We are all saddened by the devastating earthquake that struck Chile in the wee hours of this mornng. Our prayers go up for them all, and we will certainly be involved in help--should the Chilean government accepts our president's offer.
This is but one more opportunity to show the world how generous Americans are.
And yes, this quake is rated as 900 times the intensity of Haiti's, but let's not let Haiti get lost in the shuffle. We CAN, we MUST do both!
Saturday, February 27, 2010
religious controversy
Shame on them! Joseph Reyes and Jessica Reyes were a mixed-religion marriage, she is Jewish, he is Christian (Roman Catholic.) They are embroiled in a bitter divorce, and they are using their respective religious traditions to beat up on one another, putting their daughter, Ela, in the middle. Shame on them for abusing their child in this way. Neither of them is being honest or mature about this.
But greater shame goes to the judge who issued a restraining order against Joseph taking his daughter to Mass. Shame for not seeing how these two were abusing one another and their child and moving to protect the child when nobody else is. Right or wrong, that is one function of our courts, and this judge failed miserably.
And shame for even considering a restraining order related to religion, involving acts that are not in violation of any other law of the land. This judge should have known better than this!
And shame on the judge for not sending these two neurotic youngsters to marriage therapy to get over their immaturity and learn to get along!
But greater shame goes to the judge who issued a restraining order against Joseph taking his daughter to Mass. Shame for not seeing how these two were abusing one another and their child and moving to protect the child when nobody else is. Right or wrong, that is one function of our courts, and this judge failed miserably.
And shame for even considering a restraining order related to religion, involving acts that are not in violation of any other law of the land. This judge should have known better than this!
And shame on the judge for not sending these two neurotic youngsters to marriage therapy to get over their immaturity and learn to get along!
Thursday, February 25, 2010
If you have seen me in the last month you know that I am healing from a sizable cut just over my right eye. You may be among the many who have asked me about it, and I gave you a cock-and-bull story about colliding with my dog. Well, I thought it best to finally come out with the REAL STORY!
It happened on a hot Friday afternoon. I know they're rare in January, but this is Texas, so their not unheard-of. I decided to go down to my favorite watering hole to slack my thirst and see if my collection of likeminded friends would show up to shoot the breeze. Sure enough, as I got settled at the bar they started to arrive. First One-Eyed Jack, then Pegleg Pete, and finally, Hook-handed Harry. Now Hook-handed Harry has a parrot that he must have stolen from a sailor, because it could swear a sailor under the bench, but only when it had had a few drinks. Harry liked to get it rolling, and so he would buy himself a tequila, and his bird one, too. The two of them would sit there hittin' shots until the bird started to get talkative. No exception that night. Soon the feathered fowl-mouthed fiend was filling the air with blue, and the ladies (if you can call 'em ladies in a joint like that) were beginning to blush a little.
I was wondering just how much I could take when suddenly the whole place shook. Now, Hook-handed Harry and his parrot were behind me and the door was in front of me, and I looked at the door. It opened, and all I saw was green skin. The owner of the skin was so big and tall and wide that he had to scrunch his head down and turn his shoulders sideways to get through without taking out the doorjam. He stood up tall when he got his hulk in and looked around. His shoulders were wider than your kitchen table. His chin looked like a Mack truck. His nose was like Half-dome in California, and you could have bungie-jumped off his eyebrows. He looked at me straight in the eye and said, "Who are you calling an SOB?" (He didn't really say the letters, "S" "O" "B," if you know what I mean.)
"Not me, sir," replied hastily, not wanting to get a man like that angry at me. "It's the parrot, I swear."
"Likely story," shouts the tall green man, "Wanna step outside and see about that?"
Now, the joint is not exactly a 5-star location. In fact, it was so low down on the pecking order that it was somewhat lacking in facilities. To be specific, it had only one unisex bathroom, and it was a one-holer. Now, you know what the ladies (if you can call 'em ladies in a joint like that) are like with the bathroom? There was ALWAYS a line. So us men had taken instead to helping out the establishment by making sure that the shrubbery outside never went thirsty. Just about then the overwhelming urge to take care of the shrubbery overtook me, and I decided, big hulking green man or not, that I needed to step outside to relieve some of my anxiety. He followed me, presumably to relieve his anxiety as well, but his plans seemed to have something to do with me.
When he got outside (it took him long enough that I did my anxiety-relieving first) he began swinging his enormous fists at me. They were the size of cookstoves! He was swinging those big cookstove sized fists at me left and right, and, not really wanting to get into a fight with him, I started ducking and weaving, dodging the blows. I found it kind of easy, and I got a bit cocky. As I stood up he brought his fist down hard right where I was standing. I jumped to one side, not really wanting to have my body squeezed between my head and my feet. I dodged the blow, but I landed on his big toe. Now his toe was as big as a watermellon, but t was the color of a pea. When I landed on it the darndest thing happened. It went from the color of a pea to the color of a tomato. The man began to jump around and howl in pain, shaking the ground so hard the leaves began to fall from the trees like in the fall. He was thrashing around so hard he finally broke a big oak tree off at the base, and then, of all things, he stepped on it and tripped. He fell toward me, but I jumped out of the way. His elbow hit the ground right in front of me, right on a rock. A chip from the rock flew up and hit me just over my right eye and cut me.
Well, I clapped my hand over the cut to hide it, but the blood gushed out, running down my face. I figured that if he saw me he would know I was wounded and it would goad him to finish the job. He moaned and rolled over, looking up at me--and then the second darndest thing happened. He saw the blood and fainted dead away!
So I went home and stapled the cut together with a paper-stapler.
It happened on a hot Friday afternoon. I know they're rare in January, but this is Texas, so their not unheard-of. I decided to go down to my favorite watering hole to slack my thirst and see if my collection of likeminded friends would show up to shoot the breeze. Sure enough, as I got settled at the bar they started to arrive. First One-Eyed Jack, then Pegleg Pete, and finally, Hook-handed Harry. Now Hook-handed Harry has a parrot that he must have stolen from a sailor, because it could swear a sailor under the bench, but only when it had had a few drinks. Harry liked to get it rolling, and so he would buy himself a tequila, and his bird one, too. The two of them would sit there hittin' shots until the bird started to get talkative. No exception that night. Soon the feathered fowl-mouthed fiend was filling the air with blue, and the ladies (if you can call 'em ladies in a joint like that) were beginning to blush a little.
I was wondering just how much I could take when suddenly the whole place shook. Now, Hook-handed Harry and his parrot were behind me and the door was in front of me, and I looked at the door. It opened, and all I saw was green skin. The owner of the skin was so big and tall and wide that he had to scrunch his head down and turn his shoulders sideways to get through without taking out the doorjam. He stood up tall when he got his hulk in and looked around. His shoulders were wider than your kitchen table. His chin looked like a Mack truck. His nose was like Half-dome in California, and you could have bungie-jumped off his eyebrows. He looked at me straight in the eye and said, "Who are you calling an SOB?" (He didn't really say the letters, "S" "O" "B," if you know what I mean.)
"Not me, sir," replied hastily, not wanting to get a man like that angry at me. "It's the parrot, I swear."
"Likely story," shouts the tall green man, "Wanna step outside and see about that?"
Now, the joint is not exactly a 5-star location. In fact, it was so low down on the pecking order that it was somewhat lacking in facilities. To be specific, it had only one unisex bathroom, and it was a one-holer. Now, you know what the ladies (if you can call 'em ladies in a joint like that) are like with the bathroom? There was ALWAYS a line. So us men had taken instead to helping out the establishment by making sure that the shrubbery outside never went thirsty. Just about then the overwhelming urge to take care of the shrubbery overtook me, and I decided, big hulking green man or not, that I needed to step outside to relieve some of my anxiety. He followed me, presumably to relieve his anxiety as well, but his plans seemed to have something to do with me.
When he got outside (it took him long enough that I did my anxiety-relieving first) he began swinging his enormous fists at me. They were the size of cookstoves! He was swinging those big cookstove sized fists at me left and right, and, not really wanting to get into a fight with him, I started ducking and weaving, dodging the blows. I found it kind of easy, and I got a bit cocky. As I stood up he brought his fist down hard right where I was standing. I jumped to one side, not really wanting to have my body squeezed between my head and my feet. I dodged the blow, but I landed on his big toe. Now his toe was as big as a watermellon, but t was the color of a pea. When I landed on it the darndest thing happened. It went from the color of a pea to the color of a tomato. The man began to jump around and howl in pain, shaking the ground so hard the leaves began to fall from the trees like in the fall. He was thrashing around so hard he finally broke a big oak tree off at the base, and then, of all things, he stepped on it and tripped. He fell toward me, but I jumped out of the way. His elbow hit the ground right in front of me, right on a rock. A chip from the rock flew up and hit me just over my right eye and cut me.
Well, I clapped my hand over the cut to hide it, but the blood gushed out, running down my face. I figured that if he saw me he would know I was wounded and it would goad him to finish the job. He moaned and rolled over, looking up at me--and then the second darndest thing happened. He saw the blood and fainted dead away!
So I went home and stapled the cut together with a paper-stapler.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Tomorrow I will perform my third funeral in a month. A fourth was celebrated by a one-time member of my church by a close friend in a neighboring church where she had moved her letter several years ago. On the news this morning the death-toll in Haiti is expected to go well into the hundreds of thousands, hundreds more have died in Peru, the middle east, and who-knows-where-else.
Tonight the man whose father I will bury tomorrow called me. His little dog had three pups, her first litter. I get one of them.
Life in the midst of death. Life even from death. If it weren't for that hope life would indeed be absurd and meaningless for me. No wonder we always eat a lot at funerals!
Tonight the man whose father I will bury tomorrow called me. His little dog had three pups, her first litter. I get one of them.
Life in the midst of death. Life even from death. If it weren't for that hope life would indeed be absurd and meaningless for me. No wonder we always eat a lot at funerals!
Middle Class
Obama wants to defend the middle class. He wants tax breaks for the middle class and tax burdens for the upper class. He wants health care reform for the middle class. No wonder. He didn't come from the middle class, virtually none of our presidents did. But the middle class put him in power and if he's going to weather the defeats of the Democratic party in these midterm elections he's got to go back to his power-base, which is the middle class.
But who are the middle class? By his definition it is those who make between $250,000 a year and the poverty level of almost $11,000. That's a large spread. I have good friends who would consider themselves middle class who make just over the upper end of this limit and would be incensed to be labeled anything but middle class. I've got friends who make less than $10,000 a year but whose mentality toward the world is definitely not that of the poor class.
It seems to me the middle class is a function of thought, not income. The middle class looks to the upper class for leadership in the big issues of life, and generally they are more than obliged. They look to the lower class with a bit of distain and pity, and try to do things for them, but not with them. The identity of the middle class is really predicated on its relationship with the other classes. Any asistance to the middle class is going to have an effect on the others.
John McCain wants to help the economy by helping the upper class, the ones in power, with tax breaks and incentives. It worked under Reagan, he says. It probably did, and it probably will, not because it helps the upper class put the middle class to work, but because the upper class has disproportionate influence with the government, so if they get something they'd better give back. Besides, it does work--more money in the rich man's pockets makes it easy for them to hire middle-class workers.
I'm afraid Obama's plan is doomed to failure. It would work in an ideal world, but we don't live in an ideal world. As I said, the upper class has a disproportionate influence in Washington, and they will push for what they want. They don't want the burden of the tax bill, even though they are most capable of carrying it. They want to be able to pass it on to the middle class. They'll lobby hard against his plan and eventually kill it. They will not let the middle class get richer without making sure there is a guarantee of a solid lead on them. It's always been that way, and I don't see it changing any time soon.
But who are the middle class? By his definition it is those who make between $250,000 a year and the poverty level of almost $11,000. That's a large spread. I have good friends who would consider themselves middle class who make just over the upper end of this limit and would be incensed to be labeled anything but middle class. I've got friends who make less than $10,000 a year but whose mentality toward the world is definitely not that of the poor class.
It seems to me the middle class is a function of thought, not income. The middle class looks to the upper class for leadership in the big issues of life, and generally they are more than obliged. They look to the lower class with a bit of distain and pity, and try to do things for them, but not with them. The identity of the middle class is really predicated on its relationship with the other classes. Any asistance to the middle class is going to have an effect on the others.
John McCain wants to help the economy by helping the upper class, the ones in power, with tax breaks and incentives. It worked under Reagan, he says. It probably did, and it probably will, not because it helps the upper class put the middle class to work, but because the upper class has disproportionate influence with the government, so if they get something they'd better give back. Besides, it does work--more money in the rich man's pockets makes it easy for them to hire middle-class workers.
I'm afraid Obama's plan is doomed to failure. It would work in an ideal world, but we don't live in an ideal world. As I said, the upper class has a disproportionate influence in Washington, and they will push for what they want. They don't want the burden of the tax bill, even though they are most capable of carrying it. They want to be able to pass it on to the middle class. They'll lobby hard against his plan and eventually kill it. They will not let the middle class get richer without making sure there is a guarantee of a solid lead on them. It's always been that way, and I don't see it changing any time soon.
Friday, January 22, 2010
A post about Haiti is long overdue, I've been stewing about it for a while. On the morning after the first big quake a singer said, "A lot of things that were important became unimportant today."
Robin Roberts on Good Morning America found little "Esther," adoptive child to a couple in Wisconsin and got her home.
A friend of mine is there as we speak, her hospital ministry imported a machine that cleans water for human use, they're using the water in the fish pond. They had to dig an unmarked grave for unclaimed bodies that died in the Baptist hospital where she is volunteering.
When a Haitian doctor who has returned from the States to help his people mentioned that Haitians always have hope, an American reporter looked at him and said, "Where does that hope come from?" "From inside," replied the doctor.
And then there is the dark side. There is the pernicious lack of supplies, the struggle to organize, the rising anger and anxiety of the victims, the terrifying aftershocks even days after the main event, and the total collapse of infrastructure that leaves people stranded in the middle of civilization.
Worse yet, I believe, are the scams on the internet, even people posing as the Episcopal Bishop of Haiti, asking for money, and Rush Limbaugh who said, "We already give money to Haiti, it's called income tax." Maybe he ought to go pull a dead child out from under some rubble and see what he says,--but then his pain medication might be needed for someone else instead and that would be too much for him.
Where is God when it's really nobody's fault? Right there with us, crying and struggling and giving, and holding and mourning and rejoicing, and providing hope--from inside us.
Robin Roberts on Good Morning America found little "Esther," adoptive child to a couple in Wisconsin and got her home.
A friend of mine is there as we speak, her hospital ministry imported a machine that cleans water for human use, they're using the water in the fish pond. They had to dig an unmarked grave for unclaimed bodies that died in the Baptist hospital where she is volunteering.
When a Haitian doctor who has returned from the States to help his people mentioned that Haitians always have hope, an American reporter looked at him and said, "Where does that hope come from?" "From inside," replied the doctor.
And then there is the dark side. There is the pernicious lack of supplies, the struggle to organize, the rising anger and anxiety of the victims, the terrifying aftershocks even days after the main event, and the total collapse of infrastructure that leaves people stranded in the middle of civilization.
Worse yet, I believe, are the scams on the internet, even people posing as the Episcopal Bishop of Haiti, asking for money, and Rush Limbaugh who said, "We already give money to Haiti, it's called income tax." Maybe he ought to go pull a dead child out from under some rubble and see what he says,--but then his pain medication might be needed for someone else instead and that would be too much for him.
Where is God when it's really nobody's fault? Right there with us, crying and struggling and giving, and holding and mourning and rejoicing, and providing hope--from inside us.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Last week Kevin Pearce took a tumble while snowboarding that landed him in the hospital in Utah, without movement or feeling below his neck. A female ABC anchor immediately called for the Olympic Committee to investigate and put in place measures that would make this sport safer for those who practiced it.
I disagree for at least the following two reasons:
1. Yes, snowboarding is dangerous, that's why it's called an "extreme sport." Those who practice it have a moral responsibility to know the dangers and to manage the risks in the most appropriate way. Some people don't manage risks as well as others, but that does not absolve them of that responsibility. For an outside agency to come in and impose risk management when the risk is only to the individual is to strip that individual of personal moral responsibility and so strip them of a piece of their humanity.
2. Yes, snowboarding is dangerous, it involves tremendous risk. We cannot, though often we live as if we believed we could and should, avoid all risk. We cannot and we should not avoid all risk. To do so is to live entirely safely, and nobody ever changed the world by being safe. Columbus didn't do a safe thing when he sailed west from Europe. Armstrong didn't do something safe when he stepped onto the surface of the moon. My son didn't do something safe when he slipped behind the wheel of a car for the first time. Striving for excellence demands managing risk, not avoiding it, pushing the envelope, not sitting in it. And we know that whenever we push the envelope sometime or other it's going to rip. To strip away the ability to manage risk is to kill the desire for excellence, and to strip us of that testosterone-driven genius of our race; it is to strip us of part of our humanity.
If the Olympic committee is going to regulate the danger in snowboarding perhaps they ought to look first at the number 1 killer in the United States: driving your car!
I disagree for at least the following two reasons:
1. Yes, snowboarding is dangerous, that's why it's called an "extreme sport." Those who practice it have a moral responsibility to know the dangers and to manage the risks in the most appropriate way. Some people don't manage risks as well as others, but that does not absolve them of that responsibility. For an outside agency to come in and impose risk management when the risk is only to the individual is to strip that individual of personal moral responsibility and so strip them of a piece of their humanity.
2. Yes, snowboarding is dangerous, it involves tremendous risk. We cannot, though often we live as if we believed we could and should, avoid all risk. We cannot and we should not avoid all risk. To do so is to live entirely safely, and nobody ever changed the world by being safe. Columbus didn't do a safe thing when he sailed west from Europe. Armstrong didn't do something safe when he stepped onto the surface of the moon. My son didn't do something safe when he slipped behind the wheel of a car for the first time. Striving for excellence demands managing risk, not avoiding it, pushing the envelope, not sitting in it. And we know that whenever we push the envelope sometime or other it's going to rip. To strip away the ability to manage risk is to kill the desire for excellence, and to strip us of that testosterone-driven genius of our race; it is to strip us of part of our humanity.
If the Olympic committee is going to regulate the danger in snowboarding perhaps they ought to look first at the number 1 killer in the United States: driving your car!
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