Charismatic
I love the smell of burning apple wood. It’s not of apples; it’s like roasting nuts but even clearer. Manzano smells like that each winter. This winter has been dry, hardly any snow, and the last time I remember it raining was September.
The apple wood, though, makes me remember times before this winter. It makes me remember loading Martin’s arms with freshly chopped wood and having him bring it in the house. This was the same house I grew up in, and it was the same house my father lived in when he was a boy. So many things in Manzano have these sorts of roots. But even old trees rot. I have to shake the nostalgia out. God tests us all and doesn’t give us tasks we cannot handle. I am not out tonight because I want to think of the old days or the times before my son turned away from me or the old church starting looking the other way. I am out to do what we must do for our town.
Pastor Antonio Jones Lopez has been making the point for some time. We can pretend that we are in battle for good and evil, but we aren’t. Not anymore. It’s over. We can watch as the church of our fathers embraces the gangsters on their wedding days, at the funerals, and in the christenings. Of course everyone is ignorant when the large checks come to keep the old church in top shape and the old priests living in comfort. Our town pretends that the elections are real when we all know that our votes are not really our votes. We can pretend that the drugs that destroy our children – my Martin – are the same as they are in others places. But we are lying. We all know that we’ve lost. We all know that with the existing powers, our community is gone.
This morning’s sermon was a call to action. “Our town – the town of your children your childhoods and you family is no more. Look around.” He shouts, “Don’t look at what you remember being in the street, look at the street. The houses you remember are rotting in the woods. The trailers by the side of the road, the trash, the cars, the filth -- that is what’s there. The young people don’t look as they drive by. They hear their music; they sell their drugs. They don’t mock the old ways; they don’t see them. We don’t have a community here in Manza; we have nothing but corruption,” Pastors Lopez asked five of us to stay with him after the service.
He puts it plainly. “It is now their town. We gave up our rights to it when we turned away like the others. Just because we realize now that things are gone, does not mean we can bring it back. I have prayed about this brothers. And the answer is that we must give it back to God. He will make us build a community again after. We will have to care for each other, look at each other, help each other, or we will have to leave. Either way this blight will be gone – But I cannot promise…”
The six of us looked at a village map. We knew that the first thing to be protected would be the old church. That would have to be first. The fire department would converge to protect and when it did it would expose the mayor’s house, the gangsters’ houses, and everything else. Even our own houses would have to go. It all had to burn. There could be no winners. Only when we were all wretched again can we see the world.
Two people were to bring propane to the old church. That had to be a big flame and it had to happen fast. The mayor’s house and the selectmen would also go with explosions. The rest of the houses would be cocktailed. Four filled bottles at each house from all of the sacred directions. Once each man had accomplished his first explosion project he was to start the cocktails. Pastor Lopez had prepared well and much of the supply set-up and the planning was already done.
I wanted to do the mayor’s house. I was to wait until I could see the flames from the churchyard before I started. The chimney smoke from the mayor’s house clears away and I see the three black SUVs parked beside the garage. I think of my son’s addiction. I think of the fear on my wife’s face every time we see one of the gangster at a restaurant. This is no way to live.
I pull my truck up between the door and the closest SUV. I walk toward the front of the house where I see commotion coming from the fire station. Once I see the flame I press the button and the sky lights up. The other car with the cocktails is packed beside the post office. I get in and drive. I first go to the two stores on the plaza. And what was my life is now up in flames.
I love the smell of burning apple wood. It’s not of apples; it’s like roasting nuts but even clearer. Manzano smells like that each winter. This winter has been dry, hardly any snow, and the last time I remember it raining was September.
The apple wood, though, makes me remember times before this winter. It makes me remember loading Martin’s arms with freshly chopped wood and having him bring it in the house. This was the same house I grew up in, and it was the same house my father lived in when he was a boy. So many things in Manzano have these sorts of roots. But even old trees rot. I have to shake the nostalgia out. God tests us all and doesn’t give us tasks we cannot handle. I am not out tonight because I want to think of the old days or the times before my son turned away from me or the old church starting looking the other way. I am out to do what we must do for our town.
Pastor Antonio Jones Lopez has been making the point for some time. We can pretend that we are in battle for good and evil, but we aren’t. Not anymore. It’s over. We can watch as the church of our fathers embraces the gangsters on their wedding days, at the funerals, and in the christenings. Of course everyone is ignorant when the large checks come to keep the old church in top shape and the old priests living in comfort. Our town pretends that the elections are real when we all know that our votes are not really our votes. We can pretend that the drugs that destroy our children – my Martin – are the same as they are in others places. But we are lying. We all know that we’ve lost. We all know that with the existing powers, our community is gone.
This morning’s sermon was a call to action. “Our town – the town of your children your childhoods and you family is no more. Look around.” He shouts, “Don’t look at what you remember being in the street, look at the street. The houses you remember are rotting in the woods. The trailers by the side of the road, the trash, the cars, the filth -- that is what’s there. The young people don’t look as they drive by. They hear their music; they sell their drugs. They don’t mock the old ways; they don’t see them. We don’t have a community here in Manza; we have nothing but corruption,” Pastors Lopez asked five of us to stay with him after the service.
He puts it plainly. “It is now their town. We gave up our rights to it when we turned away like the others. Just because we realize now that things are gone, does not mean we can bring it back. I have prayed about this brothers. And the answer is that we must give it back to God. He will make us build a community again after. We will have to care for each other, look at each other, help each other, or we will have to leave. Either way this blight will be gone – But I cannot promise…”
The six of us looked at a village map. We knew that the first thing to be protected would be the old church. That would have to be first. The fire department would converge to protect and when it did it would expose the mayor’s house, the gangsters’ houses, and everything else. Even our own houses would have to go. It all had to burn. There could be no winners. Only when we were all wretched again can we see the world.
Two people were to bring propane to the old church. That had to be a big flame and it had to happen fast. The mayor’s house and the selectmen would also go with explosions. The rest of the houses would be cocktailed. Four filled bottles at each house from all of the sacred directions. Once each man had accomplished his first explosion project he was to start the cocktails. Pastor Lopez had prepared well and much of the supply set-up and the planning was already done.
I wanted to do the mayor’s house. I was to wait until I could see the flames from the churchyard before I started. The chimney smoke from the mayor’s house clears away and I see the three black SUVs parked beside the garage. I think of my son’s addiction. I think of the fear on my wife’s face every time we see one of the gangster at a restaurant. This is no way to live.
I pull my truck up between the door and the closest SUV. I walk toward the front of the house where I see commotion coming from the fire station. Once I see the flame I press the button and the sky lights up. The other car with the cocktails is packed beside the post office. I get in and drive. I first go to the two stores on the plaza. And what was my life is now up in flames.