I wandered a little further away from Granada last Sunday, and met some really unique people. They live in a place where worshipping Jesus isn't the hip thing to do, but spite of the opposition, they follow him.
I wept as I heard them sing, and wept even more when I heard my dad weep. He and I, and many thousands, have prayed for a long time, and I never thought we'd be a part of the miracle. God's gospel, His good news, changes lives, and in the last year and half, I've seen this over and over again.
In our western mindset and culture, miracles don't happen. We scorn the Virgen of Lourdes, the pilgrimidge of Mecca, the journey to Santiago. We think people are searching for lost causes, and its true, but we don't offer than any other options, so they continue to march around the black stone, worship at the feet of idols and bloody their toes proving their dedication.
We come upon a most holy moment for the Catholic world. In my mind, its both a dark and a light moment. I'll never forget seeing the lone Christ figure on the cross, and hear the weeping of the crowd. In the same breath, I'll never forget the emotion, the excitement that occured when a small, white statue of a woman came out the humble church and people swooned with emotion.
God is bigger than the Virgen de las Angustias, the road to Santiago, and Mecca. However, we don't really believe it until we see it. More of us are like Thomas than we want to admit.
I've been prviledged to see it, last weekend with a small group of hardy souls, who know Christ and his suffering. Take my word for it, its powerful, this crazy thing we call the gospel.