Who are you looking for?

liberte.pl 2 years ago

Somewhere at the intersection of worlds, religion is born, what we believe is born. The roads are different. any will say that We have created a god in the image and likeness. Out of fear, out of request to satisfy our own shortcomings, to find our father/mother to give justice to nature, to find just a small justification for everything we stumble over all day. Others will anticipate signs from heaven to answer prayers, hopes, regrets. As we follow the lead of different religions, we look at the most human desire. For here they come: for unity, for a miracle for strength, for forgiveness, for hearing, for understanding, for knowledge. They come for peace – everyday, but besides eternal. To find power that transcends the human concept; to find communication with those who clump alongside, who have long passed, who will come long after each of us. And it would seem that... we know. Meanwhile, the actual man remains as elusive as any deity. So looking through the prism of different religions, different ways of searching sacrum, the request for generations of believers to face, or alternatively to face a deity, we ask, “Whom are you looking for?” What are we looking for? The series includes 15 photos. 15 images showing the faces of faith, the faces of search, trust, hope, or yet the peace we find in non-believe, so hard and yet simple. Our journey is celebrated by Ashkenazi Jews Caparot; God's Body in a corner that demands a miracle; a one-day unity celebrated by football supporters; a persistent pilgrimage to the Holy Grabarka Mountain; the isolation into which the Knights of Christ the King fall. It is besides a choice of the spiritual way of life; the mystery of the ancient rites; the faces of the Polish Tatars; the religion of Slavic ancestors that the natives are trying to find; the “mystery” of the Karaims; the perseverance of pilgrims or yet the face of those for whom religion has no face or name. 15 photos. 15 trips into 1 question only: Who are you looking for?

It takes a miracle.

Pange, lingua, glorios. Glory to the Language of Mystery – The 13th-century anthem of St. Thomas of Aquinas resounds on the street, which all year is followed by a procession. Hundreds of years. A procession that reminds of a miracle, a sacrifice of God. O God, who became bread, of bread turned into God's flesh. Real presence. At least that's what tradition says. That's what doctrine says. Follow her, in faith, is followed by believers, all Thursday after the Octavian of the Holy Spirit, going out to the street to worship the Blessed Body and Blood. The towns halt for a while, giving the faithful the streets and squares, which turn into a place of worship for a fewer hours. Thanks, joy, contact with sacrumWhich they met. Flags, brackets, sacred figures, children spreading flowers, comma dresses sweeping the city's pavement, sutans pinned on the road in dust, knees razed after each kneeling. The road leads from the visions of the Augustian Priors, St Julianna of Cornillon, through the Eucharistic miracle in Bolsen, through the wisdom of the Doctor of the Church, through synods, edicts, disputes, all the way here in Silesia. Lipin. To the poorest, neglected, as if forgotten by people and God territory of Świętochlovic.

Two bigger streets to the cross. Familoks, 19th-century townhouses, church. The mine closed in the 1970s, industrial plants did not last the transformation. They died about 20 years later. Stagnation. mediocre as he squeaks, yet they wait for a miracle. Not just that 1 day. But today... the gold fabric was hard to put on. Now it shines in the sun with royal dignity, covering regular ugliness. Underneath it is covered with inscriptions a wall, falling plaster, visible crack of a wall. It's a Madonna painting so typical of local homes. 1 of the shows known from the bedroom or the surviving rooms of the local houses. Madonna, Holy Family, Last Supper, Jesus teaching on a boat... In line for his place, there's a decorated figure of the Immaculate One. specified a simple set. religion in a pill. religion after all. religion to the sky. Another painting based on a wall just around the corner. Jesus blesses the children. Everyone brings what they can – images, figures, candlesticks, flowers. It helps as much as it can. We request to clean up, hang, nail, collect. Yes, it is poor, but in poorness God was to be born.

Today is simply a holiday. Punished windows shine white frames. On windows, pictures, candle windows, flowers. present is simply a holiday. Walled, dictated windows gain outer curtains. Here, too, there will be paintings that will mark the way to 1 of the 4 altars. A way to glory and mystery. Last night there was a wind blowing in here, you could have sprained your ankle on a hollow sidewalk. A fewer days ago, a beer or a cigaret in the gate, but today... present are carpets of flowers, Silesian outfits, loud singing. present God will walk down the street. In poverty, dignity returns, although it may be the best evidence that she never left. Otherwise, for 1 day, religion in a miracle returns. Change. A chance that we can work out together, and it can pray. The aid that will come. It's a secret. They sing: What Unconceived Senses Make religion in Us...

Trust in the Holy Mountain

The forest of crosses. A forest of prayer. A forest of hope to hear. The forest of trust that, behold, grace shall be given, that mercy shall come, that heaven shall ask graciously. Crosses stand in a tight semicircle. any of the ribbons, any of the wreaths braided with flowers, were suspended with a rosary or a smaller cross, even a fistful of tiny crosses tied together with a ribbon. There's the ones with the right gun – embroidered in magical and protective towel signs, which the tradition of the east peoples makes cover the bread lying on the table; material, which many generations accompany here from the cradle to the grave. With name etched, intent, but most of them are anonymous. On all request, prayer, trust. Brass crosses, stone but most wooden. any painted. Smelling new, just made of freshly cut rains, but besides gray, covered in moss, sprinkled with rain. So different, not just Orthodox. due to the fact that present the “sign they will oppose” does not divide. At least not here. 1 next to the other, on the other, on the other. They have 1 communicative of trust. People say there are no 2 same crosses on Holy Mount Grabarca. They're counting over 10,000. Crosses grow... like people. akin and different. Children, adults, old people. In a wheelchair, in a wheelchair, erect, on my knees. Alone, it's in the Christmas procession again. In the top even modesty – beautiful. In silence, in reflection, in meditation, in prayer, and yet in singing, which is to open the sky to the requests that follow. On faith. For absolute trust. The despair that bends your knees...

Holy Grave Mountain. all year thousands of pilgrims climb the hill. Thousands of requests, prayers, hopes. Thousands of votive crosses, each of which carries human confidence, religion in this most private miracle. The forest of crosses grows all day, all year, due to the fact that there is always individual who can beat the way to the church, who, by climbing the Holy Mountain, will give his toil, his cross, his suffering for a propitiatory sacrifice. For the evidence of thanksgiving. For the glory of God. Most of the buds arrive at the Day of the Transfiguration, August 18 and 19. all year. On the hill, 3 monastic churches – the Transfiguration of the Lord, the Sleep of the Most Holy parent of God and the 1 at the call of the icon of Our woman “All the Lost Joy”. Tradition, or legend, says that the local cult dates back to the 13th century. Historians, however, point to 5 centuries later, erstwhile on July 1, 1717 the bishop officially agreed to execute services on Mount Grabarce. The tradition of mass pilgrimages revived in the 1980s. Since then, a fresh forest of crosses has been growing. A new, yet reaching legend, according to which during the outbreak of the early 18th century, 1 of the inhabitants of the close Semyaticz – supposedly an old man of large devotion – had a vision. And God himself indicated that the cross was the rescue from the plague. The rescue is the road to Holy Mountain with a cross in its hand. Please, please. Road on my knees. And again a legend, which says that on the way they were healed and did not endure the plague of 1 of those who set distant in the procession to beg to cry to heaven to worship. And so, returning year after year. To a wonderful source. A pilgrimage to the Holy Mountain, which gives them hope... to fulfill even the most hidden desires.

“This is my penance”

On the street, crates full of birds. Chickens, cocks. All white. All for sale or rent. To make amends. The victim. There's clucking and then there's silence. The bird pulled out of the cage seldom breaks out. Grabged by his legs, it's like he already knew his destiny. Without him there will be no festival, without him sin and guilt will not let Jom Kipur celebrate, without him the soul will not know peace, without him there will be no purification. And although religion allows — as frequently Sephardians do — to convert it into a bag of coins, I don't think anyone takes that into account in Me’a She’ari.

Jamim Noraim – Terrible Days, Terrible Days. Penance time. Time stretched between Rosh ha-Shana and Jom Kipur. 10 first days of the fresh year, erstwhile not singing, carnivals, fun must be thought of, but repentance, regret, reparation. For those who do not want to be recorded in the Book of Life, who do not want to be counted among those who are good, virtuous, righteous. The second book is filled with fear, for here in the Book of Death are names doing evil, sowing transgressions. The third... in it are those whose actions, whose everyday life, whose life is not so easy to judge. And you gotta want to be enrolled in the first. The books through these 10 Horrible Days are open, as if they were waiting for a final judgment, for God's judgment, which he has to decide for the most crucial of the records. A good year, a bad year, a year that will bring death. Another year.

“This is my deputy, this is my penance. This bird will go to death, and I will have life in peace"—words perpetuating sins, spoken during the Caparot rite. due to the fact that erstwhile you've done harm, you gotta accept another. The other, with himself, with God. To find, or alternatively to regain peace. The 3 circles lined over his head, the hand in which to hold a white cock should suffice the believers. Thus practiced by the Ashkenazi Jews, the transfer of sin to a substitute sacrifice, the transfer of guilt to a person, a surviving being, and even to an object refers to the temple rite, to the formerly practiced transfer of the sins of the nation to a scapegoat. A replacement that allows you to live in peace, which allows you not to be afraid, which gives you hope for a good fresh year. For the Life Book.

A bird needs to be bought. Hence these cages, this street noise, the ritual itself, and yet the silence of death killed in accordance with the victim's spiritual order. any at the synagogue gates, others on the street. Parents drawing ritual circles over their children's heads. In focus, and yet among people. For the evidence of purification. With the hope of...

Pilgrimage in Unity?

Hundreds of screaming throats. Thunder singing. Hands advanced above your heads. In the open hands of the scarf of the beloved club. Then scream. A boy scout sounding, “God! Honor! Homeland!” Each word sharp, unambiguous, cut. There's no area for compromise. For breath. To think outside of a compact crowd, which, ground in its rations, comes here for grace. To be certain for another year. Behind the back smoke from the red rac and outline of the sleeping Jasna Góra, where year after year they come to the pilgrimage of supporters. A minute of unusual unity, which just behind the gates of the “Holy Virgin” breaks down into divisions, animosities, a desire to fight. And yet... the minute of unity for a minute is closed in a sign of peace. The sign given with the same hand, which will in a minute be able to win others, “those strangers”, into violence. To establish this homeland which cities feed, strangles. But now stop...

Crowded in the chapel of Jasna Góra fans sing. They sing that “The angel spoke to the shepherds...” and next to “The small 1 lies in the manger”. Uncircumcised yet. Just what kind of paters are they? What gifts did they bring? What glory do they expect? For yourself? For Poland? They sing: “We will not sinn speech”, and in the same speech they talk about fear, violence, exclusion. The same language is divided into “their” and “foreign”, “us” and “them”. They repeat the story of the alleged enemy, and they do not argue with myths. They talk about a nation, what they lose their memory, usually dies. Only what memory it is erstwhile they forget that in different words you can tell the same and different stories. They sing, "The Fatherland be free to return to us, Lord," but they look at freedom through the prism of another obedience, like an image in a curved mirror, where the cities of diversity are inactive in force in unification. Patriotism has 1 face, and cities of light have fear. They inactive perceive to voices, what they say about slavery, ideology, danger... and on this 1 day each 1 of them “before the judaic parent kneels.” The voice in the background continues to cry out: “Great Poland Catholic!”.

Who are they looking for? Who's the brother? By passing through the courtyard of the Jasna Góra monastery, any fall into embrace, others care away, others – locked in tiny groups – turn their backs on each other. Greetings seem to have a clan character, where yet worth playing with seems to be who he's holding with. On the scarf: “We were the first ones to go to Poland, creating fear and violence”, or else, “Let them hatred us, as long as they fear us”. The scarves of... They will return to Warsaw, Radom, Krakow, Poznań... in all corner of the country, where there is simply a fan war, waking up to life with a fresh line of games. They'll come back to curse again, to curse again, to hatred because... that's how Poland got ripped apart. They will come back to say, “Get out!” To defend myths to dream these fresh dreams of power. What, then, is the unity of 1 day, toward something or against something? So who are they looking for, speaking of God, country or honor?

And again, after Mass, like a penal army, they shout, “God! Honor!

Looking for a Shepherd

You can buy a coat with Christ the King for 100 PLN. A part of carved red cloth, a tie tape under the neck, a pious image on the back. Man, woman, even kid – whatever. Anyone can become a knight. Just do a fewer jobs. The lace, the rosary, the cross road, the novena – they find the daily, weekly, monthly, yearly rhythm of the Knights of Christ the King. Anyone here can service a origin called God. The origin from which the Church cuts off with the voices of her hierarchs, the sheepherder, whose shepherd was suspended years ago for disobedience to the bishop. Suspensa, imposed by Cardinal Stanisław Dziwisz, remains in force. So... nothing matters here. Masses performed wickedly, sacrilegiously; sacraments do not matter. Sin in Sin? A wandering in the desert. The Immaculate Desert, a stone's throw from Sucha Beskidzka. The desert, which has turned into an almost fortified fortress, to which access is defended by a fortress and a solid gate. The task is not to let anyone in. No 1 who could carry beyond the walls the actual face of a separate village where the faithful gather... Faithful to 1 voice only.

Words sound terrible. ‘I am a convict. The last outlaw," Fr Piotr Natanek will say. And if you don't believe him, you're the professor... He has net TV, a YouTube channel, regular speeches for him only believers. He repeats that he talks to Jesus, that he listens attentively to what the parent of God himself tells him. They're expected to give him circumstantial guidelines, dates, plans. “The parent of God has approved,” concludes the vacation the deity itself is to demand. Knights believe. Knights with weapons. Knights will not let harm. Knights face the mystery preached by their shepherd. By their prophet, as they repeat, misunderstood and underestimated, or even (how biblically) hated in their own land. Words specified as “obedience” or “derogation” are released here in spite of the ears. Here, in Sinchynia, a separate planet was built, to which the voice of church hierarchs – by Fr Natanek himself called "masons" – has no access. There is no planet here either, due to the fact that Natanek stubbornly refuses to execute orders of secular power. Here... he knows better. Better history, better truth, better God. Better and more... the devil too. They perceive to the inspired voice: “When your teenage daughter uses bright nail polishes, know that the devil is curious in her.” Better and more about... life, which is conceived differently than naturally called a “product” that is “animal, not being”. Better and more about heaven and hell, in which Archbishop Józef Życiński is to “how” (again Natanek). More... about the world. Just around the corner.

Curia writes that “its action can lead to a breakdown of ecclesiastical unity, and even to a separation from the community of believers”, but the faithful know better. Knights of Christ the King knock on the door of the hermitage, march in the footpaths, loudly demanding “the enthronement of Jesus on the King of Poland”, fall on the faces of... Untrustworthy, locked, blind. Looking for a shepherd, they seem more distant than humans.

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