Saturday, December 22, 2007

The Last Vocation of Christianity

The 2007 Christmas message of Michel Sabbah, the Latin Patriarch and Archbishop of Jerusalem, is very cogent: it sharply criticizes the occupation while counseling against "talk about creating 'religious' States" in historic Palestine. The last vocation of Christianity may very well be to be the mediator between Jews and Muslims in the Middle East.

Moreover, in the message Sabbah cites Jeremiah 6:14, perhaps the most fitting rejoinder to Annapolis:
They dress the wound of my people
as though it were not serious.
'Peace, peace,' they say,
when there is no peace.


Yoshie Furuhashi, "La última vocación del Cristianismo," Traducción Julio Fernández Baraibar, Critical Montages, 25 December 2007.

1 comment:

CEJ said...

You might figure an Iraqi communist raised in an Islamic tradition had
one of the more eloquent and poetic messages about Christ for the world.

The Messiah After the Crucifixion
by Badr Shakir al-Sayyab
translated from the Arabic by B. M. Bennani

After I was brought down, I heard the winds
Whip the palm trees with wild laments;
Footsteps receded into infinity. Wounds
And the cross I was nailed to all afternoon
Didn't kill me. I listened. A cry of grief
Crossed the plain between me and the city
Like a hawser pulling a ship
Destined to sink. The cry
Was a thread of light between morning
And night in sad winter sky.
Despite all this, the city fell asleep.

When the orange and mulberry trees bloom
When my village Jaykour reaches the limits of fantasy
When grass grows green and sings with fragrance
And the sun suckles it with brilliance
When even darkness grows green
Warmth touches my heart and my blood flows into earth
My heart becomes sun, when sun throbs with light
My heart become earth, throbbing with wheat, blossom
and sweet water
My heart is water, an ear of corn
Its death is resurrection. It lives in him who eats
The dough, round as a little breast, life's breast.
I died by fire. When I burned, the darkness of my clay
disappeared. Only God remained.
I was the beginning, and in the beginning was poverty
I died so bread would be eaten in my name
So I would be sown in season.
Many are the lives I'll live. In every soil
I'll become a future, a seed, a generation of men
A drop of blood, or more, in every man's heart.

Then I returned. When Judas saw me he turned pale
I was his secret!
He was a shadow of mine, grown dark
The frozen image of an idea
From which life was plucked
He feared I might reveal death in his eyes
(his eyes were a rock
behind which he hid his death)
He feared my warmth. It was a threat to him
so he betrayed it.
"Is this you? Or is it my shadow grown white
emitting light?
Men die only once! That's what our fathers said
That's what they taught us. Or was it a lie?!"
That's what he said when he saw me. His whole face spoke.

I hear footsteps, approaching and falling
The tomb rumbles with their fall
Have they come again? Who else could it be?
Their falling footsteps follow me
I lay rocks on my chest
Didn't they crucify me yesterday? Yet here I am!
Who could know that I . . . ? Who?
And as for Judas and his friends, no one will believe them.
Their footsteps follow me and fall.

Here I am now, naked in my dank tomb
Yesterday I curled up like a thought, a bud
Beneath my shroud of snow. My blood bloomed from moisture
I was then a thin shadow between night and day.
When I burst my soul into treasures and peeled it like fruit
When I turned my pockets into swaddling clothes
and my sleeves into a cover
When I kept the bones of little children
warm within my flesh
And stripped my wounds to dress the wound of another
The wall between me and God disappeared.
The soldiers surprised even my wounds and my heartbeats
They surprised all that wasn't dead
even if it was a tomb
They took me by surprise the way a flock of starving birds
pluck the fruit of a palm tree in a deserted village.

The rifles are pointed and have eyes
with which they devour my road
Their fire dreams of my crucifixion
Their eyes are made of fire and iron
The eyes of my people are light in the skies
they shine with memory and love.
Their rifles relieve me of my burden;
my cross grows moist. How small
Such death is! My death. And yet how great!

After I was nailed to the cross, I cast my eyes
toward the city
I could hardly recognize the plain, the wall, the cemetery
Something, as far as my eyes could see, sprung forth
Like a forest in bloom
Everywhere there was a cross and a mourning mother
Blessed be the Lord!
Such are the pains of a city in labor.