Americans Have Been Dazzled ...

Americans have been dazzled out of their brains by wealth.
We love it.
The thought of it.
And having it someday ourselves.

Our preachers have taught us get-up-and-go.
Our teachers have taught us how to have a career.
Our preachers failed often, too often, about love.
Our teachers failed often, too often, about daring to think.

America's god is really, truly, thoroughly, crazily, Mammon.
TV, books, prayer meetings, continuing education, and seminars.
It's all about wealth.
Who has it.
Who doesn't.

Meanwhile the wealthy go about their sordid lives.
Using charity to dazzle us.

We puff up with admiration for these "kindly" people.
Who, like the rich of Jesus' time.
Make sure everyone sees them with their bags of gold.
Dropping them loudly into the treasuries of human pride.

Meanwhile the widow, gamed by the system, thinks it's the thing to do.

And maybe it is.
So she gives, too.
Her two pennies.
The last she has.

Jesus loves her for it.
But he does't love the system that betrays her in.
A system that takes.
Her last two pennies.
And her house, too.
Everything, it takes.
And then: promises God's blessing.
Yet never delivers, but always promises:
Health, wealth, and happiness.


But God, it seems, isn't about wealth.
So those who have it.
Have to create a god who loves it.
Who bestows wealth upon the righteous.
Or so they think:
The deserving.
The self-made.
Those who help themselves, of course.
With prayer and bible-reading.
Going to church.
Going for the best seats in the house.
Wearing their going-to-church Sunday best.
To dazzle the folks with wealth.
And to keep the folks in line.
Helpless to be anything but envious.
And always:
Amazed and,
Dazzled.

It's Mammon who laughs cruelly at the fooled.
It's Mammon who collects their souls.
And chows down on them, devouring them with glee.
Turning their wealth into nightmares of fear and hatred.
And the poor are ground down to flavor the feast.

And so it goes.
America the Great.
Mad for money.
Lusting for wealth.

We've rewarded the preachers who've dazzled us with dreams.
We've rewarded the teachers who stole our ability to think.
We've bowed down to Mammon so ofter we don't know any better.

And while the poor languish.
The rich laugh.
On the fantail of a yacht.
Or 40 thousand feet up in a private jet.
In comfort and style and pride and piety.

And the widow gives her last two pennies.
And her children starve.
And then she dies.

She was better than all of them.
But a victim of their game.

A game Jesus despised.
No wonder they did him in.

The Republican Mind and the Heart of God

The Republican mind was tried and tested with Nixon, and though the GOP lost that battle, and though many a Republican realized that Nixon was doomed, and finally knew that resignation was the only answer, a collective vow was likely made, a never-again pledge.

No matter what!

Now, faced with a monster in the WH, a man of limited intelligence, with an immoral character, surrounded by sleaze and influenced by his own brooding greed for power and for "love," a love never received within his family, and a love that he cannot ever give, because he doesn't have it within him, the GOP and those who've profited from this current administration, will, in their own mindless way, stand by this man, though all of them are neck-deep in filth.

It's a first class mess we have on our hands, but we've been here before, with one exception: the WH has a base of anger and bigotry throughout the nation, fueled by talk radio, the crooks at FOX, and the evangelical church for which power, at any cost, is to be courted for the sake of its theocratic dream - to rid this nation of the godless liberals, and so to "restore" morality, a "morality" in which there is no room for the LGBTQ Community, no room for workers' rights, no room for women, no room for people of color, no room for collaboration with the world, but only dominance by brute military force.

History, or as my Christian high school history teacher put it many years ago, in large scrawl on the blackboard - His Story.

Yes, I know all the linguistic and gender-issues related to that descriptor, but what my teacher meant then, and what I hear today, is this: the moral arc of the universe is always bent toward justice and truth. The love of the Creator will prevail, though beaten and battle-worn (which is why the resurrected body of the Christ was full of scars - no one, not even God, can escape the sweat and toil of seeking justice), and though raised to new life, that new life gives evidence of the costs involved, and when the Doubting Thomas saw the scars, he knew this was a God worthy of his life, and Thomas said, "My LORD and my God."

In his own way, Thomas knew, I believe, that a god without scars, a god without hurt and heartache, was no god at all, and for the times then, and surely for the times now, a scarred god is the only god worth following. Not a god of Rome or Temple, but a god of the people, a god of the creation and a god of all its creatures, great and small, a god who takes up the human cause and pays the price of love.

Sooner or later the truth will out, and justice will be done.

Never to create a perfect world, but at least a more perfect union ... on our way, with plenty of baggage, but on our way, headed toward the sunlight of faith, hope and love.

The Four Freedoms

For the health of our nation.
Voices, rich in color and tone.
Voices diverse in thought and concern.

Sure, conservative voices are a part of the mix.
And so, too, progressives of all stripes and flavors.

We're in trouble now.
Because we had a single-tone choir.
Only certain voices.
Only a narrow band of sounds.
Limited ideas.

It won't help if suddenly progressives take it all.
Though I'd love to try that for awhile.

But we need balance.
Not the kind of balance that goes nowhere.
But a balance sufficient.
That every voice can be heard.

Yet, like so many things
It has to move along.
It can't just spin in circles.

Conservatives have made it clear.
They don't like change.
Nor diversity.

They're white and don't like color.
They're afraid of gender questions.
And they don't trust women.
On anyone out of their small sense of "ordinary."

Let their voice be heard.
But, for heaven's sake.
Let's get one with the program.
America on the progressive road.

Rights, they're called.
The four rights of FDR would be just fine.
To head the list.
On top of the program.

The first is freedom of speech and expression.
The second is freedom of every person to worship god in his own way.
The third is freedom from want.
The fourth is freedom from fear.

Let the conservatives offer their own set of values.
Their vision for tomorrow.
For sure.

But as for me and my house.
I want a progressive America.
A nation that exalts in liberty for all.
And justice, too.

A nation that trusts women in all regards.
A nation not afraid of Transgendered people.
A nation that despises the symbols of fascism and slavery.
A nation determined to provide for all of its citizens:

There's much we can do.
And we need everyone's voice.
Not to shout at one another.
But to seek a harmony of sorts.

And to move the song along.
Perhaps some will slow it down a bit.
Others to keep it going.

We need the conservative voice.
But more than that, we need
The progressive voice.
To look to the future for its advice.

And the future always speaks.
It beckons us to leave behind.
And so to press on.

And in the doing,
The brave will find hope.
The world some peace.
And people, everywhere, the four freedoms.

Amsterdam's an old city, so it's built for foot-traffic, and what a pleasure that is. Compact, for sure. And like Manhattan and other newer versions, built upward, not outward. Buildings are narrow and tall (5 or 6 stories), and lean (as the piles beneath shift) on one another, which is good idea, no matter what.

Now, with the addition of public transit (buses, subways and trams), getting around this remarkable city is a breeze, but for me, a guy who likes to walk, it's heaven.

Every street, a conglomeration of housing, markets, watering-holes and restaurants, stores, and you-name-it ... every neighborhood possessing its own charm ... with canals wrapping around all it, and plenty of green spaces for dogs to run free, children to play, and adults to picnic, and enjoy the sunshine (winter will soon be here).

MLR is taken to school by her father in a baksfiet (cargo bike), and D and I pick her up after school, for a leisurely, lets-explore, walk back home. Always a few stores that MLR likes to step into, to do some "shopping" ... mostly just looking, but she knows that Gramma and Grampa are an easy touch, and so we are!

And for Them, I Give Thanks ...

Doing a little digging on the internet for Maj. Robert H. Merriman, killed in the Spanish Civil War, fighting to defeat Franco and his fascist allies, Hitler and Mussolini.

Of course, it was a lost cause from the get-go. But as I write, and as I dig around, I cross paths with so many good and decent human beings who threw themselves into the fray to make this a better world.

Yes, they lost. They lost everything, but they were women and men of great character, vision, learning, compassion and courage. Mostly all young, lured on by high ideals and the thirst for adventure. Such are the young.

While digging around this morning, I came across some artists of more recent vintage, capturing the ever-changing Lake Michigan landscape. Beautiful work, and regionally noted, but not likely to end up in a national museum.

Fame is accorded to the few ... the rest go about their work and their lives for the goodness of it all ... whether going to Spain to defend the Republic or setting up an easel in a Michigan sand dune, this world is full of good people who can sing the songs of life.

And for them, I give thanks ... they're like flowers in the field; they bloom bright and colorful for a while, and leave behind a legacy of faith ... faith in life, faith in goodness and reason, faith, for some, even in God. And in the brief blooming of their lives, seeds of hope and courage are left behind, and others flowers will bloom in their place; only for awhile, but enough to brighten the world.

The world IS better because of them. Some are remembered like Maj. Robert Merriman, some even gain regional recognition, others, many others, known but to a few, remembered by family, and known, for sure, by God, who is enriched by such humanity, and in turn, gives birth to others who will give themselves to life.

What "Evangelical" Could Mean

Been thinking a bit about the word "evangelical."
And what it could mean.

It could mean hope and welcome and peace.
It could mean "care for the earth."
It could mean "affirmation of science" and knowledge and reason and learning, the life of the mind, the world of our thoughts, the power of the god-given brain.

Yes, it should mean conversion, too.
From self, to selflessness.
From anger to kindness.
From fear to faith.

With the God of Psalm 23.
The God and Father of Jesus.
The kingdom of heaven in the Sermon on the Mount.
And the God of all peoples.
The God of so many guises and cultures.
The God always transcendent and mysterious.
The God so high above, and yet always close at hand.

Conversion, for sure.
Getting saved, you bet.
Not so much to go to heaven.
But to be of this earth.
And to be of one another.
As God intended.
If the Genesis account has any meaning.

Conversion, in so many ways:
From white privilege to the privileges of life for all.
From male dominance to equality.
From the fear of sexuality to it's celebration.

And what that could mean to the nation.
For the common good.
For the ties that bind.
For liberty and justice for all.
A citizenship defined by faith, hope and love.
Tearing down the walls that divide.
The rules that hurt women.
The borders that God despises.
The politics of wealth and poverty.

To build up and make new.
To elect women and men of good conscience.
To understand the importance of taxes.
To remind the rich of their responsibilities.
To provide living wages and ample benefits.
To do God's will on earth ...

It could mean so many positive things.
Gospel things.
Christ things.

It could mean things profound and good.
It could ... it really, really, could.
If only it would ...
If only it would.

I Miss My Books

I miss my books.
Thousands of them I had.
Shelved and double shelved.
Many read entirely.
Some in bits and pieces.
Some again and again.
Some not at all.

But everyone of them a friend.
A comfort and a companion.
A reminder of great things.
Or small things, too.

But in the course of time.
Heading into interim ministry.
And then into retirement.
I had to say fare-thee-well.

Boxed up and given away.
Large sets sold on e-bay.
Some sent to a seminary in the Philippines.
Commentaries given to a young minister.

I miss them now and then.
But I'm glad to be free of them, too.
They served their purpose.
Even as I have.

Time hurries on.
And for the journey, less baggage.
Easier travel, for sure.
But I miss my companions.

Who, I hope, are serving others.
As they served me.
With insights and challenge.
Encouragement and comfort.

Thanks, good friends.
I miss you.
But you don't miss me.
You did your job, and now on to new employers.