It is said that Johnny Cash, having been asked what his idea of paradise was said, “This morning, with [June], having coffee.” You may say that is true love epitomized. I call it a kinder, gentler version of the life view that almost destroyed Johnny Cash with drugs and alcohol. “Paradise” in the mind of many, including Mr. Cash evidently, is nothing more than earthly joy writ large.
People are odd. There are places in this country where, when something horrible (as they define “horrible”) happens, riots break out. In those same places, when something wonderful (as they define “wonderful”) happens, riots break out. I’m starting to wonder if maybe there are people in this world who just like to set fires, break stuff and steal things.
This year I am giving thanks for some different sorts of things. After all, 1 Thessalonians 5:18 reads, “in everything give thanks; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” If the Holy Spirit had meant to tell Paul to write, “in every good thing,” I’m sure that’s what Paul would have written. So here goes.
A Buddhist monk was chastening me and other animal-harvesters the other day on Facebook. We humans are arrogant, he says, to think that eight million species are here on earth simply to serve our needs and wishes, that our abuse of “other animals” is completely unjustified.
It was Election Day, and I had two choices. I could go vote, then go to the office and pretend to try to get my work done when in fact I was just hovering over election “news” that came across my Facebook feed; or I could go vote, then take the day off and play board games with Tracie. Guess which door I picked.
So what have we learned this week? Take whatever self-serving message you wish out of the election with regard to sexist voters, private servers, fainting spells, FBI investigations, Islamophobia, and universal health care. We can all agree on one thing — and in retrospect, we should have seen it coming: a terrible candidate with a strong campaign beats a terrible candidate with a terrible campaign.
I really need this election to come and go. Despite my admonitions to everyone and his brother these days about keeping things in perspective, trusting in God through all situations, seeing ourselves as citizens of heaven and not of a disturbingly flawed America, still I find myself gawking at the latest earth-shattering rumor about the candidates and/or those near them.
Maybe I should try this again, if only for my sake.
I know it’s the eleventh hour and all that, but I may have found my presidential candidate. I found an envelope pushed under the church’s front door with “To Pastor” scrawled on the envelope. After bemoaning yet another abuse of the Biblical term “pastor” (Ephesians 4:11 — a church overseer, not an evangelist or a teacher, terms which are noted separately), I opened it up.
Pete Rose is a poor excuse for a human being on multiple levels, but there’s no doubt he is an expert in the science of hitting a baseball. I saw a fascinating conversation between him, Frank Thomas and Alex Rodriguez the other day. The three of them together have about 10,000 major league hits more than I do, and I’m always in favor of listening to experts.
I have decided to be equal parts amused and annoyed at the sudden burst of righteous indignation against Donald Trump from his former supporters in the Republican party. Turns out, he made an off-color remark in a private conversation that was disrespectful to women. The horror. And now he is too crass and vulgar to be their nominee.
Does anyone remember February?
