonenberg







http://www.unifr.ch/pedg/AME/welcome_page.htm

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