I love The Lion King. Let's start off by getting that out in the open. I grew up on The Lion King. I still cry when Mufasa dies, I know every song by heart, and "Hakuna Matata" has been the basis for many important decisions in my life. I can even recite "Be Prepared" in German. The narrative of the young, exiled lion who returns to save his homeland is so deep in me, it is very much a part of my soul. Simba lives in me, and his songs live in my iPod.
"Not One of Us" from the second Lion King movie came up on shuffle just before I started writing this, and I was suddenly very unsettled as I sang along. In the scene, King Simba passes judgment on young Kovu from atop Pride Rock: exile. Immediately, the masses of animals rally behind Simba's decision, crying, "He is not one of us. He will never be one of us," and Kovu is quite literally chased out of the Pride Lands.
The scene, and the movie itself, is blatant social commentary on xenophobia, but as the words of the xenophobic, animal populace left my mouth, I suddenly understood the scene as much more than a slap on the wrist to some distant xenophobia. The xenophobia was here, is here. Let's watch, shall we?
After King Simba has been ambushed by Kovu's former pride (the "Outsiders"), a plot which Kovu sincerely had nothing to do with—in fact, he attempts to protect Simba and is exiled by his former pride for doing so—Kovu returns to Pride Rock, hoping to explain his role, or lack thereof, and receive mercy and forgiveness (for his failure to do more to protect Simba). King Simba, however, glares down upon Kovu from his Pride Rock throne and declares that Kovu "does not belong here."
Even when Kiara, Simba's daughter, begs that King Simba listen, he merely silences her. As the populace rallies for judgement, the mighty King Simba unmercifully grants it: exile. Immediately, the populace—who had earlier participated in the joyful song in which Princess Kiara and Kovu fall in love ("Upendi")—turns on Kovu, lowering horns, tossing rocks, stomping, pecking, and doing all possible to drive him mercilessly and dishonourably from their land.
I'll be blunt: Kovu is an undocumented immigrant. He's probably Muslim too, actually. Maybe even left-handed. And the bipolar populace of animals is us, the bipolar populace of America who, like our King Simbas, have so quickly and senselessly cried out, "You asked for trouble the moment you came!" at those who have sought refuge and a new life in our lands, just as the animals cry at Kovu.
Our political leaders, like King Simba, have cried, "Silence!" at those who have advocated for justice for the Kovus among us, and they have declared, upon people whose stories they do not know, their judgment: exile, "you do not belong here," "not one of us." Their judgment has gone unquestioned by the populace: as political leaders in our world have declared undocumented immigrants, Muslims, LGBT persons, and others as outsiders, enemies, threats—"not one of us"—the populace has rallied unquestioningly behind them.
Kovu's story does not end there, however. "Social activist" Kiara and Kovu team up and show everyone—from King Simba to "soldiers" to the populace—that they are all one. "Look at them. What difference do you see?" an impassioned Kiara asks her father in the midst of the all-out-war which breaks out. "We are one."
The Lion King lays out a moral imperative for the treatment of "outsiders" in our community in the same way Harry Potter or The Bible, two of my favourite "narratives for justice," do: through the lives and stories of beloved characters. To love these stories means to live them out. To love Simba and Kiara and Kovu and Rafiki means to walk with them, journey with them, and learn, as they do, to love your neighbour, even if your neighbour is an immigrant, Muslim, gay, left-handed, or an outsider in any other way. Because, as Simba teaches his daughter long before he so mercilessly declares Kovu an outsider, exiled, and "not one of us," we are one.
07 December 2011
21 November 2011
Not in Harry's Name
Unethical labour practices are a pretty huge issue within the chocolate industry, so it's not exactly an easy issue to tackle. The Harry Potter Alliance, however, has one of the coolest ways of addressing it: the "Not in Harry's Name" campaign.
The Harry Potter Alliance (HPA) is an organisation of Harry Potter fans who put their "faith" (love of the Harry Potter books and the ideals expressed therein) into action through creative activism. The "Not in Harry's Name" (NIHN) campaign demands that Warner Brothers either prove that the Chocolate Frogs they sell with Harry's name on them are already being made using fair and ethical standards or take action to live up to their own "fair and ethical labor standards."
The NIHN campaign was originally launched a year ago as part of our much bigger "Deathly Hallows" campaign, and was re-launched and re-focused yesterday with three new actions for fans to take: buy the HPA's new fair trade chocolate frogs (which come with campaign information, too), create and send "Muggle Howlers" (YouTube videos expressing that we find WB's actions unacceptable), and, my personal favourite, mail WB cease and desist letters.
I love the HPA because it doesn't function at all like most other activist organisations. We are dead serious about what we do—none of our campaigns would have succeeded if we weren't—but the activism the HPA does is creative, unexpected, and fun. We kick off campaigns with parties, Quidditch matches, and all the sorts of "stupid" things for which Harry Potter fans so often get mocked and ridiculed. I imagine, at the risk of further infuriating every Christian who swears Harry Potter is the anti-Christ, that Harry Potter fans are currently holding onto whatever it was that possessed grown people who should have known better to defy both Roman authority and Jewish leaders and spread the Gospel.
Maybe the early Christians didn't play sports on broomsticks that couldn't fly; maybe they point sticks at each other and say funny words, knowing full well nothing would happen; maybe they didn't have costume contests and Jesus conventions—but they, like the HPA, seemed to believe that love really does win. They believed that they possessed the incontrovertible truth that love is too powerful to ever lose, and they believed that their hero, Jesus, lived on through them, just as Harry Potter's lost loved ones lived on through him. They believed in resurrection.
Christianity in the 21st century doesn't believe in these things, no matter which side of the political and theological divides on which you find yourself. Either the God of Wrath will spitefully wipe out and destroy the wicked, or the God of Forgiveness is just too passive to infringe upon the so-called "rights" of others to spew hate. The God who makes "justice roll on like a river and righteousness like an never-failing stream" (Amos 5:24, NIV) has been forgotten by the majority of Christianity.
Yesterday, as the NIHN campaign re-launched, I played an intense and muddy Quidditch match against a rival team in pouring rain. Our very presence at the park in which we played was an confession of faith: some of us had travelled for hours to get there, it was freezing, it was wet, and we were on broomsticks that didn't fly. Only radical faith could have possessed us to do something so seemingly pointless.
Both teams, our refs, and our spectators crossed the street to the nearest coffeeshop when the game ended. "Stand up and preach!" my captain told me, when the conversation turned to NIHN and some of those in attendance had yet to learn about it or the HPA. Somehow, the foolish act of travelling for hours just to playing a "fictional" sport in the pouring rain became an opportunity to work for justice in creative ways. Someone told me today that they already sent in their cease and desist letter, and another asked me for more information on how to get involved.
We have no reason to believe that fair trade chocolate frogs could change the world. We have no reason to believe that children can free slaves. We have no reason to believe that our small voices could ever make a difference, but we know that, like Harry, have "power the Dark Lord knows not": love.
Unethical labour practices are a pretty huge issue to tackle, but we carry with us the stories of Harry and his friends, stories of chocolate frogs which changed the world, of children freeing slaves, and of small voices making a difference. We carry with us the story that love wins, and that is what Christianity has forgotten. We have forgotten the stories which once fueled early Christians, but we only need return to our beloved tales to reclaim that power the darkness of our world knows not: love.
Maybe the early Christians didn't play sports on broomsticks that couldn't fly; maybe they point sticks at each other and say funny words, knowing full well nothing would happen; maybe they didn't have costume contests and Jesus conventions—but they, like the HPA, seemed to believe that love really does win. They believed that they possessed the incontrovertible truth that love is too powerful to ever lose, and they believed that their hero, Jesus, lived on through them, just as Harry Potter's lost loved ones lived on through him. They believed in resurrection.
Christianity in the 21st century doesn't believe in these things, no matter which side of the political and theological divides on which you find yourself. Either the God of Wrath will spitefully wipe out and destroy the wicked, or the God of Forgiveness is just too passive to infringe upon the so-called "rights" of others to spew hate. The God who makes "justice roll on like a river and righteousness like an never-failing stream" (Amos 5:24, NIV) has been forgotten by the majority of Christianity.
Yesterday, as the NIHN campaign re-launched, I played an intense and muddy Quidditch match against a rival team in pouring rain. Our very presence at the park in which we played was an confession of faith: some of us had travelled for hours to get there, it was freezing, it was wet, and we were on broomsticks that didn't fly. Only radical faith could have possessed us to do something so seemingly pointless.
Both teams, our refs, and our spectators crossed the street to the nearest coffeeshop when the game ended. "Stand up and preach!" my captain told me, when the conversation turned to NIHN and some of those in attendance had yet to learn about it or the HPA. Somehow, the foolish act of travelling for hours just to playing a "fictional" sport in the pouring rain became an opportunity to work for justice in creative ways. Someone told me today that they already sent in their cease and desist letter, and another asked me for more information on how to get involved.
We have no reason to believe that fair trade chocolate frogs could change the world. We have no reason to believe that children can free slaves. We have no reason to believe that our small voices could ever make a difference, but we know that, like Harry, have "power the Dark Lord knows not": love.
Unethical labour practices are a pretty huge issue to tackle, but we carry with us the stories of Harry and his friends, stories of chocolate frogs which changed the world, of children freeing slaves, and of small voices making a difference. We carry with us the story that love wins, and that is what Christianity has forgotten. We have forgotten the stories which once fueled early Christians, but we only need return to our beloved tales to reclaim that power the darkness of our world knows not: love.
23 September 2011
Glory or Criticism?: Music and Violence
I was listening to "Pumped Up Kicks" by Foster the People, a song I have heard a couple of times and generally enjoyed, when I decided to pay attention to the lyrics: "All the other kids with the pumped up kicks, you'd better run, better run, outrun my gun. All the other kids with the pumped up kicks, you'd better run, better run, faster than my bullet."
I immediately wished I hadn't paid attention. Ignorance is bliss, after all. But as someone who claims to be so very against the glorification of violence in our media and culture, could I willingly listen to a song that glorifies violence? Of course not.
Except there is a very big difference between talking about violence in a way that glorifies it versus talking about violence in a way that addresses the issue. Where is that line? Listening to the song, it felt satirical. The dark lyrics seemed to be ironically juxtaposed against a cheerful and bright melody and beat. Could the artist have intended to use that juxtaposition as social commentary on our glorification of violence? Or was it simply a glorification of violence?
Said Mark Foster of Foster the People on the song:
I don't want to listen to only cheerful songs. That's surely not my point. Listening only to cheerful music would be like sticking my fingers in my ears, shutting my eyes, and hoping that if I simply am never exposed to unpleasantness, it will cease to exist. That's not how it works.
I want to be critical and aware of what media I allow myself to take in. Just like I don't want to fill my body with junk food, neither do I want to fill my soul with "junk food" like the glorification of violence. Neither provides real nourishment. But denial of the existence of junk is not only ignorant, but dangerous. If I don't even acknowledge the issues in our society, how can I work to fix them?
I don't know what my decision about "Pumped Up Kicks" is right now. I won't protest the song, nor will I tell anyone not to listen to it. But it is a song about something ugly in our society; it requires that I think critically about it, that I decided for myself what this song is really about and what it means to me.
What is clear to me is that kids should never feel so isolated that they are driven to the violence expressed in this song. Regardless of what the artist meant, this song's violent themes are a reminder of all the work that still remains to be done in our society and a reminder of what I am supposed to be doing with my life: working to put an end to all of the violence, hatred, and isolation in our world and fill it instead with love.
I immediately wished I hadn't paid attention. Ignorance is bliss, after all. But as someone who claims to be so very against the glorification of violence in our media and culture, could I willingly listen to a song that glorifies violence? Of course not.
Except there is a very big difference between talking about violence in a way that glorifies it versus talking about violence in a way that addresses the issue. Where is that line? Listening to the song, it felt satirical. The dark lyrics seemed to be ironically juxtaposed against a cheerful and bright melody and beat. Could the artist have intended to use that juxtaposition as social commentary on our glorification of violence? Or was it simply a glorification of violence?
Said Mark Foster of Foster the People on the song:
'Pumped Up Kicks' is about a kid that basically is losing his mind and is plotting revenge. He's an outcast. I feel like the youth in our culture are becoming more and more isolated. It's kind of an epidemic. Instead of writing about victims and some tragedy, I wanted to get into the killer's mind, like Truman Capote did in 'In Cold Blood.' I love to write about characters. That's my style. I really like to get inside the heads of other people and try to walk in their shoes.Even reading what he thinks of the song, however, doesn't seem to settle the question for me. Would I accept any song just because the artist thought what they were creating was social commentary? I could easily agree with the commentary that isolation among our youth can certainly lead to horrible violence—it's happened many times, most recently when a young teenager took his own life—but what does listening to this song and songs like it actually do for me?
I don't want to listen to only cheerful songs. That's surely not my point. Listening only to cheerful music would be like sticking my fingers in my ears, shutting my eyes, and hoping that if I simply am never exposed to unpleasantness, it will cease to exist. That's not how it works.
I want to be critical and aware of what media I allow myself to take in. Just like I don't want to fill my body with junk food, neither do I want to fill my soul with "junk food" like the glorification of violence. Neither provides real nourishment. But denial of the existence of junk is not only ignorant, but dangerous. If I don't even acknowledge the issues in our society, how can I work to fix them?
I don't know what my decision about "Pumped Up Kicks" is right now. I won't protest the song, nor will I tell anyone not to listen to it. But it is a song about something ugly in our society; it requires that I think critically about it, that I decided for myself what this song is really about and what it means to me.
What is clear to me is that kids should never feel so isolated that they are driven to the violence expressed in this song. Regardless of what the artist meant, this song's violent themes are a reminder of all the work that still remains to be done in our society and a reminder of what I am supposed to be doing with my life: working to put an end to all of the violence, hatred, and isolation in our world and fill it instead with love.
10 September 2011
When Ceilings Collapse
I remember being shaken awake, urged out of bed, and told not to worry—everything was going to be okay, I was going to be okay.
It was June. The sunny skies of Southern California unexpectedly turned to grey, and torrents of rain began to fall over night.
And then the ceiling collapsed at 5AM—directly over my parent's bed—destroying the entire room as water and debris flooded in. My parents were lucky—they had been up all night trying to keep up with all of the water which was leaking into our home through the exposed ceiling. We had just begun construction on our house, and we had no roof. No one had expected rain in sunny California, especially not in June.
When their ceiling collapsed, my parents shook my sister and I awake. We were soon out of the house and safe from being crushed by debris. We, too, were lucky: the ceiling directly over our bunk beds collapsed shortly after we left.
But everything was okay. Our ceilings collapsed, but no one was hurt, and our house was put back together again.
Two years later, on September 11th, 2001, I was shaken awake with the same fearful urgency and reassured that everything was going to be okay. I watched in horror as the ceiling of our entire country collapsed and those mighty buildings fell. I watched the planes crash, the flames consume, the bodies leap.
But I trusted my parents. I was nine; of course I trusted them. Everything was going to be okay. I was going to be okay.
I still believe them: everything is going to be okay. Our house is not the same as it was before the ceilings collapsed. There are still a couple of cracked windows all these years later, reminders of the terror of that June morning when my whole world caved in. Furniture was destroyed and never restored. When our ceiling leaked in last year's huge rain storms, the fear of the memory sent shockwaves of panic through us. But everything is okay. Our house still stands. Though earthquake or fire or storm or violence could strike at any moment and bring my house down once more, destruction does not have the last word.
But the destruction of 9/11 was much worse than physical destruction, much more than an attack on a building. It was an emotional and spiritual destruction, violence which pierced through our very souls. It was, and still is, unfathomable.
Yet our reaction to the unfathomable violence of 9/11 has been just as unfathomable. Like repairing our collapsed ceilings by destroying our neighbour's, our violent reaction does nothing to heal our wounded souls. We will never bring back the lost lives, and the towers, even if they were to be rebuilt, would never quite stand as they once stood.
But our souls can heal. We have witnessed violence beyond what any of us could have ever imagined, but witnessing does not require mimicry. Witnessing demands action, but the action we choose is up to us. Lessons can be learned from Norway's reaction to the terrorism in their own country.
"I think July 22 will be a very strong symbol of the Norwegian people's wish to be united in our fight against violence, and will be a symbol of how the nation can answer with love," said Norwegian Prime Minister Jens Stoltenberg.
The Amish, too, could teach us something about how we react to senseless violence. Writes Donald B. Kraybill:
Everything will be okay. I believe in the possibility of our liberation and the power of love to heal and free us from the pain of the horrific violence with which we are still struggling to deal ten years later. But destruction does not have the last word. Rather than being extremists for war, we must be, as Martin Luther King, Jr., writes in his Letter from Birmingham Jail, "extremists for love." Only through extreme acts of love can we conquer destruction, re-build our nation, and heal our terrorised souls.
It was June. The sunny skies of Southern California unexpectedly turned to grey, and torrents of rain began to fall over night.
And then the ceiling collapsed at 5AM—directly over my parent's bed—destroying the entire room as water and debris flooded in. My parents were lucky—they had been up all night trying to keep up with all of the water which was leaking into our home through the exposed ceiling. We had just begun construction on our house, and we had no roof. No one had expected rain in sunny California, especially not in June.
When their ceiling collapsed, my parents shook my sister and I awake. We were soon out of the house and safe from being crushed by debris. We, too, were lucky: the ceiling directly over our bunk beds collapsed shortly after we left.
But everything was okay. Our ceilings collapsed, but no one was hurt, and our house was put back together again.
Two years later, on September 11th, 2001, I was shaken awake with the same fearful urgency and reassured that everything was going to be okay. I watched in horror as the ceiling of our entire country collapsed and those mighty buildings fell. I watched the planes crash, the flames consume, the bodies leap.
But I trusted my parents. I was nine; of course I trusted them. Everything was going to be okay. I was going to be okay.
I still believe them: everything is going to be okay. Our house is not the same as it was before the ceilings collapsed. There are still a couple of cracked windows all these years later, reminders of the terror of that June morning when my whole world caved in. Furniture was destroyed and never restored. When our ceiling leaked in last year's huge rain storms, the fear of the memory sent shockwaves of panic through us. But everything is okay. Our house still stands. Though earthquake or fire or storm or violence could strike at any moment and bring my house down once more, destruction does not have the last word.
But the destruction of 9/11 was much worse than physical destruction, much more than an attack on a building. It was an emotional and spiritual destruction, violence which pierced through our very souls. It was, and still is, unfathomable.
Yet our reaction to the unfathomable violence of 9/11 has been just as unfathomable. Like repairing our collapsed ceilings by destroying our neighbour's, our violent reaction does nothing to heal our wounded souls. We will never bring back the lost lives, and the towers, even if they were to be rebuilt, would never quite stand as they once stood.
But our souls can heal. We have witnessed violence beyond what any of us could have ever imagined, but witnessing does not require mimicry. Witnessing demands action, but the action we choose is up to us. Lessons can be learned from Norway's reaction to the terrorism in their own country.
"I think July 22 will be a very strong symbol of the Norwegian people's wish to be united in our fight against violence, and will be a symbol of how the nation can answer with love," said Norwegian Prime Minister Jens Stoltenberg.
The Amish, too, could teach us something about how we react to senseless violence. Writes Donald B. Kraybill:
Amish faith is grounded in the teachings of Jesus to love enemies, reject revenge, and leave vengeance in the hands of God. As a father who lost a daughter in the schoolhouse [shooting] said, "Forgiveness means giving up the right to revenge."
Everything will be okay. I believe in the possibility of our liberation and the power of love to heal and free us from the pain of the horrific violence with which we are still struggling to deal ten years later. But destruction does not have the last word. Rather than being extremists for war, we must be, as Martin Luther King, Jr., writes in his Letter from Birmingham Jail, "extremists for love." Only through extreme acts of love can we conquer destruction, re-build our nation, and heal our terrorised souls.
02 September 2011
My Favourite Culture
I have just started my semester, and already I have written two essays, given a 30-second speech, and sputtered out Spanish I was unaware I knew whilst under pressure. The semester is going great. Today, I'll meet the last teachers I've yet to meet. There's a lot going on this semester, and it really feels like real college now, unlike last year which felt . . . weird.
My first major assignment is a "cultural artifact" speech. Basically, we have to bring in some item that represents a culture to which we belong, and give a short (2-3 minutes) speech on the artifact, the culture, and the significance of the artifact to the culture and the culture to us. It's a short little thing, and the options are endless. The example speech was about knitting needles, if that helps you understand how broad the term "culture" is being used.
Culture is a weird thing for me though. Biologically, I am white, but most of the "family" I actually know and see most often is from Honduras, my step-mom's family. From my step-dad, I grew up with Polynesian cultural influences. Growing up in culturally diverse Los Angeles gave me bits and pieces of other cultures too, so I don't consider myself any particular race. I decided I didn't want to do any sort of race-based culture for my speech.
I thought about theatre arts, about Harry Potter, about environmentalism and political activism, about all sorts of culture to which I belong, but nothing screamed "Pick me! Pick me! I am your culture!" like my faith. Forget race, forget arts, forget books and politics; I identify with the very long history of my faith, from ancient Israelites all the way to today. They are my ancestors, and their culture is mine.
Except how do you get up in front of a bunch of college students and tell them about how much you love the Bible without boring them all to death? Or worse, leading them to think you're some crazy right-wing, Bible-thumping nut who uses the Bible as a weapon? As much as I know my faith to be something beautiful, despite all of its flawed history—or perhaps because of those flaws even—the idea of standing up to say that and risk the burn of being judged for it terrifies me.
As I tried to find another culture about which to share, I could not help coming back to my faith. The more I thought about it, the more I realised that talking about my faith and its culture is exactly what I needed to do. It is the only culture about which I could talk with such passion—something I'll need if I want to engage anyone and get a good grade—and, I realised, talking about my faith is exactly what being a priest involves. While writing on this blog and talking to friends about my faith is nice, standing up to give a speech about my faith is something entirely different—and a skill I need to practice. If I am too afraid to even tell college students about my faith, who can I tell?
My cultural artifact? The Book of Common Prayer, the book which, in the 16th Century, sought to bring a divided nation together without sacrificing anyone. As Catholics and Protestant reformers fought viciously for control, a brilliant Queen declared that we could, somehow, be both Catholic and Protestant. Without killing each other. It is a book which connects a 19-year-old college student living in 21st century Los Angeles to 16th century Europe, to 1st century Israel/Palestine, to the slaves of ancient Egyptians, and to so many others, living, dead, and not-yet alive, whose cultures may differ so vastly from my own. Yet we pray the same prayers and we eat the same bread and wine. Despite whatever differences we may hold, we share the same humanity, and that is, really, what my favourite culture is all about.
My first major assignment is a "cultural artifact" speech. Basically, we have to bring in some item that represents a culture to which we belong, and give a short (2-3 minutes) speech on the artifact, the culture, and the significance of the artifact to the culture and the culture to us. It's a short little thing, and the options are endless. The example speech was about knitting needles, if that helps you understand how broad the term "culture" is being used.
Culture is a weird thing for me though. Biologically, I am white, but most of the "family" I actually know and see most often is from Honduras, my step-mom's family. From my step-dad, I grew up with Polynesian cultural influences. Growing up in culturally diverse Los Angeles gave me bits and pieces of other cultures too, so I don't consider myself any particular race. I decided I didn't want to do any sort of race-based culture for my speech.
I thought about theatre arts, about Harry Potter, about environmentalism and political activism, about all sorts of culture to which I belong, but nothing screamed "Pick me! Pick me! I am your culture!" like my faith. Forget race, forget arts, forget books and politics; I identify with the very long history of my faith, from ancient Israelites all the way to today. They are my ancestors, and their culture is mine.
Except how do you get up in front of a bunch of college students and tell them about how much you love the Bible without boring them all to death? Or worse, leading them to think you're some crazy right-wing, Bible-thumping nut who uses the Bible as a weapon? As much as I know my faith to be something beautiful, despite all of its flawed history—or perhaps because of those flaws even—the idea of standing up to say that and risk the burn of being judged for it terrifies me.
As I tried to find another culture about which to share, I could not help coming back to my faith. The more I thought about it, the more I realised that talking about my faith and its culture is exactly what I needed to do. It is the only culture about which I could talk with such passion—something I'll need if I want to engage anyone and get a good grade—and, I realised, talking about my faith is exactly what being a priest involves. While writing on this blog and talking to friends about my faith is nice, standing up to give a speech about my faith is something entirely different—and a skill I need to practice. If I am too afraid to even tell college students about my faith, who can I tell?
My cultural artifact? The Book of Common Prayer, the book which, in the 16th Century, sought to bring a divided nation together without sacrificing anyone. As Catholics and Protestant reformers fought viciously for control, a brilliant Queen declared that we could, somehow, be both Catholic and Protestant. Without killing each other. It is a book which connects a 19-year-old college student living in 21st century Los Angeles to 16th century Europe, to 1st century Israel/Palestine, to the slaves of ancient Egyptians, and to so many others, living, dead, and not-yet alive, whose cultures may differ so vastly from my own. Yet we pray the same prayers and we eat the same bread and wine. Despite whatever differences we may hold, we share the same humanity, and that is, really, what my favourite culture is all about.
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