ENMOCHILADA

Ok, time for a quick Spanish lesson. Mochila=backpack.

Now for a quick spanish words made up by Kelly's crazy friends lesson:
mochilar=(v.) to hit someone with a backpack. (ex.--Hombre, que no me mochiles!=Hey dude! Don't hit me with your backpack!)
enmochilada=the trapped state of being pinned to a bus door because half of your backpack is on the inside and half is on the outside.

Yeah, that's right. I have experienced the horror of being enmochilada. Bigtime. I've gotten used to public transportation and have become much more aggresive about pushing my way onto a crowded bus or metro just like everyone else. Well, last Tuesday was no different. My friend Marianna and I were leaving class from the Geografia e Historia building, and as usual, there were more people waiting for the bus than would actually fit. Marianna made it, and I didn't want to wait for the next bus or ride all the way home by myself, so I followed. I was the last person on the bus, and luckily, i made it through the doors. As I started to move forward to wade through the sea of people so I could stamp my bus ticket, something stopped me from moving. It was then that I realized that my backpack had not been as lucky as I had. I couldn't turn around because I was stuck to a door, but out of the corner of my eye I could see my green jansport--on the outside of the glass doors. I tried to tell the bus driver that I was stuck and could he please open the door, but he either didn't hear or didn't care. The door didn't budge, and the backpack wouldn't pull through.

enmochilada

I tried to wriggle out of my backpack, but it was pulled tight by the door and I was weak from laughing, so I was stuck. Marianna, who was unhindered and could look outside, kept me posted on the pointing and facial expressions of the people walking and driving by. Evidently I entertained many people that day. Did I mention there was heavy traffic? It took over five minutes to get to the next stop, where the driver finally opened the door and I was able to move in, backpack intact, and stamp my ticket.

So now you have a first hand explanation of enmochilada. If you ever hear the word used in conversation, first of all, realize that they're speaking fake Spanish. Second of all, pat yourself on the back, because you know what they're talking about.

Hombre, que no me mochiles!

Waxing Philosophical on this one

Ok, this one’s all philosophical and not really funny, so feel free to skip it if you were looking for a funny story. I promise, it won’t hurt my feelings. I’ll post a funny one tomorrow………

A friend in Colorado and I were talking on AIM tonight, and as usual, we ended up talking/halfway debating about spiritual things. I love these conversations. We’re both Christians, and we both get pretty passionate about what we talk about. Tonight, for some reason (I forget how we got started on this) we were talking about the passage in John (Ch. 11) when Lazarus died, and Jesus went to his grave and cried before raising him from the dead. If He knew that He was going to raise him from the dead, why did He cry? Was He crying for the unbelief of the family, or was He grieving the loss of His friend? Probably both. As I found out tonight, you can make a pretty convincing argument for both (props, Ryan). As we were talking, I started wondering why I was getting so worked up about what I was saying. Why is it so important to me that Jesus experienced real human grief over the loss of a friend at this moment? Why am I suddenly so concerned with Christ’s emotions at different moments in His life, and how that’s related to His redemptive power in the right now. I think a lot of it has to do with the context I’m in—the culture and religious background I live in.

In my Spanish Art History class, now that we’re into the middle ages and beyond, Jesus is pictured in almost every painting and carved into every church door facing we see. Depending on the period, He can look very different. In early gothic, for some reason, they made Him cross-eyed. Later, His eyes were fixed, but his beard had this weird chunk cut out of the middle. Often, He is pictured as a child sitting on Mary’s lap, blessing some king or other, or holding the world in His hand like a marble. (I’m going to do great on my final with all this technical terminology) The one thing that never EVER changes is the golden halo thing around His head—it kind of looks like a plate—and the peaceful, kind of sorrowful look on His face. Always the same. He never looks….normal. The only time He looks even remotely realistic is when He is on the cross, bleeding and suffering. In my lit class, the professor talks about how theater was banned because it was “sinful,” and in history, we learn about how the nobility came from the “old Christians,” ones who hadn’t converted recently and had pure (no Jewish or Muslim) blood. They were set apart and therefore they were not associated with the working class. People paid ridiculous sums of money or hurt themselves physically to earn forgiveness for sins. Several prominent writers, some of whom have now been sainted because of their passionate love for Jesus and work for His people, were imprisoned for heresy, etc. The idea of Jesus had become so cold, so distant, so separate from real human life that many of the leaders in the church distanced themselves from the normal world as well, and the people went on with life—God is way too holy for real people to have anything to do with Him.

21st century Spain is a very religious country—they have more festivals and saints days than I would have ever thought possible. But life in Moncloa—the party neighborhood—goes on as if the present is all that matters. Jesus came to earth, but His whole life here was a fairy tale. God is all the way up in Heaven, separated from normal people, so let’s do whatever we can to enjoy the next five minutes. What, you say Jesus is coming? I don’t see Him here now. What difference does it make? God doesn’t have anything to do with my little human life.

It’s dry. It’s cold. And it’s contagious. It’s so easy to get caught up in the present. “God, where are you?” “God, why is there so much pain?” “Why don’t I see any results from ministry?” “Why is this so hard?” It’s easy to be consumed by the 24 hours that I’m living in, or the hour, or the 10 minutes. I’m not so different from the Moncloa party crowd. But then I start condemning myself for being so present-minded, and suddenly I become the 16th century church, telling myself I’m sinful because of the way I feel, and how dare I question a holy God?

I think this is why the verse “Jesus wept” is so important to me. He cried! He mourned after a friend who died. He had real, harsh, human grief. He knew that He was about to raise Lazarus from the dead, but He cried anyway because it hurt to see His friend in a grave. The King of the universe cried! Even when He knew it was going to all work out ok, He cried, unashamedly, in public! I love that. I can relate to that. That’s human—it’s not a lack of faith, it’s emotion in response to pain.

For some reason—I’m still working out why—this verse just seems to sum up what I crave, and what I love so much about Jesus. He is real. He is in the present. He’s not someone that I can’t come to with my little daily issues and my big daily griefs.

I don’t know why, but this conversation—this verse—sparked something that I’ve been learning, and that I’ve been trying to articulate. I’m still looking into why “Jesus wept” points to Jesus being not only Almighty God, but also Lord of the right now, of my normal life. For some reason, it’s just important to me that He is, and that I can rest in that. Hopefully I’ll be able to flesh it out and articulate it properly one day. Probably when I’m 80. That seems to be when people get smart.

Ok, tomorrow, a funny story. I promise.