Wednesday, October 22, 2008
THE SECRET LIFE OF BEES
I just saw the movie called the SECRET LIFE OF BEES based on Sue Monk Kidd's book with the same title. I loved it. I read the book afterwards. I preferred the movie. I'm not saying don't bother with the book, but ....go see the movie. There weren't major differences, but what the movie omitted were good omissions, I thought. The acting was great, first of all. The book was not badly written either, but there were parts which I thought took things to the extreme that may discourage noncatholics or even confirm suspicions that catholics do worship Mary. The characters were lovable and they were so devoted to Mary, in both the book and the movie. I haven't read on the author yet, but hopefully she did not intend to portray Mary as a 'woman god'. Because that's not how Catholics see Mary. Those who are devoted to Mary will see Mary as Mary, the Mother of God, our loving mediatrix and would appreciate the movie for that. For we know her and what her role is in the Church: to bring us close to her Son. It is my hope that those who do not know her, after watching/reading the Secret Life of Bees, will seek her and then will know her. And for those who think know her and think she is competing with Jesus... well, may she intercede for them, as I know she would.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
A Builder of Babel
I want to tell a story of wrong choices
against God’s warnings
If I didn’t know what I now know, I probably would
Make the same choices.
Remember the consequences, I’d tell myself. If I knew
my plans would never coincide with God’s
I would have stopped at the silence
And wouldn’t plead any further.
I’m tired of guessing.
I am tired of being tired.
and one would say
it is because I do not put God on my agenda.
One would say I speak of him. But so what does that do.
One says I have schemes but not a plot.
if they’re right
to make God laugh, tell him your plans.
then I am afraid I am his best stand up comic.
How does one know? How does one find out what’s in the plan.
I don’t want to waste my time.
if I don’t know yet at forty-seven,
Will I know at forty-eight?
Am I just going to watch people flourish while I become stale?
I want to get up there
without having to build the tower of Babel
which would stop production
the minute I start speaking.
against God’s warnings
If I didn’t know what I now know, I probably would
Make the same choices.
Remember the consequences, I’d tell myself. If I knew
my plans would never coincide with God’s
I would have stopped at the silence
And wouldn’t plead any further.
I’m tired of guessing.
I am tired of being tired.
and one would say
it is because I do not put God on my agenda.
One would say I speak of him. But so what does that do.
One says I have schemes but not a plot.
if they’re right
to make God laugh, tell him your plans.
then I am afraid I am his best stand up comic.
How does one know? How does one find out what’s in the plan.
I don’t want to waste my time.
if I don’t know yet at forty-seven,
Will I know at forty-eight?
Am I just going to watch people flourish while I become stale?
I want to get up there
without having to build the tower of Babel
which would stop production
the minute I start speaking.
Friday, October 10, 2008
RAKING
My right hand clasps the tip of the handle
As if holding a ladle, ready to stir the pot
My left rests about the middle of the stick
And I am ready to begin.
I drop the tines on unsuspecting leaves
Some escaping the vicious steel with the help of the wind.
I lift
And drop
And pull
The captured leaves shaking their way to the pile
I lift
And drop
And pull
Each stroke, a thought
The mortgage is three months over due
How do I explain it to Chase Manhattan?
lift
drop
pull
My list is tedious.
The unfinished poems
Undone hems and unsewn buttons.
The soil is drunk with manure.
And I get drunk with it.
The pile is now a mountain
I must pick up all the leaves
Leaving no trace
Making sure I do not crack them to pieces
difficult for a gap-toothed rake to pick up
The tree shakes off more leaves
As though expressing a desire for a communal burial for its dead.
I pause.
The six o'clock bells of Santa Monica call for the Angelus
behold the handmaid of the Lord
And then I run the rake across the lawn again
Going around the tree’s heaving roots
I sigh when all the leaves are gathered
All I have to do now
is to move the mountain into the bin.
As if holding a ladle, ready to stir the pot
My left rests about the middle of the stick
And I am ready to begin.
I drop the tines on unsuspecting leaves
Some escaping the vicious steel with the help of the wind.
I lift
And drop
And pull
The captured leaves shaking their way to the pile
I lift
And drop
And pull
Each stroke, a thought
The mortgage is three months over due
How do I explain it to Chase Manhattan?
lift
drop
pull
My list is tedious.
The unfinished poems
Undone hems and unsewn buttons.
The soil is drunk with manure.
And I get drunk with it.
The pile is now a mountain
I must pick up all the leaves
Leaving no trace
Making sure I do not crack them to pieces
difficult for a gap-toothed rake to pick up
The tree shakes off more leaves
As though expressing a desire for a communal burial for its dead.
I pause.
The six o'clock bells of Santa Monica call for the Angelus
behold the handmaid of the Lord
And then I run the rake across the lawn again
Going around the tree’s heaving roots
I sigh when all the leaves are gathered
All I have to do now
is to move the mountain into the bin.
All She Wanted Was a Dime
As I passed her by at Mission and third
I stuck my hand in my coat pocket
To silence my clanging coins
She was crouched next to her grocery cart
And held her filthy hand at me
I said no.
I have no dime to spare today.
She nodded and tucked her hand back
Into her many layers of clothing.
She looked away as though it pained her
To see in me
Herself
A lifetime ago.
I stuck my hand in my coat pocket
To silence my clanging coins
She was crouched next to her grocery cart
And held her filthy hand at me
I said no.
I have no dime to spare today.
She nodded and tucked her hand back
Into her many layers of clothing.
She looked away as though it pained her
To see in me
Herself
A lifetime ago.
As Though God Were A Mere Part of the Scenery
A bird flying beneath me
At last she cannot soil my head
from the 31st floor of Argent Hotel
I followed her with my eyes
Gliding
So long
Soaring
Above Third Street
Moscone Center
A Gap billboard
Back to Mission Street
Over a muni bus
A stretch limousine
I thought she would fall
From exhaustion
She lands on the steps of St. Patrick’s
Unmindful of a man in a suit
Oblivious of another in a sleeping bag
in soot.
At last she cannot soil my head
from the 31st floor of Argent Hotel
I followed her with my eyes
Gliding
So long
Soaring
Above Third Street
Moscone Center
A Gap billboard
Back to Mission Street
Over a muni bus
A stretch limousine
I thought she would fall
From exhaustion
She lands on the steps of St. Patrick’s
Unmindful of a man in a suit
Oblivious of another in a sleeping bag
in soot.
Shack Shock
I recently read a book called "The Shack" by William P. Young. It was #1 bestseller, it bragged. Exclamation pointed. I flipped it over, read the back cover reviews where I found more excited punctuations! Of course, nobody is going to allow anything foul decorate their cover. But still. And it was about God. It is about forgiveness. McKenzie’s young daughter was abducted and brutally murdered by a serial killer. McKenzie’s faith was so-so after that. And it wasn’t that great to begin with because he had a horrible childhood; he was physically and psychologically abused by his father. McKenzie got a note from Papa to meet him in the shack, where Missy, his daughter, was murdered. Papa was God. So, jackpot. I was excited as an exclamation point, hopped over to the cashier and bought the book.
As soon as I’m done with it, I’d be passing it on for sure, I told myself. But by not even-midbook, I found myself digging for my receipt so I could take it back. It was too late, though. What, with the already cracked spine and pages spread like a fan? It was past the point of guilt-free returnability. I figured I might as well keep on reading and hope the author would turn things around because after all, a book on God could not possibly disappoint its reader. You would think.
Okay, so God was a woman called Papa. It wasn’t like the first time God was given a feminine gender. Why, I hear it all the time from feminists around me wanting to sound current—as though a male God is defunct. That wasn’t unusual. But a lady Holy Spirit named Sarayu was a bit out of the common delirium. Get over it, I told myself. Besides, the book wasn’t a total myth, because after all, Jesus was portrayed as a man. He was big-nosed and plain, though. Never mind that. And never mind that each had a different nationality. I’ve lived in California long enough not to pinpoint people by ethnicity. I should let all that slide, I told myself. Besides, the author, just like anybody else, can only take a stab at what God is really like in his human imagination. So I took it all as a mere polite suggestion: what if God was a woman or imagine God as an African American. Imagine the Holy Spirit was Asian. But. I cannot. I cannot nonchalantly what-if or imagine God that way. I keep my imagination within the pictures of the bible, the teachings of the church. And I know that The Shack is a work of fiction, not of theology but if one were to hint on God’s intentions, God’s thoughts, God’s messages to us, I think theology has to be consulted and the bible not contradicted. I could not go along with the author’s campaign for faith without religion. Sure fiction is subject to the author’s interpretation of his topic. And I should just take it or leave it. But the suggestions on God’s intent on religion were a bit indulgent and I was thankful that my faith is stable enough so as not to say aha, there is no need to read the bible or pray the rosary or obey my husband. There’s no need to go to church. I could sleep in on Sundays. I didn’t like the way the book boldly hint that organized religion was just man-made stuff and is not God’s way. Of course it is God’s way. Did God not build his church upon Peter, the rock, His apostle, the first pope? God revealed himself to us through scripture and scripture teaches us to commemorate Jesus’ passion through the Eucharist. Why wouldn’t Christ not want people to become Christians? Wait, what? God does not intend for us to follow rules? He handed Moses the Ten Commandments, after all, and not The Ten Suggestions. I guess fiction is allowed to be incredible and sometimes bizarre.
But as always, when I read, I take the good and reject the bad. And there is a bundle of good in "The Shack" despite the fantasies. I liked the way the author spotlighted on 'Trust in God'. I myself say I trust God, but the decisions I make sometimes, say other wise. And it isn’t that I do not trust God, really, it’s just that I do not like what He has to say or what He wants me to do, so I go my own way. I believe He knows what’s best—I never doubt that--and He wouldn’t give me a snake if I asked for a fish, but sometimes I cannot tell a fish from a snake and sometimes I think I’m asking for a fish but I’m not and when I don’t get the fish, I go off fishing on my own. So, I commend the author on that. It hit me in the face as it should.
And another slap in the face (in a good way) was the author’s splendid illumination on forgiveness. I can pardon slight wrongdoings like insults, slander or discrimination. But I do not know, if I were McKenzie (who forgave the killer of his daughter), that I could release the murderer from his sin. It is easier for me to forgive someone I love, like McKenzie forgave his Father, because I would want him to go to heaven. But someone like Missy’s killer? What do I care? The scum. That virus. The maggot. Let him burn. But the author calls us to care and that we should not judge and that God is the only judge because He’s the only one who knows the whole story of each of us. That got me. It made me realize how unforgiving I am because I rate myself as a bona fide judge, a godlet.
But would I pass the book on? Still, I wouldn’t. Even though I was smitten with his take on forgiveness and trust-in-God, the author’s message was still smudged with weighty disturbing misleading information. I do appreciate the author’s speaking of God, but his speaking for God, I have to say no, thanks. If someone with an unanchored faith reads this book, he may get carried away with the fallacies. But as for me, I am thankful that I know better, and I am keeping my religious observances as I believe God and the church (whom God loves) would have it.
As soon as I’m done with it, I’d be passing it on for sure, I told myself. But by not even-midbook, I found myself digging for my receipt so I could take it back. It was too late, though. What, with the already cracked spine and pages spread like a fan? It was past the point of guilt-free returnability. I figured I might as well keep on reading and hope the author would turn things around because after all, a book on God could not possibly disappoint its reader. You would think.
Okay, so God was a woman called Papa. It wasn’t like the first time God was given a feminine gender. Why, I hear it all the time from feminists around me wanting to sound current—as though a male God is defunct. That wasn’t unusual. But a lady Holy Spirit named Sarayu was a bit out of the common delirium. Get over it, I told myself. Besides, the book wasn’t a total myth, because after all, Jesus was portrayed as a man. He was big-nosed and plain, though. Never mind that. And never mind that each had a different nationality. I’ve lived in California long enough not to pinpoint people by ethnicity. I should let all that slide, I told myself. Besides, the author, just like anybody else, can only take a stab at what God is really like in his human imagination. So I took it all as a mere polite suggestion: what if God was a woman or imagine God as an African American. Imagine the Holy Spirit was Asian. But. I cannot. I cannot nonchalantly what-if or imagine God that way. I keep my imagination within the pictures of the bible, the teachings of the church. And I know that The Shack is a work of fiction, not of theology but if one were to hint on God’s intentions, God’s thoughts, God’s messages to us, I think theology has to be consulted and the bible not contradicted. I could not go along with the author’s campaign for faith without religion. Sure fiction is subject to the author’s interpretation of his topic. And I should just take it or leave it. But the suggestions on God’s intent on religion were a bit indulgent and I was thankful that my faith is stable enough so as not to say aha, there is no need to read the bible or pray the rosary or obey my husband. There’s no need to go to church. I could sleep in on Sundays. I didn’t like the way the book boldly hint that organized religion was just man-made stuff and is not God’s way. Of course it is God’s way. Did God not build his church upon Peter, the rock, His apostle, the first pope? God revealed himself to us through scripture and scripture teaches us to commemorate Jesus’ passion through the Eucharist. Why wouldn’t Christ not want people to become Christians? Wait, what? God does not intend for us to follow rules? He handed Moses the Ten Commandments, after all, and not The Ten Suggestions. I guess fiction is allowed to be incredible and sometimes bizarre.
But as always, when I read, I take the good and reject the bad. And there is a bundle of good in "The Shack" despite the fantasies. I liked the way the author spotlighted on 'Trust in God'. I myself say I trust God, but the decisions I make sometimes, say other wise. And it isn’t that I do not trust God, really, it’s just that I do not like what He has to say or what He wants me to do, so I go my own way. I believe He knows what’s best—I never doubt that--and He wouldn’t give me a snake if I asked for a fish, but sometimes I cannot tell a fish from a snake and sometimes I think I’m asking for a fish but I’m not and when I don’t get the fish, I go off fishing on my own. So, I commend the author on that. It hit me in the face as it should.
And another slap in the face (in a good way) was the author’s splendid illumination on forgiveness. I can pardon slight wrongdoings like insults, slander or discrimination. But I do not know, if I were McKenzie (who forgave the killer of his daughter), that I could release the murderer from his sin. It is easier for me to forgive someone I love, like McKenzie forgave his Father, because I would want him to go to heaven. But someone like Missy’s killer? What do I care? The scum. That virus. The maggot. Let him burn. But the author calls us to care and that we should not judge and that God is the only judge because He’s the only one who knows the whole story of each of us. That got me. It made me realize how unforgiving I am because I rate myself as a bona fide judge, a godlet.
But would I pass the book on? Still, I wouldn’t. Even though I was smitten with his take on forgiveness and trust-in-God, the author’s message was still smudged with weighty disturbing misleading information. I do appreciate the author’s speaking of God, but his speaking for God, I have to say no, thanks. If someone with an unanchored faith reads this book, he may get carried away with the fallacies. But as for me, I am thankful that I know better, and I am keeping my religious observances as I believe God and the church (whom God loves) would have it.
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