“As a lotus flower is born in water, grows in water and rises out of water to stand above it unsoiled, so I, born in the world, raised in the world having overcome the world, live unsoiled by the world”
the old me is in the rearview
the new me drags no chains
my heart ~ my thoughts
my decisions rearranged
from this day thru
A new song I love and I hope you will love it as much as I do ~ xo
The Resurrection of Jesus
But at daybreak on the first day of the week they took the spices they had prepared and went to the tomb.
They found the stone rolled away from the tomb;
but when they entered, they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus.
While they were puzzling over this, behold, two men in dazzling garments appeared to them.
They were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground. They said to them, “Why do you seek the living one among the dead?
He is not here, but he has been raised. Remember what he said to you while he was still in Galilee,
that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners and be crucified, and rise on the third day.”
And they remembered his words.
Luke 24: 1-9
|“The Lord Is Risen and Was Seen Alive”
ROME, 7 APRIL 2007 (ZENIT)
Here is a translation of a commentary by the Pontifical Household preacher, Capuchin Father Raniero Cantalamessa, on the readings for Easter Sunday’s liturgy.
* * *
He is Risen!
There are men — we see this in the phenomenon of suicide bombers — who die for a misguided or even evil cause, mistakenly retaining, but in good faith, that the cause is a worthy one.
Even Christ’s death does not testify to the truth of his cause, but only the fact that he believed in its truth. Christ’s death is the supreme witness of his charity, but not of his truth. This truth is adequately testified to only by the Resurrection. “The faith of Christians,” says St. Augustine, “is the resurrection of Christ. It is no great thing to believe that Jesus died; even the pagans believe this, everyone believes it. The truly great thing is to believe that he is risen.”
Keeping to the purpose that has guided us up to this point, we must leave faith aside for the moment and attend to history. We would like to try to respond to the following question: Can Christ’s resurrection be defined as a historical event, in the common sense of the term, that is, did it “really happen”?
There are two facts that offer themselves for the historian’s consideration and permit him to speak of the Resurrection: First, the sudden and inexplicable faith of the disciples, a faith so tenacious as to withstand even the trial of martyrdom; second, the explanation of this faith that has been left by those who had it, that is, the disciples. In the decisive moment, when Jesus was captured and executed, the disciples did not entertain any thoughts about the resurrection. They fled and took Jesus’ case to be closed.
In the meantime something had to intervene that in a short time not only provoked a radical change of their state of soul, but that led them to an entirely different activity and to the founding of the Church. This “something” is the historical nucleus of Easter faith.
The oldest testimony to the Resurrection is Paul’s: “For I delivered to you first of all that which I also received: That Christ died for our sins, according to the Scriptures, and that he was buried, and that he rose again according to the Scriptures; and that he was seen by Cephas, and after that by the eleven.
“Then he was seen by more than 500 brethren at once, of whom many are still with us and some are fallen asleep. After that, he was seen by James, then by all the apostles. And last of all, he was seen also by me, as by one born out of due time” (1 Corinthians 15:3-8).
These words were written around A.D. 56 or 57. But the core of the text is constituted by an anterior faith that Paul himself says he received from others. Keeping in mind that Paul learned of these things immediately after his conversion, we can date them to about A.D. 35, that is, five or six years after the death of Christ. It is thus a testimony of rare historical value.
The accounts of the Evangelists were written some decades later and reflect a later phase in the Church’s reflection. But the core of the testimony remains unchanged: The Lord is risen and was seen alive. To this a new element is added, perhaps determined by an apologetic preoccupation, and so of minor historical value: The insistence on the fact of the empty tomb. Even for the Gospels, the appearances of the Risen Christ are the decisive facts.
The appearances, nevertheless, testify to a new dimension of the Risen Christ, his mode of being “according to the Spirit,” which is new and different with respect to his previous mode of existing, “according to the flesh.” For example, he cannot be recognized by whoever sees him, but only by those to whom he gives the ability to know him. His corporeality is different from what it was before. It is free from physical laws: It enters and exits through closed doors; it appears and disappears.
According to a different explanation of the Resurrection, one advanced by Rudolf Bultmann and still proposed today, what we have here are psychogenetic visions, that is, subjective phenomena similar to hallucinations. But this, if it were true, would constitute in the end a greater miracle than the one that such explanations wish to deny. It supposes that in fact different people, in different situations and locations, had the same impression, the same hallucination.
The disciples could not have deceived themselves: They were specific people — fishermen — not at all given to visions. They did not believe the first ones; Jesus almost has to overpower their resistance: “O foolish men, and slow of heart to believe!” They could not even want to deceive others. All of their interests opposed this; they would have been the first to feel themselves deceived by Jesus. If he were not risen, to what purpose would it have been to face persecution and death for him? What material benefit would they have drawn from it?
If the historical character of the Resurrection — that is, its objective, and not only subjective, character — is denied, the birth of the Church and of the faith become an even more inexplicable mystery than the Resurrection itself. It has been justly observed that “the idea that the imposing edifice of the history of Christianity is like an enormous pyramid balanced upon an insignificant fact is certainly less credible than the assertion that the entire event — and that also means the most significant fact within this — really did occupy a place in history comparable to the one that the New Testament attributes to it.”
Where does the historical research on the Resurrection arrive? We can see it in the words of the disciples of Emmaus: Some disciples went to Jesus’ tomb Easter morning and they found that things were as the women had said who had gone their before them, “but they did not see him.” History too must take itself to Jesus’ tomb and see that things are as the witnesses have said. But it does not see the Risen One. It is not enough to observe matters historically. It is necessary to see the Risen Christ, and this is something history cannot do; only faith can.
The angel who appeared to the women Easter morning said to them: “Why do you seek the living among the dead?” (Luke 24:5). I must confess that at the end of these reflections I feel that this rebuke is also directed at me. It is as if the angel were to say to me: “Why do you waste time seeking among dead human and historical arguments, the one who is alive and at work in the Church and in the world? Go instead and tell his brothers that he is risen.”
If it were up to me, that is the only thing I would do. I quit teaching the history of Christian origins 30 years ago to dedicate myself to proclaming the Kingdom of God, but now when I am faced with radical and unfounded denials of the truth of the Gospels, I have felt obliged to take up the tools of my trade again.
This is why I have decided to use these commentaries on the Sunday Gospels to oppose a tendency often motivated by commercial interests and help those who may read my observations to form an opinion about Jesus that is less influenced by the clamor of the advertising world.
To be a poet is to have a soul so quick to discern that no shade of quality escapes it, and so quick to feel that discernment is but a hand playing with finely ordered variety on the chords of emotion—a soul in which knowledge passes instantaneously into feeling, and feeling flashes back as a new organ of knowledge. One may have that condition by fits only.
Picture: G. Brad Lewis / Barcroft Media
He loves me with strong, calloused hands.
He pushes aside wisps of hair to gently kiss my forehead.
His way to wordlessly say, “It’s still ok, you grumpy, unloving, selfish girl . I love every bit and piece of you. I still do. It’s just me and you and WE will always be ok.”
He laughs when I won’t.
He likes music I don’t, he likes mine too, he never has to choose. He’s an Eclectic demigod of tunes. A firestorm of moods. He can be as crazy, raunchy, crude, irreverent, lewd, uncontrolled, wild and wicked as the music he listens to.
He is undone watching sad movies, the ones where sports heroes die in the arms of a best friend.
He loves books as if they somehow help him breathe. He reads to me the things that touch him most deeply. He hides nothing of what he’s feeling or thinking. He knows I never judge him & though I may disagree I respect him and always try to see though his eyes.
His openness, trust and complete honesty are the greatest gifts of Love anyone has ever given me. He allows me to reciprocate. His uncaged heart frees me.
Everything about him screams sexy. His mind is my Aphrodisiac. His body is my home. There is no part of me he hasn’t seen. There is nothing I keep from him. To Him only do I belong.
He can split logs and carry them in rain. He is made of hardest muscle and beard. He is not soft. I love the rugged length of him. The smell of sweat and skin. The way his hands engulf mine. The way his body shields and protects. He makes me feel strong, yet delicate.
He isn’t afraid to Pray, in his own way.
He seeks beyond this world for the greater good and greater Truth.
He Respects all creatures, all life. He lets butterflies rest upon his thumb and never kills bumblebees or fireflies.
His takes no delight in cruelty or another man’s downfall
He is strength with tenderness. A gentle upheaval. A fascinating contradiction.
He is Bold as knights of old. He Protects the innocent, the weak, the bullied, the meek.
He is slow to anger or take offense. He sees all, the bad, the good in those he calls friend.
He does what is right and honorable with courage and strength of conviction.
He is a man of action, a Warrior
He is a Seeker of peace
Hypocrisy he never tolerates. Ignorance he won’t excuse. He never suffers fools.
He has no need for the approval of men. He’s no sheep to be led by irrational emotion. He’s not influenced by the latest trends among politicians, philosophers or the masses.
He is a realist, a pragmatist who sees with the eyes of wisdom and reason.
He is an Idealist, an optimist, a philosopher.
Compelling, passionate, brilliant and fascinating. He challenges my mind, and he delights when mine challenges his.
He is gentility and class. He is confident and secure with his manhood, his place in the world. He is nobility of thought. Justice and honesty are ingrained in his heart.
More than generous, he seeks no adulation or glory for kindnesses
He sacrifices without complaint for those he loves
He gazes into each sun’s rising and setting with wonder and awe. He knows all nature is a masterpiece, a treasure to protect and respect
He shows me reality in colors unseen
He sees beyond what the eyes perceive
In every season he finds hope, no matter how stark the horizon or chilling the breeze
He teaches me unending ways to discover the Beauty in me
Like a rare flower he treasures and cherishes me with every breath
He delights as I bloom beneath his care. He is never threatened by my strength. He could crush me in an instant, I trust him completely. I am fearless and free within the fortress of him
He is my Protector, my Avenger
He is my Savior, my soulmate, my biggest fan, my most ardent, attentive Lover
He is my best friend
He found me when I was alone, unguarded, unmasked. He SAW into me and still stayed around. I know it’s meant to last
He is Man ~ He is my Love
He walks this earth
My Soul’s Mate known and expected
since before time began
I will wait a lifetime
to walk beside him once again
Hand in Hand
My youngest daughter, whom I sit next to right now in a hospital room, has much to complain about when it comes to my mothering skills.
I more often than not set a bad example when it comes to housekeeping. Procrastination is my middle name, unless company is coming over and then it’s “Haul ASS and GET TO WORK, EVERYBODY… NOW!”
My children have seen my worst sides of my being a daughter in the clashes I’ve had with my own mother. I always feel I’ve let them down and wonder what happened to all my self-control and noble promises of being a perfect example of motherhood. It’s humiliating to admit my faults and flaws to them, especially since I grew up believing my mother to be the saint of self-control and perfection.
I can be grumpy and short with my children. I always apologize and ask them to forgive my shortcomings and my selfishness.
The only time I don’t feel like the poster child for horrible and inadequate mothers is when I don’t sweat the small stuff, the stuff that many adults consider mountains, I consider molehills.
The spills, messes, broken glass/dishes/windows, lost jewelry, ruined shirts, boots, dresses, brand new cameras not meant to be put in ziploc bags & take underwater pictures in swimming pools, the holes in walls, the wet beds, the needing to vent without being told how to feel, not feel or ‘fix’ it… all things that make us human.
The latest one, my daughter stepping on my closed laptop as she leaned over to kiss me the other morning. My prized laptop went “CRACK” and we both went “Oh NOOO!”. I wanted to cry when I saw the screen, but all I said was, “Oh no, Chloe, I think it’s cracked, but it’s ok it wasn’t your fault. No worries.” And that was that. That’s my one redeeming quality as a mother, to not sweat the small stuff. My children’s dignity and self-esteem is more important to me than my own disappointment and angst.
There is never any shame in making mistakes and there never should be. That’s part of life. My mother never made me feel less than when I messed up as a child, my father did. I NEVER went to my father for ANYTHING, I never wanted to feel like an imposition. I went to my mother instead. That was the greatest lesson I learned about being a parent. I always want my children to know that they are loved, just because.
*image from Pinterest
I have been writing poetry, I have been thinking of Sweet Love and things, but I’ve not finished anything yet. They are the new Drafts in my draft folder. A MESS of words unraveling in a big ball of yarn I try untangling. messy and inelegant
I go off on tangents, I can’t seem to not ramble from A to B to C to X Y Z and back again, etc until I just give up in disgust and go to something else. Wash. Rinse. Repeat
But, I can tell a little bit of the larger picture.
I will, no matter if I wanna scrap this by the time I’m finished, I WILL post.
Not sure if it’s good or bad, but I’m going to anyway.
I wanna leave that comfort zone of trashing mistakes.
Here ya go!
I’ve been on Pinterest, a LOT the last few days, A LOT, OCD A LOT.
I’ve fallen in love with Poetry, every single type of poetry. I’ve been creating boards left and right to narrow down my categories.
I’m focusing right now on
*Enlightenment, Finding True Peace & Happiness
*Poets and Poetry that I love
*Spiritual Hope, Finding strength in difficult times
*Literature and Art and how it affects Culture and History, how it brings beauty and value to Mankind, all living things,
*Childhood and the Importance of Reading. Creativity, Happiness, Critical Thinking, Beauty in nature, living creatures, all people.
UnEducating… It’s not used by all those homeschooling, not at all. It’s a way to Educate as the child’s interest and strengths dictate, not on a timetable and having outdoor time as teaching, etc. It’s very interesting. Learning always is.
I just found this gem of a writer named Jenny Holzer.
She’s truly amazing.
the newest board,
I’ve been reading a lot of others who write these types of things, but not specifically. I love it. I had the book, but I lost it. It’s a brilliant read, but my brain gets tired , like it does from all the other things I read, and my lack of sleep.
So, that’s what I’ve been doing during down time, and my late nights trying to sleep.
Thank you for reading me. I truly appreciate & love when you visit me!
Know that I always love to read and adore you. ❤️ ❤️ ❤️
Welcome to my world that I created with my imagination & emotions
Domenic Garisto/havau22.com / IF YOU CAN'T BE THE POET, BE THE POEM (David Carradine) LIFE IS NOT A REHERSAL,SO LIVE IT.
novel (n.): 1. a fictitious prose narrative of considerable length and complexity, portraying characters and usually presenting a sequential organization of action and scenes. 2. (adj.) of a new kind; different from anything seen or known before
You are my life , you are my happiness , you are my inspiration , you are my everything ...
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