Prophets. Bearded, staff-bearing visionaries railing against stiff-necked Jews. Or probably green-haired, nose-stud-wearing, spray-can-bearing societal outcasts?

“The words of the prophets are composed on the subway walls and tenement halls.” These lines of Paul Simon’s run with my mind aacquire as I walk Asunción’s roadways of cobbled rock. If these words are true, Asunción have to be a sort of training ground for prophets-to-be, amateurs that haven’t yet made the cut, speaking in tongues yet obtaining hung up on the weird English spellings. Definitely not the book of Isaiah.

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But the Old Testament prophets weren’t phylactery-swinging, socially acceptable bourgeois clergymans, hand in hand also through secular authorities. They were rebels, outraged at the corruption and sin at the center of governmental power, scrawling their challenge, if you will, on the stormy walls of power.

Sort of favor what I’ve uncovered in the highways of Asunción:

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(I guess they largely shouted it out from the rooftops anyway.)

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Giv and Giv. If we would certainly all take that to heart, especially in this worldwide economic situation.

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Craziness without remedy – like many of life.

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Some messeras are challenging to analyze. Prophets, prefer genisupplies, are often misunderstood:

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Don’t constantly take them at their word:

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Some pull at the heartstrings:

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And here’s my favorite. It really claims it all:

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Vincent Moody, age twenty, resides at Villa Primavera, a derekwadsworth.com in Asunción, Paraguay. He teaches English and also is discovering Spanish. He also works on plumbing, electrical, and air conditioning units (good business in the wilting warm of the Paraguayan sun).