En el camino

In the bell tower of Catedral de la Inmaculada Concepción in Comayagua, Honduras
Looking up to the bell tower, where the “world’s oldest clock” lives.
Catedral de la Inmaculada Concepción, un Comayagua, the historic city that was once the capital of Honduras. This cathedral was originally only for Spaniards and people of European descent. Other cathedrals in the country were for meztizo, indigenous and black people.
Occasionally, a current political message is seen, in this case, an opinion about the country’s most recent presidential election.
20180330_092537.jpg
Carpets of dyed sawdust, seeds, salt and other materials are laid out starting on Maundy Thursday and form the path for the processional of Good Friday, remembering the road to Jesus’ crucifixion. On March 30, 2018, in Comayagua, Honduras.

20180330_092327.jpg
Cotton candy vendors and the vivid colors in the carpets make a contrast with the somber nature of Good Friday’s religious message.
Juxtaposition of environmental damage with a vision of Jesus in paradise.

Before the Good Friday processional begins on March 30, 2018, in Comayagua, Honduras.
After the Good Friday processional on March 30, 2018, in Comayagua, Honduras.
Advertisements

The colt returns: El potro regresa

My hooves slipped on the palms and mantles that lined the streets. I did my best not to stumble, to bear up under the unfamiliar weight. He clutched my mane, digging in his fingers, and gripped my sides with his heels.

A reflection on Mark 11:1-11, on Palm Sunday, for San Francisco Theological Seminary’s Lenten devotionals series. Leerlo en español después de la pausa..

I don’t know what Hosanna means. They said it was a blessing, as I was chosen from obscurity. I don’t know what blessing means. Hosanna, we are saved! The crowd shouted, waved, clamored. I couldn’t see him, of course, really just his hem and feet if I looked back. I curled my long ears back, straining to hear, to know something of this burden I bore. He didn’t say anything then, or if he did, I couldn’t hear for the Hosanna. I heard he had said, come, follow me. I heard he said, blessed are the poor, the obscure, the persecuted. I don’t know what persecuted means.

His followers, the ones to whom I owe this great supposed honor, told me then that I would be returned. That all would be returned. That the kingdom would return. I don’t know what kingdom means. I know that my hooves slipped on the palms and mantles that lined the streets. I did my best not to stumble, to bear up under the unfamiliar weight. He clutched my mane, digging in his fingers, and gripped my sides with his heels. That helped.

After the parade, I was indeed returned. Instead of a man, the next day, I carried firewood, and the day after, a hundred flat loaves of bread. I know what burden means, now. I heard later that the man said, “Remember me.” I was returned to normal, but not normal, and I don’t know how to remember. The tether chafes, now that I know the feeling of his heels, his hands. Which is the blessing? I smelled the iron, the blood, the smoke – heard the clamor and crowds, farther away. Whenever I hear the rustle of a palm, now, I also strain for his voice. Though I never actually heard it, I listen, through the clamor, trying to remember.

Continue reading “The colt returns: El potro regresa”