The younger brother wantonly asks for his share of the inheritance, and that means, of course, he wants his daddy dead and nothing more to do with his elder brother.
The father must have been outta his mind and converted half of the estate into cash and gave it to the younger son.
So, off the boy went, cash in the pocket, to find his dreams.
But such things rarely if ever pan out, and what he found, rather than his dreams, was poverty - his money ran out and so did his "friends." His only recourse, hire himself out to a pig farmer, of all things, munching on their food, making a pig out of himself, so to speak.
Well, he comes to his senses - yeah sure - and realizes that he'd be in the gravy again if he could go back home, but, first, he has to construct a worthy repentance sorry, the classic sob-story, to win his father's forgiveness.
When he finally has his thoughts put together, he heads home ...
He's welcomed with joy, or so it seems.
Good food and fine clothing.
All seems good ... but no elder brother to be found.
"Where's my brother?" asks the boy.
"He's dead," says the father.
"What happened?" exclaims the younger son!
"A sacrifice was needed to pay the price for you, m'boy. You offended heaven and earth, you transgressed your family's honor, my honor, and only death, only blood, could set it right. And it had to be someone I loved, loved very much. Only that kind of blood could fill the bill, pay the price, put it right."
"Upon your elder brother, I took out my wrath, my anger, my disgust with your sin. All that you deserved, but I gave it to my eldest son, instead. I had your brother beaten within an inch of his life. My servants here beat him with whips and sticks, spat upon him, humiliated him, and then dragged to that tree on the hill over there, you see it? And there they tied him. And after a few hours, a servant slit his throat."
"His hot blood cascading upon the earth paid the price for your sin. Plunged beneath that crimson flood, so to speak, your sin was washed away by your brother's death. All was set right, which is why I was able to welcome you home, and restore you to your proper place of sonship with me. It's all yours now. Don't you just love me all the more for what I've done. I killed my first-born son for you."
"Oh, but don't ya' know, it was a sad day for me. I wept bitterly at it, but it was necessary. Blood was required. Death was needed. So you could live. Only with the death of your brother for your sake could my wrath be appeased. Only with his death, could my anger be lifted and my mercy flow again. Only with his blood shed on that terrible tree could I love you again."
The younger brother cried out, "But father, was it necessary to kill him?"
"Of course it was. Justice required it. I required it. To put things right again."
"Your elder brother died for you, m'boy. He died for your sins."
The younger boy went away that night and wept.
"Have I done this?" he anguished. Did I cause the death of my brother?
And the next day, he left home again, because such a father could not be loved.
But only feared.
Who might be next?
In a such a world.
Of violence.
And blood.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
When "Famous Authors" Bite the Dust
I've written about this before.
But I'd like to put my hand to the plow again.
At the Last Bookstore in downtown LA, a magnificent 2-story's worth of used books, jammed-packed tighter than a pickle jar, with treasures and also-rans.
It's the also-rans that intrigue me - because, at the time, they were all celebrities of one sort of the other - lots of newscasters had their day in the sun, and then Hollywood types with their "reveal all" memories, along with famous or infamous clergy pronouncing the latest list of who's in and who's out, and why you better watch out, and perhaps the saddest of all, the politicians, who, like a dandelion sprung up with color and pizzaz, only to fizzle out and blow away in the next wind.
Their books sold like hotcakes, and like uneaten hotcakes, got cold quickly maybe could be saved a day or so, but for what purpose? The next day, the next meal - oh well, so into the garbage can with yesterday's cold cakes.
So, here they sit on these fine shelves - if they had a voice, would they be clamoring to be taken in hand and taken home, an orphan no more? Or would they hang their metaphorical heads in shame and apologize for taking up so much paper and space to blather a message that no longer has any relevance, and even at the time, when the writer was "hot," had the seeds of irrelevance sown throughout the text?
Which begs the question:
What endures?
The historians do ... I mean, the women and men with credentials - who've been to school, who've paid the price of learning, with degrees - if not formal, at least the school of hard knocks, who've been around the horn a few times, who've weathered terrible storms in a decade-spanning career, who've asked the tough question, who enjoy a cocktail or two, who entertain friends with their wit and wisdom, who passionately engage the quest for truth, who care about The People - the folks who ride subways and buses and till the soil, folks who work for a living in the mines and mills of the land, who teach our children and rinse out bedpans. Care for The People is what dignifies the soul of the scholar and lends gravitas to their writing, the kind of writing that endures.
Even older historians eclipsed by later works have lasting value. Their's is not some grandstanding effort to gain attention (though everyone hopes to make a living by their pen), but to find the hidden meanings of history, the subtle connections, the mortar between the bricks, the stuff that holds it all together, and to find lessons - not the simplistic stuff of pulpit pounders, but the subtle stuff that's hard to grasp, yet there for taking. Life belongs to those who love, and love much; who learn constantly, who give themselves to the big ideas, who weigh things in the balance of history, often having to make hard decisions filled with flaws, yet willing to risk the approbation of friends and colleagues, in order to chart the clearest course through the thicket of competing ideas.
And autobiographies of writers and soldiers and political-insiders with decent intellectual credentials. I think it's terribly hard to tell one's story well. But those who do so are always worth the read, because therein we all find bits and pieces of ourselves. After all, we all are human, and in spite of our many differences, we're not all that different after all. Our blood is red, our tears are salty, we all enjoy a good laugh and a bawdy joke; we love good food and fine drink, and sometimes can't sleep a wink because of worry and fear.
I won't name names, so you can guess for yourself who I might mean as an enduring author, or, for that matter, you can fill in the blanks with your own names - those who have been a companion along the way, and who will entertain and enlighten fifty or a hundred years from now, because their words are suffused with life, even if they were wrong a time or two, even when they're all-too human with ill-temper, vanity and spitefulness; when their follies and foibles trump the game.
At the time, they might not have been "famous" - likely, they were not. But they were serious writers, women and men who thought deeply about their lives and the times in which they lived, the people they knew and lived with, and their author's legacy is a simple one - a mirror in which we find ourselves reflected, even as we search our own times and experiences for meaning and hope and reasons to live.
But whatever their name, these things seem to be the descriptors of those who endure, even when they bite the dust.
But I'd like to put my hand to the plow again.
 |
| The Last Bookstore |
At the Last Bookstore in downtown LA, a magnificent 2-story's worth of used books, jammed-packed tighter than a pickle jar, with treasures and also-rans.
It's the also-rans that intrigue me - because, at the time, they were all celebrities of one sort of the other - lots of newscasters had their day in the sun, and then Hollywood types with their "reveal all" memories, along with famous or infamous clergy pronouncing the latest list of who's in and who's out, and why you better watch out, and perhaps the saddest of all, the politicians, who, like a dandelion sprung up with color and pizzaz, only to fizzle out and blow away in the next wind.
Their books sold like hotcakes, and like uneaten hotcakes, got cold quickly maybe could be saved a day or so, but for what purpose? The next day, the next meal - oh well, so into the garbage can with yesterday's cold cakes.
So, here they sit on these fine shelves - if they had a voice, would they be clamoring to be taken in hand and taken home, an orphan no more? Or would they hang their metaphorical heads in shame and apologize for taking up so much paper and space to blather a message that no longer has any relevance, and even at the time, when the writer was "hot," had the seeds of irrelevance sown throughout the text?
Which begs the question:
What endures?
The historians do ... I mean, the women and men with credentials - who've been to school, who've paid the price of learning, with degrees - if not formal, at least the school of hard knocks, who've been around the horn a few times, who've weathered terrible storms in a decade-spanning career, who've asked the tough question, who enjoy a cocktail or two, who entertain friends with their wit and wisdom, who passionately engage the quest for truth, who care about The People - the folks who ride subways and buses and till the soil, folks who work for a living in the mines and mills of the land, who teach our children and rinse out bedpans. Care for The People is what dignifies the soul of the scholar and lends gravitas to their writing, the kind of writing that endures.
Even older historians eclipsed by later works have lasting value. Their's is not some grandstanding effort to gain attention (though everyone hopes to make a living by their pen), but to find the hidden meanings of history, the subtle connections, the mortar between the bricks, the stuff that holds it all together, and to find lessons - not the simplistic stuff of pulpit pounders, but the subtle stuff that's hard to grasp, yet there for taking. Life belongs to those who love, and love much; who learn constantly, who give themselves to the big ideas, who weigh things in the balance of history, often having to make hard decisions filled with flaws, yet willing to risk the approbation of friends and colleagues, in order to chart the clearest course through the thicket of competing ideas.
And autobiographies of writers and soldiers and political-insiders with decent intellectual credentials. I think it's terribly hard to tell one's story well. But those who do so are always worth the read, because therein we all find bits and pieces of ourselves. After all, we all are human, and in spite of our many differences, we're not all that different after all. Our blood is red, our tears are salty, we all enjoy a good laugh and a bawdy joke; we love good food and fine drink, and sometimes can't sleep a wink because of worry and fear.
I won't name names, so you can guess for yourself who I might mean as an enduring author, or, for that matter, you can fill in the blanks with your own names - those who have been a companion along the way, and who will entertain and enlighten fifty or a hundred years from now, because their words are suffused with life, even if they were wrong a time or two, even when they're all-too human with ill-temper, vanity and spitefulness; when their follies and foibles trump the game.
At the time, they might not have been "famous" - likely, they were not. But they were serious writers, women and men who thought deeply about their lives and the times in which they lived, the people they knew and lived with, and their author's legacy is a simple one - a mirror in which we find ourselves reflected, even as we search our own times and experiences for meaning and hope and reasons to live.
But whatever their name, these things seem to be the descriptors of those who endure, even when they bite the dust.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Fear ... beware!
Where fear is preached, beware.
Where security is offered, be alert.
Where high-flown reasons are touted, be mindful.
Power always seeks its own welfare.
Racism is rarely far beneath the surface.
Fear is the handmaiden of injustice.
Friday, April 4, 2014
Haunted by "Casino" - Auden, 1936
Casino
Only their hands are living, to the wheel attracted,
Are moved, as deer trek desperately towards a creek
Through the dust and scrub of a desert, or gently,
As sunflowers turn to the light,
Are moved, as deer trek desperately towards a creek
Through the dust and scrub of a desert, or gently,
As sunflowers turn to the light,
And, as night takes up the cries of feverish children,
The cravings of lions in dens, the loves of dons,
Gathers them all and remains the night, the
Great room is full of their prayers.
The cravings of lions in dens, the loves of dons,
Gathers them all and remains the night, the
Great room is full of their prayers.
To a last feast of isolation self-invited,
They flock, and in a rite of disbelief are joined;
From numbers all their stars are recreated,
The enchanted, the worldly, the sad.
They flock, and in a rite of disbelief are joined;
From numbers all their stars are recreated,
The enchanted, the worldly, the sad.
Without, calm rivers flow among the wholly living
Quite near their trysts, and mountains part them, and birds,
Deep in the greens and moistures of summer,
Sing towards their work.
Quite near their trysts, and mountains part them, and birds,
Deep in the greens and moistures of summer,
Sing towards their work.
But here no nymph comes naked to the youngest shepherd,
The fountain is deserted, the laurel will not grow;
The labyrinth is safe but endless, and broken
Is Ariadne’s thread,
The fountain is deserted, the laurel will not grow;
The labyrinth is safe but endless, and broken
Is Ariadne’s thread,
As deeper in these hands is grooved their fortune: 'lucky
Were few, and it is possible that none was loved,
And what was god-like in this generation
Was never to be born.'
Were few, and it is possible that none was loved,
And what was god-like in this generation
Was never to be born.'
-W. H. Auden, 1936
Monday, March 3, 2014
The Retirement Road - OMG, Lent Around the Corner
This week, Ash Wednesday - OMG … it snuck up on me, but this time, after 43 Ash Wednesdays as a pastor, I'm retired, and haven't planned a damn thing - hee hee …
I love it, and I'm glad to be free of those many burdens of
planning and study and
reflection and trying to be creative and
clever and thoughtful and humble and profound,
and focused on God and socially relevant - all at the same time.
In church yesterday (after missing the preceding two Sundays when we were in Phoenix with family and friends), I realized that Lent was upon us.
Lent is an important part of the church's annual journey … and an important one for me, too.
Yes, I don't have to do the planning this year - what a relief!
But I'll be in church on Ash Wednesday for the imposition of Ashes.
I love it, and I'm glad to be free of those many burdens of
planning and study and
reflection and trying to be creative and
clever and thoughtful and humble and profound,
and focused on God and socially relevant - all at the same time.
In church yesterday (after missing the preceding two Sundays when we were in Phoenix with family and friends), I realized that Lent was upon us.
Lent is an important part of the church's annual journey … and an important one for me, too.
Yes, I don't have to do the planning this year - what a relief!
But I'll be in church on Ash Wednesday for the imposition of Ashes.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Retired Husband Problems … Enjoy!
Subject: RETIRED HUSBAND
RETIRED HUSBAND
After I retired, my wife insisted that I accompany her on her trips to Target.
Unfortunately, like most men; I found shopping boring and preferred to get in and get out.
Equally unfortunate, my wife is like most women - she loves to browse. Yesterday my
dear wife received the following letter, from the local Target:
dear wife received the following letter, from the local Target:
Dear Mrs. Harris, Over the past six months, your husband has caused quite a commotion, In our store.
We cannot tolerate this behavior and have been forced to, ban both of you from the store.
Our complaints against your husband, Mr. Harris, are listed below and are documented by
We cannot tolerate this behavior and have been forced to, ban both of you from the store.
Our complaints against your husband, Mr. Harris, are listed below and are documented by
our video surveillance cameras:
1. June 15: He took 24 boxes of condoms and randomly put them in other
people's carts when they weren't looking.
people's carts when they weren't looking.
2. July 2: Set all the alarm clocks in Housewares to go off at 5-minute intervals.
3. July 7: He made a trail of tomato juice on the floor leading to the women's restroom.
4. July 19: Walked up to an employee and told her in an official voice,
'Code 3 in Housewares. Get on it right away'. This caused the employee to leave her assigned
station and receive a reprimand from her Supervisor that in turn resulted with a union grievance,
causing management to lose time and costing the company money. We don't have a Code 3.
'Code 3 in Housewares. Get on it right away'. This caused the employee to leave her assigned
station and receive a reprimand from her Supervisor that in turn resulted with a union grievance,
causing management to lose time and costing the company money. We don't have a Code 3.
5. August 4: Went to the Service Desk and tried to put a bag of M&Ms on layaway.
6. August 14: Moved a, 'CAUTION - WET FLOOR' sign to a carpeted area.
7. August 15: Set up a tent in the camping department and told the children shoppers he'd invite
them in if they would bring pillows and blankets from the bedding department to which
twenty children obliged.
them in if they would bring pillows and blankets from the bedding department to which
twenty children obliged.
8. August 23: When a clerk asked if they could help him he began crying and screamed,
'Why can't you people just leave me alone?' EMTs were called.
'Why can't you people just leave me alone?' EMTs were called.
9. September 4: Looked right into the security camera and used it,
as a mirror while he picked his nose.
as a mirror while he picked his nose.
10. September 10: While handling guns in the hunting department,
he asked the clerk where the antidepressants were.
he asked the clerk where the antidepressants were.
11. October 3: Darted around the store suspiciously while,
loudly humming the, 'Mission Impossible' theme.
loudly humming the, 'Mission Impossible' theme.
12. October 6: In the auto department, he practiced his, 'Madonna Look'
using different sizes of funnels.
using different sizes of funnels.
13. October 18: Hid in a clothing rack and when people browsed through, yelled 'PICK ME! PICK ME!'
14. October 22: When an announcement came over the loud speaker,
he assumed a fetal position and screamed; 'OH NO! IT'S THOSE VOICES AGAIN!'
he assumed a fetal position and screamed; 'OH NO! IT'S THOSE VOICES AGAIN!'
15. Took a box of condoms to the checkout clerk and asked where is the fitting room?
And last, but not least:
16. October 23: Went into a fitting room, shut the door, waited awhile;
then yelled very loudly, 'Hey! There's no toilet paper in here.'
then yelled very loudly, 'Hey! There's no toilet paper in here.'
One of the clerks passed out.
Friday, January 3, 2014
The Praise of God's Creation
Part of the daily lectionary (#PCUSA) quite often, Psalm 148 - here's a piece of it that caught my attention this morning:
7 Praise the Lord from the earth,
you sea monsters and all deeps,
8 fire and hail, snow and frost,
stormy wind fulfilling his command!
9 Mountains and all hills,
fruit trees and all cedars!
10 Wild animals and all cattle,
creeping things and flying birds!
11 Kings of the earth and all peoples,
princes and all rulers of the earth!
12 Young men and women alike,
old and young together!
For the Psalmist, EVERY voice is important - sea monsters, snow and frost, cedars, wild animals, creepy things, kings, peoples, princes, the young and the old, women and men … and everything else.
Herein I find reason to care for my environment, which is, finally, the entire global eco system …
When a species is lost to wanton human behavior, a voice of praise is forever silenced, and the choir of praise is diminished, and while we might be oblivious to the missing voice, God knows that a joyful sound is missing.
Mountains and hills, too, and I think of mountain-top removal coal mining in West Virginia and oil drilling in the Niger Delta - where the earth suffers cruelly, and though the people there lament loss of home and habitat, those making wanton decisions for profit silence the earth, condemning the earth to sorrow, and there is no praise from the ground and water, but only tears.
And to the kings and princes and rulers of the world, whatever pride of place may infect their thinking, their voices are simply part of the choir, right along with wild beasts and stormy wind. If there's ever a prescription for the sins of pride and power, this is it.
Let all the voices of God's choir have their place and their part … the vast choir of God's creation deserves to sing, and when God created humankind, it was only, God hoped, to create a creature that could provide life-sustaining care for the choir, so that all of creation might sing with joy.
Praise the LORD!
7 Praise the Lord from the earth,
you sea monsters and all deeps,
8 fire and hail, snow and frost,
stormy wind fulfilling his command!
9 Mountains and all hills,
fruit trees and all cedars!
10 Wild animals and all cattle,
creeping things and flying birds!
11 Kings of the earth and all peoples,
princes and all rulers of the earth!
12 Young men and women alike,
old and young together!
For the Psalmist, EVERY voice is important - sea monsters, snow and frost, cedars, wild animals, creepy things, kings, peoples, princes, the young and the old, women and men … and everything else.
Herein I find reason to care for my environment, which is, finally, the entire global eco system …
When a species is lost to wanton human behavior, a voice of praise is forever silenced, and the choir of praise is diminished, and while we might be oblivious to the missing voice, God knows that a joyful sound is missing.
Mountains and hills, too, and I think of mountain-top removal coal mining in West Virginia and oil drilling in the Niger Delta - where the earth suffers cruelly, and though the people there lament loss of home and habitat, those making wanton decisions for profit silence the earth, condemning the earth to sorrow, and there is no praise from the ground and water, but only tears.
And to the kings and princes and rulers of the world, whatever pride of place may infect their thinking, their voices are simply part of the choir, right along with wild beasts and stormy wind. If there's ever a prescription for the sins of pride and power, this is it.
Let all the voices of God's choir have their place and their part … the vast choir of God's creation deserves to sing, and when God created humankind, it was only, God hoped, to create a creature that could provide life-sustaining care for the choir, so that all of creation might sing with joy.
Praise the LORD!
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