Blue Ball

A small blue ball bounces, ever higher, to reach the sky and stay there.
It sees itself akin -imagine that!- to the endless blue above.

Bit crazy I admit, but also nice. It's hopeful and that is rare.
The sky had thought so too, and sent some wind, right from the wings of a dove.

And as the ball climbed up, on the wind's back, and soared upwards through the air...
I thought I heard the sky, through the wind's voice, whisper: "Welcome back, my love"

If Only Hell Exists!

See, if only Hell exists,

I could cheerfully jump up and down.

And jeer at you, and your righteous frown,

and your tightly clenched fists.

And if only Hell was real,

I should freely hate you and your men,

and call down God's wrath upon you, then

praise myself for all my zeal.

If Hell had not been undone,

then I'd come to you, with pride I'd swell,

and guilt-free, tell you to go to Hell,

and still be my Father's son.

Yes, if Hell's triumph was true,

I'd celebrate when you bite the dust,

and not suspect that someday I must

meet our Lord, and with Him, you!

But Hell will not exist as such.

So we forgive, for they do not know.

We trust that to Him all things must go.

And we await His healing touch.

Well, here it is...

I've been wanting to tell you this...

Well, but

I am not sure why, or for what,

I have kept at holding my tongue.

It will be ungrateful of me,

I know,

-not that you would think or say so-

but forgive me, for I am young.

The thing is -it's just how it feels,

alright?-

You have disappeared from my sight

and all at once, everything stung!

Now, I've been told you're surely close,

but I

have such a loud and noisy sigh

that it has muted out your voice.

They say it's true, I should know that,

and say

that my outlook is all so gray,

and that in that I have a choice.

So, talk myself into seeing

your face?

Or should I call upon your grace,

to give me reason to rejoice?

The same as when I've started, I...

stammer.

Mixed up with the crowd's dull clamor,

I whisper this: "Say something, please"

It's now your move, -sorry- your turn

to speak.

Complete a rhyme (that's rather weak)

with more than rustling in the trees.

Down with Apathy!

Down with this sad excuse for living, lacking in pain and thanksgiving, to which you try and conform.

Down with that murderer of love, pretending to rise above, indifferent and lukewarm.

Down with every cold glass sheet, behind which a shapeless creed, persistently fails to form.

Yes, down with Apathy -Fear's daughter-

watching as Faith walks us on water,

through this life's heart-wrenching storm.

Theology Sings, Song Prays, and Prayer Theologizes.

For the last few years, I have been feeling God gently nudging me away from the way I've seen my Christianity.

When I was very young, I was very literal in my approach to my religion, and I rather think that is the product of an eager spirit coupled with a rather limited mindset.

As I grew up and began to encounter new ideas and expand my horizons, I began to abandon my literalism, but something else stuck to me, which is the idea that I need to always have a set of formulas about what I believe, those formulas changed over time, shifted and sometimes were replaced... but they always were in the shape of formulas, and lately I've begun to move away from that as well.

You see, formulas allow you to clearly describe what you're thinking of, however they can never fully capture it. A process of simplification must take place when making a statement of creed, to stress the point (as you see it) of a certain belief and strip away the less important things. Which is okay, since formulations of belief usually have a specific purpose (apologetics, for example).

And although that is important in many instances, it cannot be the way we think of our religion in general, because sometimes the less important things are, well... quite important as well!

For example, the way St. Athanasius described the Incarnation was very good, but it was especially good because it fitted the purpose at hand, which was to argue against the Arians. What details St. Athanasius may have left out about the reasons and mechanics of the Incarnation because they weren't in question by the Arians, those same details may in some other situation prove very useful.

And another thing, it's not only that simplification loses some details, it also loses the undertones of some our Scripture and Tradition. There are many ideas that haven't reached the level of clarity of a "detail" in almost every piece of Scripture, but are more like whispers or subtle motions towards something inexplicit in that same piece of Scripture. And that doesn't make those ideas any less important, but it does mean that they must be conveyed in a way other than a simple statement or a rigid definition.

I suppose this is why it is said that "Theology sings", that some of our most profound spiritual revelations may best be described in song. Some Coptic Hymns are a great example of a "singing theology", another example is Iconography.

That idea completed a cycle that had been open and disconnected to me. I knew why we insert our theology in our prayers and how we pray in our songs, but couldn't understand how theological study should use song. Now I see that proper theology should make use of but not be limited to philosophy, and it must rise above rigid formulations.

It must sing and paint and use every form of art and literature... Because to express our relationship with Christ, we'll need to use everything we've got.

So, this is to remind myself to approach theology with the imaginative and transcendent heart of a poet, to sing with the fervent and modest heart of a monk, and to pray with the inquisitive and meticulous heart of a theologian.

Sympathy for the President

For quite some time, I've been trying to write about Empathy or Compassion (I understand both things to be tied to each other), but I have consistently failed to say anything particularly intelligent about the subject.

Today however, I saw this photograph, and the subject just forced itself back to my attention.

(Photo is courtesy of AlMasry-AlYoum website)


Here is this sick man sitting in a hospital listening to his doctors, and he happens to be the Egyptian President.
To some he may be a national leader, to others he may be a cold-blooded tyrant, but in all cases there is the undeniable fact that he is also a sick, old man in a hospital.

The photo can't conceal the fact that the hospital looks like everything our hospitals in Egypt aren't, and neither can it conceal the fact that the president looks very well taken care of, but it also can't conceal the fact that the man looks old, sick and weak.

And to many people (or to me, at least) this photo is infinitely sad.

It may natural I suppose, because the idea that even this man, who has been ruling a country for 29 years and counting; the idea that he is NOT above the human condition, NOT immune to the frailness of old age (as his PR staff would like us to think), and NOT beyond sickness and death; that idea is quite sad.

And despite this idea being well known to us all as a basic fact, that photo still manages to strike me, and I cannot help but feel an overwhelming pity for that man dressed in pajamas and a robe, thousands of miles away from home, listening to doctors talking in a foreign language about his "condition".

I really cannot help but identify with him, and all my feelings towards what he's done or didn't do -although still upheld and maintained- kind of take a collective step aside, and let sympathy go through.

And quite miraculously, I find myself thinking: May God's love be with you, always.

(On another rather unrelated note, I am hereby denying my awareness of any pun related to a Rolling Stones song title that may be inferred from the title of this post!)

Here's To You

Here's to your quiet, starless sky; here's to that silent song.

Here's to your young.

Here's to your empty streets at 6 AM, and to your penetrating cold.

Here's to your old.

Here's to your rusty lamp posts, and every weathered, worn-out wall.

Here's to us all.

Here's to your accidental beauty... may it be forgiven you.

And may we be forgiven, too.

The Institution (3 of 3): The Manager

The secretary opened the door, exposing a poorly lit room and a man sitting on a huge chair in the corner of it.

The man looked as old as death, and as grave as death.

In front of him was a desk with a small TV set on it, a large notebook, and lots of bottles that seemed to contain medicine.

He held a pen in his hand, and a remote control in the other.

I slowly approached, uncertain how to act. I coughed nervously but he still wouldn't look at me.

He spoke first, his eyes fixed on the TV.

"You never stop complaining"

I glanced at the TV, uncertain if he was talking to me or to the screen.

On the TV was a talk show, the guest was a journalist of some renown, and he was going on about how our Institution needed reform. How the system needed to be redesigned, how its role needed to be revised, and how its leadership needed to change.

"You complain a lot, too"

I quickly turned my gaze to find him looking at me now, frowning heavily and beneath his frown the whites of his eyes shown grayed & bloodshot.I couldn't tell if it was menace behind that frown, or merely an attempt to focus and see through old age and sickness.

"Now what do you want?"

I held out my forms hesitantly. He waved them away and went on talking.

"What do you all want? They keep asking for reform. Reform reform reform! What is there to be reformed?! We've pioneered the reformation of this place, nobody cared for reformation more than us, and now after all these years they want us to step aside to take our place!"

"We know who's behind them, we know each one by name. We know who pays the papers to print the rubbish they write about us and we know who pays thugs to try and kill us and we know who plots to take our place." His face was turning red and his voice was getting louder. "Well nobody's going to take our place! Tell them, tell those who sent you... tell them they'll die before we do! Tell them they better pray to God to have mercy on their souls... they better pray to Him for mercy, for we will not show them any!"

His voice shook with rage until it broke down, and he stopped to catch his breath. When he started talking again he talked slowly and the anger was replaced with an infinite heaviness.

"We wanted reformation, too.

When we came this place was a disgrace, corrupt managers and ignorant employees.

We wanted a revival. We wanted new blood in the Institution. We wanted change.

All of us were intellectuals, writers, journalists and politicians.

We were patriots and poets.

We were young, influential and resourceful.

And we changed this Institution. Back when we first came to this place, we did exactly what they would've done.

And this is where it all got us. Everything was hostile to our presence.

We made thousands, even millions of enemies.

Now so many want us dead. Some try to kill us, while others just sit and wait for time to do the job."

The secretary was standing beside me, and he quickly added: "We stifle all attempts to harm his excellency before they reach him, of course. God preserve his excellency, we would be lost without him. May he keep leading us to safety till the end of days"

I watched the manager as he nodded approvingly to this.

Finally, I started speaking to him, uttering the last words he was ever going to hear from me.

I can't believe you. You sit here and you drink in your assistant's flattery and you talk as if you've made this place heaven on earth while the building crumbles around you.

You say you were an intellectual, a writer and a patriot, but all I see is a scared old man cowering in a dark room afraid of the light.

How did you get from there to here? It matters a lot but you won't pay attention to it.

You're not free anymore, and you've chained many to you and infected them with your fears and ailments.

I no longer want anything from you nor your institution.

Here are my forms and papers, my proofs of ownership of this Institution, the company of my father before you sold it to the government as if you owned the place.

But I'll leave it to you. I might have grown up here, but I know it's not the only place I have, and I don't want to work here anymore.

I've joined this place as an employee, tried to repair it from the inside out and from the bottom up like they say, but I would only do what you authorize me to do, and that was never enough to change anything.

And you know what? I never wanted you replaced,

but in case you haven't noticed, you've already been replaced by a far worse version of you.

I never wanted you dead either,

but you haven't been alive for decades.

And with that I turned around and walked out of my father's company, no longer ours, and I went and worked elsewhere, for we had many places.

I still go to that old building, but never as an owner nor an employee, merely a visitor.

I talk to the young recruits and sometimes to the older ones and try to see if any have life in them.

But I never go up to the top floor.

I have no business there.

The Institution (2 of 3): The Secretary

I looked around the hall, I saw a door leading to what must be another office, but the door was closed.
Outside was a large desk, and a man sat behind it talking on the phone in a low voice.

I came closer to his desk, he didn't look up. I'd have thought he didn't notice me, had his voice not turned to a whisper as I approached.
He quickly ended the call and looked up, his face had a concrete look but his eyes shone behind it. I found myself asking him to let me into that office.

He seemed to look through me, and with a flat tone informed me that the general manager is not feeling very well, and he would rather not see anybody.

I insisted, citing something about the right to meet the head of the establishment for which I work.

He looked through me again, and I realized he was looking at something behind me, and then he raised his voice and said that I shouldn't think he doesn't know who I am and why I'm here, how he is aware of everything happening within the walls of the institution and outside it, and then he seemed to focus his gaze on me again and told me to leave now or he'll take disciplinary action.

I looked behind me, and that's when I saw there were tiny cameras hung from the corners of the hall.

In a sudden spark of inspiration, I slowly spoke about how I can write to the papers and tell them how the secretary of the institution on which all eyes are set was terrorizing its employees, how he prevented anyone from seeing the manager and assumed his responsibilities already, I spoke even more slowly and deliberately, stressing the words as I added that he acted as if the manager was already dead.

His face finally broke into anger and he yelled at me. I was fired and must leave now or he'd have me thrown outside, I shook a little but held my ground and told him that nobody will be able to force me out of there.

Then a speaker buzzed on his desk and a tired, crackly voice told him to let me in.

The secretary answered yes certainly your excellence you are too lenient we are coming in a minute. He wiped all expression from his face again and in a voice that barely betrayed his rage told me to follow him.

(to be continued)

The Institution (1 of 3) - The Official

Days and weeks passed, and sometimes I doubt they were months and years, me roaming the corridors of that age-old governmental institution, with its walls looking dirty and their green-tinged wallpaper bloated and falling apart.
And that smell, faint and insignificant at first, but the more you stay inside that place the more prominent the smell becomes, but you pretend it's not there and go on trying to conclude your business in this place, if you can still remember what it is.

I walk into yet another room, pale fluorescent light reflecting on the piles of paper on an old man's desk. I approach him with my queries but not without a hint of hesitation, he looks kind, but he looks at my ID first like they all do. Instructions from higher up, no doubt. Afterwards he begins to look at the forms I've filled, looks up to me, and gives me the same answer all the other officials gave me.

I patiently nod and then tell him that I'm afraid that's not good enough, I understand that you have your rules and your laws be they written or otherwise but to me they fail to make sense and to be completely honest with you I don't know how they make sense to you and I don't know how you can think they work while your own desk littered with paperwork and denied requests and unanswered queries proves they don't and why don't you care about that?

He looks slightly annoyed and shakes his head, I'm afraid I can't help you, feel free to take your queries to somebody else. Then he hands me back my forms and papers and tells me not to forget my ID.

I walk out thinking that he didn't seem about to call his colleagues to warn them that a "troublemaker" is on his way to them like others have, he looked kind.

I see some dirty steps leading to the next floor of this labyrinth, I sigh as I walk up the steps.
I arrive at another small hall with corridors lined with more offices, but I turn around and decide to keep going up the steps.
And so I do until there are no more steps to walk up, and I find a slightly bigger hall in front of me.
I think this is it, if I don't get everything sorted out here, I never will.

(to be continued)