I sometimes feel ashamed of this country - and I'm not talking (this diary, anyway...) about the leadership, I'm talking about the masses, and the class of pimps that cater to their basest..."instincts" is the wrong word, because it implies that cheap thrills, vicarious rage-expression masquerading as "justice" (*cough* Nancy Grace cough) and pornographically violent spectacle are intrinsically, deeply human, and not just an abberation that has been nurtured into a thriving, culture-destroying monster by people who worship Power over Goodness.
About 50 years ago, someone way smarter than me described Television as a "vast wasteland" (as I recall it was someone who was fabulously enriched by helping form and create said wasteland, but I digress) but television has moved so far down the depravity slope that people are actually nostalgic for the sentimentality-opium-softened wasteland he was describing.
"Future Weapons" is a popular show on the Discovery Channel, during which an ex-navy-seal masturbates all over the latest, shiniest, most advanced ways of killing people (not an exact description, but I think I've captured the gist). Cable TV feeds Americans a steady diet of war-glorifying "documentaries."
"Reality" shows (note the term) celebrate people who will stop at no self-annihilation, no debasement, no whorish defilement for a shot at money or fame or both. The "reality" these shows are selling: "America, this is you; this is the world. This Is Who We Are."
"American Exceptionalism"...Nationalism... is that ancient temptation: Pride, hubris, Idolatry, self-exhaltation, narcissism masquerading as idealism. This kind of thinking killed millions and millions and millions of people in the last hundred years, many of them children, many of them burning to death in the wreckage of their homes before they learned to pronounce the name of the country they lived in. The circumstances that killed them are now sold as the "Noble Cause," the "Good War," of the "Greatest Generation" when really it was just an orgy of killing, an obscene, unrestrained slaughter in scenes beyond the imagination of Dante.
Our American culture is descending into barbarism, which citizens of the wreckage of this country keep at bay in a haze of drugs, video games, and anything else that will keep the wolf of truth from intruding into their consciousness.
Maybe this is my depression talking. Then again, maybe not.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Sunday, June 17, 2007
A Minor(?) Quibble with Digby
[ludicrously late update: it turns out Digby is a "she" - oops]
Digby has a great post up at Hullaballoo about the conflict being exposed between the Republicans' [culturally] populist, blog- and talk-radio-fueled base, and their real, actual base, which is millionaires, Wall Street and Big Business.
Yep, I'm nodding my head and enjoying the spectacle right there with him - but after going back and re-reading this:
I thought, I was with you all the way through, Digby, but this just seems obtuse. Here's more how I see it:
"This is essentially a made up crisis by people like Lou Dobbs and talk radio show gasbags to exploit the insecurities of certain Americans by creating the illusion that the fact they are losing ground economically is caused as much by illegal immigrants doing day labor as the total abandonment of Labor by the Democrats."
This is the lesson that Democrat's haven't quite learned yet, in spite of taking back Congress in the '06 elections - successful politics is, at the core, not about what you stand for; it is about who you stand with.
Digby has a great post up at Hullaballoo about the conflict being exposed between the Republicans' [culturally] populist, blog- and talk-radio-fueled base, and their real, actual base, which is millionaires, Wall Street and Big Business.
No wonder Bush is sweating bullets. Aside from the small matter of turning the country into a rogue super power, his lasting political legacy may be overseeing his party's decline to a minority faction of racists and malcontents because they foolishly empowered a bunch of shrieking wingnut gasbags to speak for them in the national media --- and now they can't control them. As ye sow, so shall ye reap.
Yep, I'm nodding my head and enjoying the spectacle right there with him - but after going back and re-reading this:
This is essentially a made up crisis by people like Lou Dobbs and talk radio show gasbags to exploit the insecurities of certain Americans by creating the illusion that the fact they are losing ground economically is caused as much by illegal immigrants doing day labor as the total abandonment of the manufacturing base by big business.
I thought, I was with you all the way through, Digby, but this just seems obtuse. Here's more how I see it:
"This is essentially a made up crisis by people like Lou Dobbs and talk radio show gasbags to exploit the insecurities of certain Americans by creating the illusion that the fact they are losing ground economically is caused as much by illegal immigrants doing day labor as the total abandonment of Labor by the Democrats."
This is the lesson that Democrat's haven't quite learned yet, in spite of taking back Congress in the '06 elections - successful politics is, at the core, not about what you stand for; it is about who you stand with.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Politics and the Traditional Liturgy
Via Fr. Jim, a discussion of the Traditional Roman Mass, and the fact that it is not exclusively the property of right-wing Catholics.
I love Palestrina Masses, and am glad that they might become more widely available: I also am quite progressive - radical, even - in my politics.
Take that, Ms. Welborn.
I love Palestrina Masses, and am glad that they might become more widely available: I also am quite progressive - radical, even - in my politics.
Take that, Ms. Welborn.
The Trouble with the Catholic Right
Morning's Minion has a post up at Reasons and Opinions which explains, better than I could, the trouble with the Catholic right wing.
Donohue has a self-righteous streak almost as big as the late Jerry Falwell's, and that's saying something.
Now, if Donohue has complained about the unseemly nature of member of the clergy aligning themselves with partisan political campaigns, he has a point. I can't speak for the protestants, but no Catholic priest should do such a thing. But this is not Donohue's point. He appears to have no problem with Fr. Frank Pavone of Priests for Life endorsing Sam Brownback. And on the protestant side, he never complains about the fact that the Falwells and the Dobsons have done their very level best to align Christianity with the Republican party. No, it is the politics that Donohue has a problem with. Aside from the other complaints, to criticize somebody for "blaming 9/11 on American foreign policy" is ludicrous. In fact, only the hyper-nationalist and self-deluded refuse to admit that American foreign policy (especially the lop-sided support for Israel) has no hand whatsoever in promoting a terrorist backlash. Donohue should check what prominant Catholic leaders have to say about such subjects. But there are other religious leaders who blamed Americans for causing 9/11-- Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson. Where was Donohue then?
Donohue has a self-righteous streak almost as big as the late Jerry Falwell's, and that's saying something.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Everybody Get Together
One of my favorite movies is "The Mission" with Jeremy Irons and Robert DeNiro.
It is the story of a group of missionaries who establish the titular "Mission" in the Jungles of Paraguay, among the Guarani people.
A notorious Portuguese mercenary and slave-trader, Rodrigo Mendoza, kills his brother early in the film, and feels near-suicidal remorse, and is starving himself in an asylum. He is met there by a Spanish Jesuit priest, Father Gabriel.
Gabriel offers a dubious Mendoza a chance to redeem himself: he must travel with the missionaries up the river to their nascent mission in the jungle, and must drag a heavy bundle containing the armor and weapons he used in his life as a mercenary. There is a scene where one of the missionaries, out of pity, cuts the rope by which Mendoza is dragging his burden, but Mendoza retrieves his bundle, re-ties the rope to it.
Some time later, they finally meet the Guarani, in a scene of remarkable tension. The missionaries exchange joyous greetings with the Guarani, who then see, and recognize, the feared man who has killed and enslaved many of them. Mendoza lies exhausted among them, overwhelmed with weariness, emptied of all pride, prostrate on the ground.
The Guarani go to him, fear mixed with confusion, and some of them have knives. Mendoza looks up at the Guarani leader pitifully, harmless and exhausted. The Guarani leader pauses a moment, looks at the rope attached to the bundle of armor and weapons, and then cuts the rope and pitches the bundle down a high cliff and into the river.
Mendoza feels the burden of the armor lifted, something changes in his expression...and suddenly he's overwhelmed with emotion, crying and laughing at the same time. Father Gabriel goes to him and hugs him, and the Guarani crowd around, and are holding his hands as he weeps, and Mendoza is flooded with humble gratitude and love.
It's a powerful scene.
But this diary is not about the Guarani of 300 years ago; It is about America, today.
There are people in our ghettos and 'hoods who have not had a chance to comfort many of their brothers and sisters in the suburbs in their loneliness and desolation, nor to share their own pain at the violence the plagues their communities. They have not had the chance to share their incredible stories, stories of resilience and hope.
Sometimes the greatest gift you can give someone is to allow them to give to you.
There are people in the poorer parts of our cities, and who have much, so much, to share with their more affluent brothers and sisters.
I would like to see the day when people from the richer parts of this country and the people from the poorer parts realize their common brother- and sister-hood; I imagine warm embraces, with tears - of sorrow for our long separation, and of joy that the gulf has been bridged.
It is the story of a group of missionaries who establish the titular "Mission" in the Jungles of Paraguay, among the Guarani people.
A notorious Portuguese mercenary and slave-trader, Rodrigo Mendoza, kills his brother early in the film, and feels near-suicidal remorse, and is starving himself in an asylum. He is met there by a Spanish Jesuit priest, Father Gabriel.
Gabriel offers a dubious Mendoza a chance to redeem himself: he must travel with the missionaries up the river to their nascent mission in the jungle, and must drag a heavy bundle containing the armor and weapons he used in his life as a mercenary. There is a scene where one of the missionaries, out of pity, cuts the rope by which Mendoza is dragging his burden, but Mendoza retrieves his bundle, re-ties the rope to it.
Some time later, they finally meet the Guarani, in a scene of remarkable tension. The missionaries exchange joyous greetings with the Guarani, who then see, and recognize, the feared man who has killed and enslaved many of them. Mendoza lies exhausted among them, overwhelmed with weariness, emptied of all pride, prostrate on the ground.
The Guarani go to him, fear mixed with confusion, and some of them have knives. Mendoza looks up at the Guarani leader pitifully, harmless and exhausted. The Guarani leader pauses a moment, looks at the rope attached to the bundle of armor and weapons, and then cuts the rope and pitches the bundle down a high cliff and into the river.
Mendoza feels the burden of the armor lifted, something changes in his expression...and suddenly he's overwhelmed with emotion, crying and laughing at the same time. Father Gabriel goes to him and hugs him, and the Guarani crowd around, and are holding his hands as he weeps, and Mendoza is flooded with humble gratitude and love.
It's a powerful scene.
But this diary is not about the Guarani of 300 years ago; It is about America, today.
There are people in our ghettos and 'hoods who have not had a chance to comfort many of their brothers and sisters in the suburbs in their loneliness and desolation, nor to share their own pain at the violence the plagues their communities. They have not had the chance to share their incredible stories, stories of resilience and hope.
Sometimes the greatest gift you can give someone is to allow them to give to you.
There are people in the poorer parts of our cities, and who have much, so much, to share with their more affluent brothers and sisters.
I would like to see the day when people from the richer parts of this country and the people from the poorer parts realize their common brother- and sister-hood; I imagine warm embraces, with tears - of sorrow for our long separation, and of joy that the gulf has been bridged.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Another Dispatch from an Alternate Universe
In my last dispatch, I told you about the (still continuing) huge Citizens' Action in Washington, DC. In this addtion, I thought I would give you some of the reasons I think the current protests are having such an effect.
Your universe, where the war continues and congress has surrendered and activists hearts feel such despair, is incredibly close to our universe, where the end of the war is in sight, and people are exercising their power. The differences are minor, but we have come to realize that those small differences are the key.
The first difference, and (I cannot state this adequately) most important difference is...HOPE.
HOPE.
We have come to see that Hope, in its purest form, is not an emotion, not a sentiment, not an attitude, even.
It is an action. An ACTION!
It is a choice to perceive the world as being ALREADY better than it appears. If you despair, you make a choice to forget this. This is unworthy of a free people, it is unworthy of America, it is unworthy of our history, it is especially unworthy of Progressives.
There is no immutable law of physics that says the war must continue. There is no ultimate principle of reality that says that 40,000,000 Americans must go without health insurance. There is no hopeless law of economics that dictates that almost all the sweat of our labor goes to about 1000 individuals.
Why do you despair?
There is a woman living in East Oakland, California, who lost both her grandchildren to murder. Sitting with her can be a harrowing experience, feeling the tears pour out of her eyes in a silent, bewildered waterfall, until you hear the Hope. In spite of a grief that all but crushes her heart, that makes even getting out of bed to feed herself a task akin to climbing Everest, she works tirelessly in intervention programs in her neighborhood, because she chooses to believe that Love is why we are here. There are many kids in her neighborhood who rely on her kindness to see them through the day, to give them some small shelter from the violence. She is a treasure, priceless in the lives of so, so many kids, in large part because she hopes. I owe her every help, every word of encouragement I can give her. I need your help, because in some sense, she relies on you, too; to NOT despair, to do what you can to make her priceless work less of a burden. She NEEDS you, more than I can express.
There used to be a saying: "'American' ends in 'I CAN'"
What can you and I do to end the war? What can you and I do to help everyone people get health insurance? What can you and I do to end the Scandal of grinding poverty? What can do to show kids in East Oakland, in South Central, in the South Bronx, that there is hope for them? They need you more than I can say. Please, do not despair: do not retreat into a comforting, cheap "cynicism" that is just despair masquerading as sophistication. Because what hope has taught me is that despair is unworthy of us, it is selling ourselves ludicrously cheaply, and most importantly, it is abandoning those who desperately need our help. Do we want to end the war, or do the other things, because of some abstract, intellectualized moral principle, or because we want to end the indescribable suffering and desolation that seeps from every pore of warfare, destroying not just bodies, but souls? Do we want to get health insurance for everyone because it is "right" in some obscure, platonian way, or because the inherent dignity of our brothers and sisters DEMANDS it? Do we want to restore justice to our system of economic rewards because it is politically advantageous, or because living in a society where a few revel in lucred ease while many feel the pains and indignities and appalling prejudice that go with poverty, fills us with unspeakable shame?
We must hope. The times demand it. Hope. HOPE.
Your universe, where the war continues and congress has surrendered and activists hearts feel such despair, is incredibly close to our universe, where the end of the war is in sight, and people are exercising their power. The differences are minor, but we have come to realize that those small differences are the key.
The first difference, and (I cannot state this adequately) most important difference is...HOPE.
HOPE.
We have come to see that Hope, in its purest form, is not an emotion, not a sentiment, not an attitude, even.
It is an action. An ACTION!
It is a choice to perceive the world as being ALREADY better than it appears. If you despair, you make a choice to forget this. This is unworthy of a free people, it is unworthy of America, it is unworthy of our history, it is especially unworthy of Progressives.
There is no immutable law of physics that says the war must continue. There is no ultimate principle of reality that says that 40,000,000 Americans must go without health insurance. There is no hopeless law of economics that dictates that almost all the sweat of our labor goes to about 1000 individuals.
Why do you despair?
There is a woman living in East Oakland, California, who lost both her grandchildren to murder. Sitting with her can be a harrowing experience, feeling the tears pour out of her eyes in a silent, bewildered waterfall, until you hear the Hope. In spite of a grief that all but crushes her heart, that makes even getting out of bed to feed herself a task akin to climbing Everest, she works tirelessly in intervention programs in her neighborhood, because she chooses to believe that Love is why we are here. There are many kids in her neighborhood who rely on her kindness to see them through the day, to give them some small shelter from the violence. She is a treasure, priceless in the lives of so, so many kids, in large part because she hopes. I owe her every help, every word of encouragement I can give her. I need your help, because in some sense, she relies on you, too; to NOT despair, to do what you can to make her priceless work less of a burden. She NEEDS you, more than I can express.
There used to be a saying: "'American' ends in 'I CAN'"
What can you and I do to end the war? What can you and I do to help everyone people get health insurance? What can you and I do to end the Scandal of grinding poverty? What can do to show kids in East Oakland, in South Central, in the South Bronx, that there is hope for them? They need you more than I can say. Please, do not despair: do not retreat into a comforting, cheap "cynicism" that is just despair masquerading as sophistication. Because what hope has taught me is that despair is unworthy of us, it is selling ourselves ludicrously cheaply, and most importantly, it is abandoning those who desperately need our help. Do we want to end the war, or do the other things, because of some abstract, intellectualized moral principle, or because we want to end the indescribable suffering and desolation that seeps from every pore of warfare, destroying not just bodies, but souls? Do we want to get health insurance for everyone because it is "right" in some obscure, platonian way, or because the inherent dignity of our brothers and sisters DEMANDS it? Do we want to restore justice to our system of economic rewards because it is politically advantageous, or because living in a society where a few revel in lucred ease while many feel the pains and indignities and appalling prejudice that go with poverty, fills us with unspeakable shame?
We must hope. The times demand it. Hope. HOPE.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
A Dispatch from an Alternate Universe
Hello, residents of Universe 15g-55891. We have just invented technology to peer into your universe, which, like all the other universes, closely parallels our own. Like us, you too will soon discover this capability - after all, our universes are parallel.
Yes, you will soon have this capability yourselves - even now, there is a graduate student working diligently at the University of California, Berkeley, and I can tell you that, as I write, he is about 6 months behind the corresponding researcher in our universe.
We have also discovered something intriguing: we and you were in the same universe up until mid-November of last year, but then our Universe split from yours.
I thought I would begin this first dispatch by bringing you up to date on recent events here.
Obviously, since the May 10th Demonstrations - ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
Our Democratic Party is as timid as yours, and we too lost patience with our leadership and appeasers in the congress.
On May 10th, in an event that was reported with something approaching stunned,, rapturous awe by the European press, the National Mall in Washington DC was flooded with a million and a half protesters (some estimates ranged to 2 million), and the protesters were determined citizens from all walks of life - veterans, mothers with babies in strollers, Wal-Mart greeters, florists, call-center employees, old black ladies in their Sunday Best - who came to our capital and demanded an end to the war in Iraq. This protest was paralleled by protests outside of every congress member’s local office, and the downtown of every major city was the scene of large protests. The crowd count in Cincinnati was officially 120,000; the local consensus is that this is ludicrously undercounted. Atlanta had 80,000 (give or take), and even Omaha Nebraska could muster 12,000 people.
The Progressive blogosphere had a major presence in most of the gatherings, especially the colossal one in DC. Booths -- live blogging, many diaries on Daily Kos, interviews with some of the speakers, etc.
That protest proved to be the beginning of an intoxicating hope that has informed our actions since. After the conclusion of the formal rally, several hundred thousand people decided to stay in DC. They are now in an enormous encampment on the Mall, and a huge effort is currently supporting them there: People come in from the surrounding suburbs every day and bring a steady stream of food to the "Peace Army" as they have come to be known. There are still long lines at the port-potties, but more are coming, thanks in no small part to the bloggers, who took up a collection to finance their installation. The National Park Police had been ordered to prevent their installation; when word of this got to the protesters, a party of 50,000 marched to the headquarters of the national Park Service, surrounded it, linked arms and sat down. After 2 days, and realizing their position was untenable (there are not 50,000 jail cells within 100 miles of DC), the Park Service relented and allowed the porta-potties to be placed along the edge of the Mall.
There is an air of deep, deep crisis at every level of government here in DC. Many members of Congress are sleeping in their offices along with their staffs. White House staffers, and even the President, are looking a bit haggard.
In the streets of America, there is a sense of watchful hope. I will tell you about some of the May 10th speeches I heard in the next dispatch.
Yes, you will soon have this capability yourselves - even now, there is a graduate student working diligently at the University of California, Berkeley, and I can tell you that, as I write, he is about 6 months behind the corresponding researcher in our universe.
We have also discovered something intriguing: we and you were in the same universe up until mid-November of last year, but then our Universe split from yours.
I thought I would begin this first dispatch by bringing you up to date on recent events here.
Obviously, since the May 10th Demonstrations - ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
Our Democratic Party is as timid as yours, and we too lost patience with our leadership and appeasers in the congress.
On May 10th, in an event that was reported with something approaching stunned,, rapturous awe by the European press, the National Mall in Washington DC was flooded with a million and a half protesters (some estimates ranged to 2 million), and the protesters were determined citizens from all walks of life - veterans, mothers with babies in strollers, Wal-Mart greeters, florists, call-center employees, old black ladies in their Sunday Best - who came to our capital and demanded an end to the war in Iraq. This protest was paralleled by protests outside of every congress member’s local office, and the downtown of every major city was the scene of large protests. The crowd count in Cincinnati was officially 120,000; the local consensus is that this is ludicrously undercounted. Atlanta had 80,000 (give or take), and even Omaha Nebraska could muster 12,000 people.
The Progressive blogosphere had a major presence in most of the gatherings, especially the colossal one in DC. Booths -- live blogging, many diaries on Daily Kos, interviews with some of the speakers, etc.
That protest proved to be the beginning of an intoxicating hope that has informed our actions since. After the conclusion of the formal rally, several hundred thousand people decided to stay in DC. They are now in an enormous encampment on the Mall, and a huge effort is currently supporting them there: People come in from the surrounding suburbs every day and bring a steady stream of food to the "Peace Army" as they have come to be known. There are still long lines at the port-potties, but more are coming, thanks in no small part to the bloggers, who took up a collection to finance their installation. The National Park Police had been ordered to prevent their installation; when word of this got to the protesters, a party of 50,000 marched to the headquarters of the national Park Service, surrounded it, linked arms and sat down. After 2 days, and realizing their position was untenable (there are not 50,000 jail cells within 100 miles of DC), the Park Service relented and allowed the porta-potties to be placed along the edge of the Mall.
There is an air of deep, deep crisis at every level of government here in DC. Many members of Congress are sleeping in their offices along with their staffs. White House staffers, and even the President, are looking a bit haggard.
In the streets of America, there is a sense of watchful hope. I will tell you about some of the May 10th speeches I heard in the next dispatch.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Resurrection
This is not going to be very eloquent, because it is raw.
Last Friday evening, I left therapy, having talked about my childhood friend Ray, who I heard a couple years ago had been murdered, and on impulse I went back to my old neighborhood in Richmond. I had driven through a bunch of times, but had never stopped.
Driving in, I felt the old Fear stirring up, and that fear is something that defies description. It is a fear that surrounds your mind with darkness. When you feel this fear, your mind is in a state of expecting annihilation, a feeling that you can at any moment be killed, and that your killer will feel no pity at all, no empathy.
PTSD is, to be blunt, a B*tch and a half.
I was going there because I had never heard the whole story of the circumstances of Ray's death, and I needed to know. I felt I owed it to him somehow.
Driving through the old 'hood, I saw people walking in a daze, shellshocked, numb with grief and rage. I saw a man standing in his yard, his face so haunted by grief and loss that he could no longer process the pain.
I pulled up in front of Ray's old house, not sure of what I was going to do - Do I ask around and see if anyone knows about Ray? I thought - and there in his driveway, sitting in a car talking with a friend who had given her a ride home, was his mother.
I had not seen her in 30 years, but I knew it was her.
I walked up, and told her who I was, and after a moment of suspicion by her, she recognized me. I had come to ask about Ray, but suddenly it seemed crude to do so directly, so I told her about my family ("Dad passed back in '96...oh, and remember how John always wanted to work for the phone company? Yeah, he's working for them now..."). I was creating a space where she could tell me about her own family.
She said, "Ray is working at Sears now..." and the next few sentences were lost to my hearing. Then she said, "Yeah, his brother's passing has been hard on him..." and I knew that the person who had told me about the murder had gotten a critical detail wrong: which brother had been murdered.
I have been thinking of Ray lately, remembering his smile, all the trouble we caused our parents, how he was probably the best friend I had back in the day; how, of all the people I knew in the old 'hood, he deserved to be murdered even less than everyone else.
And now I have him back. I have some sense of how the disciples felt at the resurrection. Thanks be to God.
Last Friday evening, I left therapy, having talked about my childhood friend Ray, who I heard a couple years ago had been murdered, and on impulse I went back to my old neighborhood in Richmond. I had driven through a bunch of times, but had never stopped.
Driving in, I felt the old Fear stirring up, and that fear is something that defies description. It is a fear that surrounds your mind with darkness. When you feel this fear, your mind is in a state of expecting annihilation, a feeling that you can at any moment be killed, and that your killer will feel no pity at all, no empathy.
PTSD is, to be blunt, a B*tch and a half.
I was going there because I had never heard the whole story of the circumstances of Ray's death, and I needed to know. I felt I owed it to him somehow.
Driving through the old 'hood, I saw people walking in a daze, shellshocked, numb with grief and rage. I saw a man standing in his yard, his face so haunted by grief and loss that he could no longer process the pain.
I pulled up in front of Ray's old house, not sure of what I was going to do - Do I ask around and see if anyone knows about Ray? I thought - and there in his driveway, sitting in a car talking with a friend who had given her a ride home, was his mother.
I had not seen her in 30 years, but I knew it was her.
I walked up, and told her who I was, and after a moment of suspicion by her, she recognized me. I had come to ask about Ray, but suddenly it seemed crude to do so directly, so I told her about my family ("Dad passed back in '96...oh, and remember how John always wanted to work for the phone company? Yeah, he's working for them now..."). I was creating a space where she could tell me about her own family.
She said, "Ray is working at Sears now..." and the next few sentences were lost to my hearing. Then she said, "Yeah, his brother's passing has been hard on him..." and I knew that the person who had told me about the murder had gotten a critical detail wrong: which brother had been murdered.
I have been thinking of Ray lately, remembering his smile, all the trouble we caused our parents, how he was probably the best friend I had back in the day; how, of all the people I knew in the old 'hood, he deserved to be murdered even less than everyone else.
And now I have him back. I have some sense of how the disciples felt at the resurrection. Thanks be to God.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Random Thought...
I remember watching the coverage on 9/11, and there was an interview with a woman pedestrian where the reporter asked her if she wanted "revenge" for what had happened that morning. She replied, quoting scripture, "vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. I will repay."
Why is it that so many people imagine themselves as God's helper in this particular matter - is it lack of true Faith and Trust that God, in His love and wisdom, will work things out for our best interest?
Why is it that so many people imagine themselves as God's helper in this particular matter - is it lack of true Faith and Trust that God, in His love and wisdom, will work things out for our best interest?
Friday, May 18, 2007
For My Catholic Readers...
There is a new blog I have high hopes for, called Vox Nova. A lot of the reason I am progressive is due to my Catholicism: Vox Nova is a gathering place for Catholics of every political stripe to talk things out.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Jerry Falwell is Dead
The AP has just confirmed that the Rev. Jerry Falwell has passed away. I think we should pray for his family, and that God be merciful to a man who seemed (to me) to be stubborn in his near-idolatrous nationalism.
I was not (obviously) a fan of the man; I do wish for the salvation of all, including those who have inflicted wounds upon my brothers and sisters.
[UPDATE: From the AP...]
I was not (obviously) a fan of the man; I do wish for the salvation of all, including those who have inflicted wounds upon my brothers and sisters.
[UPDATE: From the AP...]
The Rev. Jerry Falwell, the television evangelist who founded the Moral Majority and used it to mold the religious right into a political force, died Tuesday shortly after being found unconscious in his office at Liberty University, a school executive said. He was 73.
Ron Godwin, the university's executive vice president, said Falwell, 73, was found unresponsive around 10:45 a.m. and taken to Lynchburg General Hospital. "CPR efforts were unsuccessful," he said.
Godwin said he was not sure what caused the collapse, but he said Falwell "has a history of heart challenges."
Monday, May 14, 2007
Right to the Heart of It
Joe over at Liberal Catholic News gets, as usual, right to the heart of the matter:
The whole thing is worth a read.
I honestly believe with all my heart that if America spent $717 billion on effective global poverty reduction, and a mere $10.8 Billion on military defense, we would be at peace and terrorism would be permanentaly irradicated. It is my prayer that we will move in this direction.
The whole thing is worth a read.
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