is a few days ago the news of a boat over the rocks Australian island of Christmas Island, loaded to capacity with men , women and children allegedly coming from Afghanistan or Iraq. The island is only three hundred kilometers from the Indonesian coast, far enough to induce crowds of desperate groped to take off from war and misery.
is always the same sad story of people forced to sail to power, that told the terrifying images sent by a national news. Witnesses speak of yet unseaworthy vessels approaching the coast of Christmas Island staggering (and never was more ironic name!), While the stormy ocean does not care even for presence of children exhausted by seasickness .
I try to imagine the screams and terror in their eyes. I try to feel the petrifying fear in the hearts of fathers who have led them right there. I try to put myself in place of those mothers who cling hands and hopes. Finally, I try to see my son on that same boat, just before the timber comes apart against the cliff. I see him falling into the water, but I try to catch a wave higher sends him crashing into the rock and then hide it in my eyes.
Provo, yes. Because only this way I can begin to stand next to a less distracted this pain, tossed in a news story in a rough sea of \u200b\u200bso-called information. I want to stand in the shoes of those poor people who have dreams and needs quite equal to mine, to me very similar if not for the courage that only enormous hunger and too many tears can give to a man.
There is a Christmas crib Island, a crib for children forced to leave, for which once again he has not wanted to find a place in the hostel in the world. Children still poorer than that their illustrious contemporary Bethlehem, because the rock star dreams in the night did not hear quiet chants of mothers, but the furious cry of the sea. And the members do not numb the comfort of the breath of animals and good-natured friends, but the hostile wind and cold of the elements that seem to attract a miserable little boat on any kind of misfortune.
There is a crib in Christmas Island, an extreme crib and placed on the dark waters of a marine graveyard, another of all those scattered across the globe. No star comets to show the way of some way out, nor the heavens opened, the angels came to tout the glory of a God who seems to be here all except Almighty.
But then God got to do what? It is rather the injustice procured by men to turn into a death camp in what was originally the garden? Not the vortex of personal and collective selfishness, which have so firmly taken root everywhere, to determine the impoverishment of ever greater masses of people to her children? Where was God then? Always the same question resounds when men and women find themselves helpless in the face of pure evil in one way or another, have contributed to, in thoughts, works and omissions.
Where is God? In the midst of the storm, perhaps asleep, resting peacefully on the pillow at the stern.
Surely, if there is a God, he is on that boat in the middle of the crib tremendous.
who is "powerful only to love and from which nothing escapes his hand to what has been called into existence, it is certainly there, once again voted to perish with that perishes. And to show everyone, especially to children and the humble, from Christmas Island in this latitudes, the new heaven and new earth. That which was finally settled by the courts, where they live.
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