mozart's magic

I felt the musical magic of Vienna, more alive than the night before (see “if this is love”), as I watched an organ concert inside of the beautiful St. Peter’s Cathedral in the Old Town.

I imagined the same cathedral pouring out praises for Mozart, of Bach, all the legends of this town. My eyes, wide-open like a child on Christmas morning, my heart alive and mind working overtime to process the excitement.

“Create! Create because you were created,” the Composer shouts from the Heavens. I thank the Lord for music that ignites the soul, that sets a fire inside of us to create.

the organ blasts, reminding me of past
buildings where God lived and I confessed sins,
where i first purchased fire insurance
and later was given life and breath.

i come to your holy hill, reverent for You,
hoping you’ll move and begin something new,

reminiscent of saturday’s dressed in black,
in celebration of bride and groom,
but the marriage of love
was the place of the skull and an empty tomb.

futbol gospel

In a magical night in Vienna, I watched some street evangelists, one talking in English, the other in German, use a futbol (soccer) analogy to explain salvation to a diverse group of people in a busy city square.

The illustration used the yellow card (warning that humans are sinful), red card (impending judgment), and then asked the crowd if the believed that God was given them a warning card that night.

The most interesting part of the presentation was when the following comment: “This is not about religion, this is about new life.” Amen.

After the presentation, an elderly woman came forward and others inquired about their pamphlets, I was reminded of the Gospel, that we all need redemption; we all need Jesus.

if this is love

This poem was written in Vienna, Austria, after witnessing two southern California-college-party guys bring a young woman to our hostel room to do the unthinkable in our company.

WARNING: Be cautious reading it; it is vulgar, I did not want to write it, using words I don’t speak, but I believe it communicates a message about human nature in its ugliest moments.

Cam gracefully confronted the guys in the morning, and they shamefully bowed their heads and exited the hostel, while we were stuck with memories of something so primal and so disrespectful, that we wondered if any good can come of it.

In hindsight, it did open my eyes to the severity of physical relationships and the importance of purity. As I sat in my hostel bed reflecting on this experience, the following about human nature was evident:

1. sex is not love
2. women give sex to feel loved; men love (or some counterfeit form of it), to get sex
3. humans are evil
4. humans are selfish beyond measure
5. humans have animalistic flesh-patterns
6. the strong have the power to oppress the weak

There are many things happening around us that we cannot see. I can no longer question whether evil exists, whether the Devil is real, whether an invisible war is at hand.

And I think about the grace that covers it all, and I realize that the cross is both “beautiful and offensive,” to cover the world’s sins.

if this is love

the evil lie in wait to pounce on their prey,
while the weak receive, open-legged and helpless.

drunkenness to debauchery, and then to this,
no love, no kiss, no sound, purely mechanics.

my stomach drops as my ears hear evil in motion,
helpless; furious; disgusted.

sick to my stomach,
beyond folly, you went much further.

evil is the monster that propels each thrust,
if this is love, then you’ve been f**ked.

if love is an art, you are not artists,
you pay for the painting, surely it’s counterfeit.

this is not love, but a disease,
a pattern a flesh, the devil the butcher.

as you go to the closet to cleanse your sins,
i, wide awake and ill, pray for this mess we live in.

so many expensive lies you’ve bought,
and paid too much to be locked up.

remember with me, the twin cities of lust,
where wrath awaits and God weeps for children astray.

there is true love, woven through time,
of people like you; like me; like us,

who do the unthinkable,
while the unthinkable has set us free.

open your eyes, and you will find,
the story of love unfolding through time.

in ashes we soon will be,
in ashes we repent.

for Yahweh is coming,
but has already come.

behind these doors (through the jewish quarter)

This was a poem written in Prague, Czech Republic. We toured the Jewish Quarter, which had seen many different waves of oppression. The poem talks about the invasion of the Nazi’s in WWII. In Prague, Hitler made plans to preserve the museum to remember an “extinct race,” which was beyond disturbing.

Behind these iron doors lie shallow graves,
Twelve layers deep of staggered remains,

Fear; the preamble of suffering,
Suffering; the preamble of death,
Death, the product of insanity,

“Let us preserve the museum for a race extinct,
Everything else must go, even the children,”
The madman boasts while combing the streets,

As trains are filled to the brim with the walking dead,
Innocent children draw pictures, now a ghostly reminder,
Of disasters beyond our comprehension, only a half-century past,

Insanity in high places reeks of evil,
The streets are reduced to rubble,
People to numbers, then to dust,

While the count continues growing,
Holy insurgents plot plans to kill the madman,
To save the innocent, but the innocent die instead,

For nothing more than beliefs,
Yet we are all much the same.

Desperation closes in,
The madman puts a bullet in his skull,
And the world becomes a better place.

discoteca

Sitting in a series of interlinked all-brick underground pubs, surrounded by new friends from Australia and Alabama and enjoying the Czech-pride Pilsner Urquell, a girl from another table kitty-corner to us leaned over, which sparked the beginning of our first authentic local experience.

A 22 year-old University student in diplomacy who spoke very clear English and Spanish, I complimented her many times on her language, though she was very self-conscious and struggled to receive the encouragement, but was quick to mention that Americans were very lazy because the majority of us only know one language.

She was very complimentary of American personalities, asking why I was smiling so much and nice to them. She didn’t fully comprehend the concept of being open and friendly—she mentioned that Czech people are often stereotyped as very cold and impersonal; though that has not been my experience.

I responded that life is about people.

(Based on my experience in Belgium, I could easily pin the country down as unpleasant and an anti-American place, but that would be a fool’s choice. We had a negative experience with one person, which temporarily changed our mindset of the city.)

Discouraged with her studies and career-outlook, she and had dreamed of being an international diplomat, but many people had been crushing her aspirations, convincing her that she didn’t have what it takes, the ideologies of former communist rule still evident in her mindset.

(The tagline for the Communist museum in Praha reads “Dream. Reality. Nightmare.”)

While she had her complaints on her visit to the U.S.—the inefficiency of America’s nearly all-auto travel model (we have yet to use a car in Europe), the dirtiness of New York City, the sun in Phoenix and the debauchery of Las Vegas—she ultimately envied its freedom, saying, “You can do anything you want.”

I responded, whether in ignorance or blind idealism, that I believe she could do the same. I told my new Czech friend of a quote I recently heard that said, “Everything I ever did that was worthwhile, I caught hell for.” The book The Dream Giver by Bruce Wilkinson basically delivers a similar message with a focus on God-given dreams.

We talked about the power of outside forces on our lives—whether its religion, politics, stereotypes, education, family, friends, social oppression—and how that relates to the way we live day-to-day. The big question is this: can we choose to live in the way we’d like to live despite outside circumstances?

On a macro-level, I recognize that many things are outside of our control, many things are within our control. In most cases, we can choose to accept imprisonment, or we can live our lives freely.

This quality was famously personified through the biblical characters of Job and Paul, the first lost everything to the Devil’s scheming, yet refused to disrespect God, and Paul, who wrote in the ancient text about plenty and abundance, yet his hope in the redemptive work of Jesus in the world kept him content, even while in chains.

In the end, we accepted her invitation to look for a disco for some dancing. I asked for techno graces and assured them that my dance skills are limited (with the exception of the “YMCA” and “Chicken Dance” at wedding celebrations).

Her friends were just as friendly: a very beautiful and sweet girl-next-door brunette, a blonde firecracker with a red dress who informed us that she would prefer to be addressed as “The Boss,” but later resigned from the title after the second disco was empty, their male friend from Ecuador who was confused by my travel partner’s use of Spanglish, and a petit Czech girl who spoke little English, but was animated and full of energy.

With translation help via the blonde firecracker, the girl who spoke little English asked me why I came to Prague, to which I responded that “It’s very beautiful,” which it is. Looking disgusted by my cliché, she said some words I didn’t understand which were loosely translated into, “Everyone says that. Not good enough. Try again,” to which I responded with intricate details of the sites, the amazing view from Prague Castle and the ancient feel of the Charles Bridge.

That seemed to satisfy.

We ended the evening looking for a disco, traveling to four different places, all of which were closed, and we realized that what we were looking for was exactly what we had at the underground pub—enlightening conversation.

mercy mathematics

Who am I?

A belly full of money, at ease;

Who are you?

A hand outstretched, emtpy;

That we should meet and our roles reversed,

For an instant, than returned;

To the mountain of injustice, where I have and you have not,

Where people rot while passersby shake their heads and turn away;

What difference will it make?

If I empty my pockets into yours,

Soon you will be empty again, and I will still be full;

Me; strong-legged, youthful, dreaming;

You, weak-legged, limping, screaming;

The streets have robbed your youth and divided its plunder.

If we traded lives, would you find relief?

You; on a train to exotic lands,

Me; on a bench with outstretched hands;

We speak in foreign tongues, yet we were created much the same,

Our stories, worlds apart, but we know this is wrong,

It wasn't supposed to be this way, I promise;

Hope is the drug you need, but the last thing you want to hear;

How much will it cost?

To obey; to stop crunching numbers while people perish over pious arithmetic;

I've met many like you, and in my mind,

I ration my portion of convenience-store mercy;

Mercy-mathematics and your belly
make strange bedfellows for a one-night stand;

I've been taught by the One whose mercy is unceasing,

I walked away in tears when He said it would cost everything,
While tonight I weep for justice;

Travel with me, to Zion's Holy Mountain,

Where trees dance and barns overflow,
Where bread is life,

And all are invited to the feast of ages;

Mercy Mathematics was written on a midnight train from Frankfurt, Germany to Prague, Czech Republic on July 10-11. While traveling, I've seen many homeless, drug addicts and strippers on the streets. I've always been torn how to react to the homeless, and oftentimes, my conclusion is based on convenience--if the person is really needy, if I have cash or coin, if I have healthy finances--the list goes on.

I recently rejected a plea for a crippled beggar at the Frankfurt train station, asking for money with a faint voiice. My travel partner reached into his pockets and gave him some coin, while I looked and communicated that I had nothing to give.

Minutes later, I went to buy some food, and saw the begggar again. I couldn't stand to think that I had told him I had nothing, yet I had a belly full of money and was about to enter a food line. Again, I rejected his plea, but in the moments that followed, I knew I was wrong. I dug into my pouch and gave him some money, and decided that tonight, our roles should reverse.

I have much to learn about mercy.

The night before I had walked through the red-light disctrict of Frankfurt--not for entertainment--but to witness the conditions of how people live: Women selling their bodies, drug addicts working first like chemists, then like nurses to experience the rush of false reality pulsing through their veins. I saw many robbed of life, voide of hope, reduced to rubble.

I am too often quick to judge, and slow to help.

During WWII, most of Frankfurt was completely destroyed by Allied Forces bombings, except for a historic church dating back to the 1400's. We visited the church, which stands out like a grandfather on a little league team against the modern city skyline. A small poster showed an aerial shot of the bombings--everything was destroyed--yet this church remained untouched and offered a refuge for those still alive in the city.

Reflecting on this visit, I wondered if our lives are much the same--we can be destroyed (by ourselves, others, society, or God)--yet a fragment of hope always remains. Scriptures talk about the body of Christ as a metaphor of a city on a hill: it's light is always visible, even in the darkest places. In the bombed out, rubble-ridden places of our world, where we often turn our heads, we must remain open, remain a refuge.

What if the Church really was the refuge, the last place standing when all else is lost?

all-nighter

In two hours, we’ll board all-night train at 11:30 p.m., arriving at 8 a.m. in Prague, Czech Republic. We've heard amazing things about Prague; it is one of the few cities in Europe that survived WWII without damage. Frankfurt is a very modern city; today we walked through the only church that wasn't bombed during the war.

goodbye, head-baggage

Unfortunately, last week, I decided that my haircut boycott must come to an end. After four months and many bottles of shampoo, the fro had morphed to unmanageable chaos, especially for a trip of this nature.

Appropriately, there is no better candidate to cut your hair than someone you can’t effectively communicate with. Today I decided to end the boycott in a Turkish section of Frankfurt. After I snapped a smiling “before” picture, I put my hair’s fate into the hands of a stranger.

After two words of English were spoken and I confirmed the price (10 Euros), I made one slight hand motion to signify the desired length, and we were off. Within seconds, large clumps of hair were landing in my lap.

Admittedly, I was overly concerned and slightly entertained at the possible outcomes.

The outcome? Not good. However, I now carry much less head-baggage and may easily be mistaken for an U.S. Marine, which will impress my father and JZ. While I mourn the loss of the fro’s symbology, I know that it will return once again. I also know that I may never have the opportunity to get my hair whacked by a Turk in the middle of Germany, and for this experience, I am grateful.

representing deutschland

We traveled from Belgium through the German countryside and arrived in Frankfurt last night. We spent the evening on the street at a restaurant and pub watching Germany defeat Portugal for the save-face consolation prize in the World Cup.

We enjoyed our time in the rain-soaked streets alongside two very interesting, outspoken Aussie girls on a two-year global travel hiatus, and a 20-year-old college kid from Atlanta, surrounded by a combination of cheers and jeers for Deutschland's bittersweet victory.

Today's Aussie vocabulary lesson:

1) Dirty Bird Perv = Creeps;

2) Danks = Pants.

cynical waffles

“I’m going to see how far we can get away from Belgium tomorrow,” Cam just said, to which I responded with the kind of laughter that can only be heard after a day like today.

London was beautiful and the people diverse; we absorbed much of the sights (Big Ben, St. Paul’s, Hyde Park, Tower Bridge, Millennium Bridge, and Westminster Abbey) and grew accustomed to hostel life and the time-change.

On the train ride to the continent this afternoon, I was typing while watching the northern French countryside pass by. I wrote that it looked very much like Iowa, with slightly different architecture. I thought about two passages in Scripture about money and rest; and confidently ended with the following sentence:

“I anticipate the journey ahead; of rest; of peace; of enjoyment and reflection, of adventure and expansion.”

Then the rest of today happened.

The appropriate descriptor for today would be an “adventure with no rest, no peace, and a reflection of the enjoyment we had in London.” If trekking around Brussels with two backpacks for three hours before locating already-booked hostels and being forced to purchase a hotel room is an adventure, then adventure we had.

The expansion prophesy must’ve been fulfilled after being approached while taking a photo in an amazing city square like I was prime mugging bait, then asked, “What are you doing in a city like this by yourself?” by a drunken stranger, who then made cowardly terrorism threats against America via the translation vehicle of a Paris-born friend we made while walking to the square, then I’ve been expanded.*

My cynical tone is thicker than a Belgium waffle, sitting in a hotel room at 1 a.m., trying to determine where to go next, as long as it’s not here.

All frustrations aside, I know how to recognize a bad day for what it is: a bad day. And again, I write:

I anticipate the journey ahead; of rest; of peace; of enjoyment and reflection, of adventure and expansion.

*The threat via the thugs in the square was empty; no need for concern. What it did do was bring further attention to the way Americans are viewed globally. Check out http://cameronconant.blogspot.com for further insights from my fellow backpacker.

hyde park: london

beauty surrounds in every form,

every fashion, every detail,

perfection

so much to see;

the eyes treated to a feast fit for kings,

while queens dance in the streets,

teach me, my creator:

to see more clearly,

to praise all beauty,

to understand that I am only one

piece of your creation so complex, so intertwined

independence day

We arrived in London on Independence Day, jet-lagged from our red-eyed journeys across the sea. For the first time, there will be no cookouts, no parades, no saunas or fireworks; in this city, there is no reason to celebrate the intertwined events of history's past.

But for the first time, it is a new kind of independence that I celebrate.