Throughout the year, since I started being the lead on these Visits, which has only been a of couple times, and as we get deeper into planning, I wonder if the trip will be my last. Not because of safety reasons, but because sometimes I forget what this trip means. I get caught up in coordinating, making it meaningful for others, recruiting others, helping others prep and assuring them. It's easy for my self to get lost in it.
Those hours waiting in other airports - from Seoul, to Taipei, to Tokyo - is when I begin to feel the reality of these visits. The reality of our responsibility as a delegation, the reality of the movement and what it means to immerse with the people. What it means to be a person of faith and how that manifests itself through this ministry.
Every year, I step off of that plane and the Manila air hits me. The heat and humidity clings to me and my skin reminds my spirit. I've landed. This is when I get to touch home and leave home at the same time. When my spirit opens to sacred journeying. To pilgrimage.
Some folks need a "Holy Land" to go to. These Visits have become such a vital part of my faith life. There, I visit the sites of prophets that have gone before. The mountains where meetings and battles were held, where messages of the struggle were passed. The shores where foreign serpents first slithered onto the body of the island. I meet, witness, and listen to modern-day prophets who tell me Mary, mother of Christ, gives them the strength to take care of their shrapnel-stricken children caught in the midst of US military "exercises" because their neighborhoods have become training grounds against so-called terrorism. I worship with disciples devoted to the reality of God's liberation and justice, even as some of them face threats for following a faith where God is on the side of the oppressed. I set foot where my own ancestors had set foot - from taking the jeepney down the roads my mom took to go to her high school, to standing in the pulpit at her pastor father's last church appointment, to walking the streets my dad walked to go to church where his singing voice was made strong.
Every year, I step off of that plane and the Manila air hits me. The heat and humidity clings to me and my skin reminds my spirit. I've landed. This is when I get to touch home and leave home at the same time. When my spirit opens to sacred journeying. To pilgrimage.
Some folks need a "Holy Land" to go to. These Visits have become such a vital part of my faith life. There, I visit the sites of prophets that have gone before. The mountains where meetings and battles were held, where messages of the struggle were passed. The shores where foreign serpents first slithered onto the body of the island. I meet, witness, and listen to modern-day prophets who tell me Mary, mother of Christ, gives them the strength to take care of their shrapnel-stricken children caught in the midst of US military "exercises" because their neighborhoods have become training grounds against so-called terrorism. I worship with disciples devoted to the reality of God's liberation and justice, even as some of them face threats for following a faith where God is on the side of the oppressed. I set foot where my own ancestors had set foot - from taking the jeepney down the roads my mom took to go to her high school, to standing in the pulpit at her pastor father's last church appointment, to walking the streets my dad walked to go to church where his singing voice was made strong.
Every time I go on pilgrimage, every time I raise my fist or my voice for the people of the Philippines, I bring my cloud of witnesses with me, remembering the Native American value that is mindful of seven generations behind and seven generations forward. That every time I engage in healing and wholeness in myself and my collective and my generation, I add a little bit of healing and wholeness to the generations after me. And to the generations before me.
Those generations that were raped by imperialist force and learned and perpetuated the corrupt governance of their colonial masters from Spain. Those generations that were harassed, tortured, and lost their lives when Japan occupied the islands. Those generations that fought alongside the US in hopes of bringing some semblance of sovereignty to the people. Those generations that felt their best option was voluntary displacement - to leave everything they knew behind, not able to be around when their loved ones became sick and passed away, navigating a country that would never fully embrace them or their children as their own without at least the cost of assimilation, mistaken identity, and superficial passing down of culture and food, if any. Those generations that found the faith that I profess, practice, and live.
When I make pilgrimage to the Philippines, it is a sacred act. I get to touch those spaces where the sacred touches the lives of those we would perceive to be hopeless, only to be refueled by their hopefulness, commitment, strength, and perseverance. It keeps me going when I return. It teaches me how to be a better Christian, a better organizer, which helps me be a better Pastor.
My prayer for this year's pilgrimage, this Visit, is the same as always - that hearts, eyes, minds, ears be opened in ways that help us to surpass the ego that we may recognize our place as active participants in God's collective light. That revolutionary spirits are watered, unfailing in love and service to the people. That Holy Spirit fire ignites, that Her militant wind blows, that the struggle to be beloved community continue on until we reach the generation that will know genuine peace as a result of wholeness and justice - shalom.
Long Live International Solidarity!
No comments:
Post a Comment