You're invited to an exceptional evening with. Father Gregory Boyle reading from his book. Tattoos on the Heart. Sunday, February 13, p.m. – Father. Read Tattoos on the Heart by Gregory Boyle for free with a 30 day free trial. Read unlimited* books and audiobooks on the web, iPad, iPhone and Android. Tattoos on the Heart: The Power of Boundless Compassion by Greg Boyle, S.J., pp. Pema Chodron, an ordained Buddhist nun, writes of compassion and .
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Read Tattoos on the Heart PDF - The Power of Boundless Compassion by Gregory Boyle Guinness World Records | For twenty years, Gregory. if you want to download or read Aqualeo's The Book of Tattoos on the Heart: The Power of Boundless Compassion, click button download in the last page. Download or read Aqualeo's The Book of Tattoos on the Heart: The Power of Boundless Compassion, by click link below MORE. Gorgeous and uplifting, Tattoos on the Heart amply demonstrates the impact unconditional love can have on a person's life. Tattoos on the Heart is a breathtaking series of parables distilled from his twenty years in the barrio. GREGORY BOYLE is a Jesuit priest and the founder and.
Thirty years ago, Gregory Boyle founded Homeboy Industries, a gang-intervention, rehabilitation, and reentry program in Los Angeles, the gang capital of the world. In Tattoos on the Heart , his debut book, he distills his experience working with gang members into a breathtaking series of parables inspired by faith. From ten-year-old Pipi you learn the importance of being known and acknowledged. From Lulu you come to understand the kind of patience necessary to rescue someone from the dark—as Father Boyle phrases it, we can only shine a flashlight on a light switch in a darkened room. This is a motivating look at how to stay faithful in spite of failure, how to meet the world with a loving heart, and how to conquer shame with boundless, restorative love. Get a FREE e-book by joining our mailing list today!
Dianne Bergant and Michael Daley say, "can inspire, affirm, challenge, change, even disturb. Gosh, I thought to myself, Greg has created a whole industry. Greg is Fr. Greg Boyle, a Jesuit brother and friend, a few years behind me in the Society of Jesus.
Support independent Catholic journalism. Greg grew up in Los Angeles, the gang capital of the world, but in a very different, decidedly middle-class neighborhood. He entered the Society of Jesus in and was ordained in Originally scheduled for ministry at one of our universities, after Spanish-language studies in Bolivia and daily contact with the country's poor, he asked to be assigned to Dolores Mission, the poorest parish in the Los Angeles archdiocese in the midst of two large housing projects and some eight gangs.
He was the youngest pastor in the archdiocese. Realizing how many young lives were blunted by the gangs, he began by riding his bike through the neighborhood in the evening, trying to get to know the young people, who at first ignored him.
But gradually, as he visited them in jail or the hospital, they realized he was there for them. They started calling him "G," for Greg, or "G-Dog. Twenty years later, he had presided at more than such funerals for young men from the neighborhood.
Tattoos on the Heart is the story of his efforts to provide jobs as a way out of gang life for these young men and women through Homeboy Industries.
His favorite saying is "Nothing stops a bullet like a job. Boyle would try to bring rival gang members together, to work with each other in what he would call the Homeboy Bakery. Soon, he had gang members arriving, looking for a job.
Greg imagined him trying to get a job at McDonald's and scaring away the customers, and one of Greg's first services was a tattoo-removal program. Advertisement The stories he tells would break your heart. There was Jason, a young crack dealer, the son of two addicts, who, after rejecting a number of invitations, finally showed at Greg's office and with his help found a job.
Having left his anger behind him, he eventually had a home and family, and was looking forward to his daughter's baptism. He had bought her a new dress. A week before the baptism, he was gunned down in the streets by someone from his past.
Or Luis, also a drug dealer, but one of the biggest and smartest in the community, who for years had avoided the law. After his daughter Tiffany was born, he too came to Greg, was hired to work at the bakery, and with his natural leadership ability was soon appointed foreman.
He took being a father seriously, got a small apartment, the first home he had ever had, and with it a whole new life. One evening while loading his car, he was shot and killed by some gang members who found themselves in his neighborhood.
As Greg said at his funeral, Luis "came to know the truth about himself and liked what he found there. They came from broken homes, abusive, addicted or absent parents, dysfunctional families. Lacking love and self-respect, they were burdened with shame that was situational as well as personal.
You find yourself identifying with them, marveling at their humor, their resiliency, only to have them end up one more victim of the violence of the streets. Like the year-old girl, pregnant, who says to Greg, "I just want to have a kid before I die. She takes … seven … buses. We settle sometimes for less than intimacy with God when all God longs for is this solidarity with us. It trips more on our puny sense of God than over conflicting creedal statements or theological considerations.
God is just too busy loving us to have any time left for disappointment. I have known him for most of his life.
I can remember first meeting him when he was a little kid in Pico Gardens during the earthquake of when the projects had become a tent city. People lived outside in carpas well past the time of any danger. Cesar was one of the many kids seeking reassurance from me. Is this the end of the world? At this point in his life, Cesar had been locked up more often than not.
My lady she left me, and she burned all my clothes, you know, in some anger toward me, I guess. I guess you might say that Cesar is a scary-looking guy. He exudes menace. So there he is, standing and waiting for me. He flies into my car and throws his arms around me. In no time, his arms are filled with the essentials, and we both are standing in a considerable line to pay for it all. All the other customers are staring at Cesar. Not only is he menacing, but he seems to have lost his volume knob.
The entire check-out line shifts. Cesar points to a young couple with a tiny son. He becomes quiet and vulnerable, as frightened as a child displaced by shifting ground.
Hang on to that, dog—cuz you have what the world wants. So, what can go wrong? Well, I hafta ask you a question. And you … will be my father. And nothing will separate us, right? He discovered that he is a son worth having. The voice broke through the clouds of his terror and the crippling mess of his own history, and he felt himself beloved. God, wonderfully pleased in him, is where God wanted Cesar to reside. The way is narrow. But it really wants us to see that narrowness is the way.
Our choice is not to focus on the narrow, but to narrow our focus. The gate that leads to life is not about restriction at all. It is about an entry into the expansive. He is apparently signing up to see me.
My heart is in some lower register. I first met him in the summer of I was newly ordained at Dolores Mission. He was fifteen years old, and his probation officer assigned him to the church to complete his hours of community service. The chip located on his shoulder was the size of a Pontiac. All eyes are on him. I stop speaking.
The eternal scowl I had come to know in that summer of is fixed on me as he walks straight ahead. We stand face-to-face, he maddogs me with some intensity, then turns and exits the church by the side door. I discover later that the beef was over some jaina girl. I stop the fight, and Scrappy reaches into the front waist of his pants and pulls out a gun that he waves around wildly. The crowd seems to be more horrified than I am.
His hair is slicked back and his moustache is understated. He hugs me only because not to would be too awkward.
We have, after all, known each other for twenty years. He sits and wastes no time. Then we do something we never have in our two decades of knowing each other. We laugh. But really, truly laugh—head-resting-on-my-desk laughter. But really, truly cries. He is doubled over, and the rocking seems to soothe the release of this great ache. When the wailing stops and he comes up for air, he daubs his eyes and runs his sleeve across his nose. He finally makes eye contact. I know how to sell drugs. I know how to gangbang.
I know how to shank fools in prison. The sacred place toward which God had nudged Scrappy all his life is not to be arrived at, but discovered. Scrappy did not knock on the door so God would notice him. No need for doors at all. Scrappy was already inside. Richard Rohr writes in Everything Belongs that nothing of our humanity is to be discarded. No part of our hardwiring or our messy selves is to be disparaged. Where we stand, in all our mistakes and imperfection, is holy ground.
It is where God has chosen to be intimate with us and not in any way but this. It came in realizing that God had been beholding him and smiling for all this time, unable to look anywhere else.
The best we can do is find the moments that rhyme with this expansive heart of God. Shortly after I was ordained, I spent a year in Cochabamba, Bolivia. It was a gracious time that changed me forever. My Spanish was quite poor, and the year was to be filled with language study and ministry. I could celebrate the Eucharist in Spanish after a summer at Dolores Mission , but I was a slave to the missal for some time to come. Early on, I began to minister to a community named Temporal, which had been without a priest for a long time.
A few weeks into my time there, I was approached by a group of health workers who asked me to celebrate Mass in Tirani. This was a Quechua community located high above Cochabamba, whose indigenous folks harvested flowers for market. It was common to see campesinos making the long trek from Tirani with a huge weight of flowers tied to their backs. Like beasts of burden, they were doubled over all the way to town.
The health workers explain that the Quechua Indians in Tirani have not seen a priest in a decade, so they ask me to celebrate the Mass in Spanish, and one of the workers would preach in Quechua.
Everyone there speaks Quechua, with only the men able to defend themselves in Spanish. I hop into the back of the open-air truck with the others, and we climb to the top of the mountain. Midtrek, I decide to do an inventory of the contents of my backpack. I have brought everything I need but a missalette. I have not the words. The thought of doing so in Spanish was preposterous. I do have a Spanish Bible, so I frantically flip through the pages, trying to find any passages that sound like the words of consecration.
I am red in the face and stingy hot.