'Land of the Free...' Really?

'Land of the Free...' Really?

BAD NEWS

BAD NEWS

Fall is about used up. It happens every year. It’s like life. It goes along following a prescribed course, never wavering, but with a different story line for each of us, through the good and the bad, right up to that last sweet breathe. It always ends the same. The seasons and life, intertwined together in an intimate dance. I had some tarragon planted in a pot that needed to go into the garage. After all, winter is coming. That’s when I saw it. A menacing looking little devil.  A yellow- lime color, like pistachio pudding, but without the pistachios. Lime Jell-O wouldn’t work to describe it. You can’t see through it, and I doubt it would giggle. While not a very imposing little thing, it shines in that faded yellow-lime color, like it could glow in the dark. Like it belongs in the dark. It burrows down into the soil, some of its flesh falling off to the side, reminding me of a Halloween scene with the faces of Zombies peeling off. Not to say that I’ve ever seen one in real life. Only movies.  Make-believe. The body of this hideous thing gleams clear and bright enough to see yourself in, about 3 inches high, getting thicker towards the bottom, with a ring about a quarter of an inch down from the top. The head reminds me of a Chinese hat, sitting on top of a pudgy body.  I have no idea why, maybe an old cartoon. They didn’t worry about being “politically correct” back then. The base seems to go deep into the pot, almost to the bottom, but not quite. The pot is terracotta, clay red with a bright red band around the top. That bright band was put there for a purpose.  That thing is not going to get out of that pot, thank God. I don’t think it likes the brightness. My thoughts catch me off guard: What if you were to ingest this thing? The mind can play funny tricks on you. Right when you think you got everything together, you drift off into some primordial muck that is stuck in your past. A mushroom I once ingested made me see music and I could smell color. This thing makes it look like you would regret the stupidity involved in trying to find nirvana in a mushroom. This thing looks like bad news.

Flying in a six-seat Cessna at 5,000 feet on a clear night can be an exhilarating experience. What a

sense of freedom and escape. Floating above everything, like Superman. If I close my eyes and 

stretch my arms out, it feels like I could stop a speeding bullet, or catch a rogue drone in a single 

leap.  Looking at all the lit-up towns is truly fascinating. Small patches of 50, 100, 5,000 lights. 

Single lights off in an isolated nowhere. Imagine, under all those lights, the stories: fathers struggling 

to teach their sons how to be a good man; a wife wondering why she married an abusive husband; 

daughters yet to be married; careers yet to be realized, others cut short by untimely circumstances. 

Births, deaths, town heroes, town whores, lovers of life, killers of hope. Things beautiful and 

thoughts ugly flood into my mind. If only I were Superman. I could ease the pain and save the day. 

The plane turns dark, except for the lights below and the millions of stars above.  Stars all over the 

place. The constellations look like they are alive. The Milky Way, pouring out its miracle elixir. 

Orion, ready to do battle with evil. The North Star, about to get a job. It will need to guide us home.   

The regulator on the plane is out. The instrument panel is black. There is no way to know if the 

landing gear went down or not.  It was a pity such a beautiful night ends with such bad news.

After 13 Years with No Charges, British Prisoner at Gitmo Finally Released

After 13 Years with No Charges, British Prisoner at Gitmo Finally Released



If you wasn't a terrorist, he should be now. Where was the justice?

QUOTE OF THE DAY

"IT IS EASIER TO BUILD STRONG CHILDREN THAN TO REPAIR BROKEN MEN."

Frederick Douglass

BENEDICTION

ONCE AGAIN I'M ASKING YOU, MAYBE BEGGING.
GIVE ME THE STRENGTH TO STAND UP TO INJUSTICE,
TO CONFRONT THE RACIST, THE WIFE BEATER, THE GUN LOVER.
HELP ME TO TELL THEM YOUR STORY: YOUR GENTLENESS, YOUR
KINDNESS, YOUR PEACE.
IN THE END, YOU DIED TO HELP ME DO THIS.
NOW IT'S UP TO ME TO KEEP THE PROMISE.

SUNDAY MORNING HYMN: Sarah Jarosz - Long Journey

SUNDAY MORNING PRAYER-OLD STORIES BECOME NEW SONGS

We love to tell the old, old story.
We love to sing the old, old song
    of your saving deeds of mercy and
                                            freedom and
                                             healing and
                                               newness.

We know about Exodus freedom
   and dancing tambourines.

We know about land and huge clusters of grapes.

We know about rivers of water and
              rivers of oil.

We know about the strangeness that
       the blind see,
       the lame walk,
       the lepers are cleansed,
       the dead are raised,
       the poor rejoice.

We know. Give us courage to
             trust what we know and to
             obey what we hope.

We know that the old, old story---in our telling---becomes
      a new, dangerous, transforming song. And so we sing!

Prayers for a Privileged People,  Walter Brueggeman

SUNDAY MORNING SERMON

WAKING UP

He walked into my office. He was an alcoholic who chose alcohol above everything else. It was his God. I struggle to remember my first impressions. It was over fifteen years now, but I still remember that look. He looked old, worn down from all the living. His skin was fragile, transparent, like a fine piece of china, a beautifully patterned, hand painted cup, this one with slight cracks down the side, like they get with age. It looked like the slightest touch of his arm would draw blood. His face had deep wrinkles, his brows wild and bushy. His muscles were gone, used up over the years by drowning his sorrows and failures in alcohol. He had a slight limp, falling on numerous misguided paths. His eyes were penetrating, looking at me with a grief that longed for salvation, something I was not prepared to give him.

Life had taken its toll on him, mainly the booze. Whiskey. I asked if he remembered when he started drinking? “I don’t remember. I have always drunk.” Have you had any sobriety? “Yes. Usually no more than a month or so. One time, I made it six months. But she always calls me back. I am under her spell.”  “Have you used any other drugs?”  “Oh, I have tried everything at one time or another. But it’s the alcohol.  She summons me into her arms and I go willingly.”

I was impressed with his insight, but he had lost the love affair. He talked, and I listened. Stories of delight, hope, despair, betrayal, friendship, love, hate, forgiveness, lack of forgiveness, all weaving in and around and through his life, a life now seeking forgiveness almost as desperately as his next drink. Sixty-two years of less than a righteous existence. He had come back from prison; homeless and living on Skid Row; married and divorced three times; rejected as a father by his son and daughter; lost jobs and bankruptcies until he was forced to beg on the street corner; a bleeding ulcer, pancreatitis, and numerous broken bones from beatings he had only the vaguest recollection of. Back from promises broken and nightmares turned real. Each time saved he was thankful, but not enough to quit drinking.

An hour goes fast. I felt as though I had made a connection. He said he didn’t need any further sessions. He felt good that he had shared some things he had never told anyone. He thanked me and was on his way. I wish I could have done more. But there are times in a therapists life when you see things as they are, and realize you cannot change them. It is almost as though destiny has spoken. This was one of those times.

It was several months later I saw his obituary. His body just stopped working. There were no wives, or sons or daughters listed as surviving. Only that he had lived, and then died. That night I had a dream that I met Christ. I woke with a startle, and shook my head to get the cobwebs out, when it occurred to me:  I believe I already had.

CONTEMPLATION

Flying in a six seat Cessna at 5,000ft.on a clear night can be an exhilarating experience. What a sense
of freedom and escape. Looking at all the lit-up towns is truly fascinating. Small patches of 50 and 100 lights. Larger towns with 1,000, 5,000, 10,000 lights. Single lights off in an isolated nowhere. Imagine under all those lights, the stories. People trying to make a living. Struggling to get along with one another. Marriages, births, deaths, divorces, pain, excitement, joy, sorrow, kids, keeping up with the neighbors, new cars, taxes, Democrats, Republicans, homecoming queens, town heroes, town whores, lovers of life, killers of hope. Couples dealing with marital affairs, child molesters, the molested, winners of science fairs, football players, cheerleaders, the homeless living under the local overpass, failed business owners, people trying to find God in all the wrong places. Everybody’s looking for something.

HATE

It was hot, like 105 degrees hot. I pulled into a Dairy Queen in Dickson, Tennessee, for some relief. I was headed for Murfreesboro on a work assignment. The girl that waited on me had “HATE” tattooed across her fingers. She must have been about 25 or so. I figured she had a pretty rough life. She was really thin, methamphetamine thin. She had several additional “nonprofessional” tattoos on her arm. When she handed me my order, I asked if her fingers were getting any better? Maybe someone had asked her that before, I don’t know. It didn’t seem to startle her. She seemed to understand my temptation in asking. Anyway, she said yes, thanks. I’m sure the “HATE” went onto those fingers hard and it will come off slow. A young woman I stumbled across in Dickson, Tennessee. I don’t have the slightest idea what her name was or the life she had, but I hope she has good luck for the rest of it.

BAD NEWS

Time to take the plants in. Fall is about used up. I encountered this strange mushroom growing in one of the pots. A menacing looking little devil. It’s a bright lime color, like pistachio pudding, but without the pasticcios. Lime jello wouldn’t work to describe it, you can’t see through it. And I doubt it would giggle. While not very big, it looks like it would glow in the dark. Like it belongs in the dark. The stem burrows down into the soil, some of its flesh peeling off and falling next to it, reminding me of a creepy looking Halloween scene where faces are peeling off, probably zombies. The white stem gleams clear and bright enough to see yourself in, about 3 inches high, getting thicker towards the bottom, with a ring about a quarter of an inch down from the top. The top reminds me of a Chinese hat, I have no idea why, maybe an old cartoon. The stem appears to go deep into the pot, almost through the bottom, but not quite. It’s terracotta, clay red with a black band around the top. It is not going to get out of that pot, thank God. If you were to ingest that thing, it’s hard to tell what you might see. A mushroom I once ingested made me see music and I could smell color. This thing makes it look like you would regret the stupidity involved in trying to find God in a mushroom. This thing looks like bad news.

CAN'T STAND THE PAIN

Have you ever walked down a road where you can't stand the pain? How do I get to be the person I would like to be? What is it in me that keeps holding me back? Do I have to spend every minute worrying about the world? Can't it get along without my attention? Every day I try to be a better person. Am I as devoted to that as I am to my golf? My community needs me to help. How? How about next week? My neighbor is sick. What can I do? I'm a 67 year old man. Is there no rest? When the road gets painful, am I willing to keep stepping forward? Or will it burn holes in my shoes?

BUMPER STICKER OF THE WEEK

GOD HATES FLAGS

'We're Staying': Obama Adds Endless Afghan War to Legacy

'We're Staying': Obama Adds Endless Afghan War to Legacy



SO MUCH FOR GETTING OUR TROOPS OUT. ANOTHER STUNNING DISAPPOINTMENT. SCORE 17 FOR THE MILITARY-INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX, ZERO FOR THE PEOPLE.

QUOTE OF THE DAY

“I'm sorry, but I don't want to be an emperor. That's not my business. I don't want to rule or conquer anyone. I should like to help everyone if possible; Jew, Gentile, black man, white. We all want to help one another. Human beings are like that. We want to live by each other's happiness, not by each other's misery. We don't want to hate and despise one another. In this world there is room for everyone, and the good earth is rich and can provide for everyone. The way of life can be free and beautiful, but we have lost the way. Greed has poisoned men's souls, has barricaded the world with hate, has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed. We have developed speed, but we have shut ourselves in. Machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical; our cleverness, hard and unkind. We think too much and feel too little. More than machinery, we need humanity. More than cleverness, we need kindness and gentleness. Without these qualities, life will be violent and all will be lost. The airplane and the radio have brought us closer together. The very nature of these inventions cries out for the goodness in men; cries out for universal brotherhood; for the unity of us all. Even now my voice is reaching millions throughout the world, millions of despairing men, women, and little children, victims of a system that makes men torture and imprison innocent people. To those who can hear me, I say, do not despair. The misery that is now upon us is but the passing of greed, the bitterness of men who fear the way of human progress. The hate of men will pass, and dictators die, and the power they took from the people will return to the people. And so long as men die, liberty will never perish. Soldiers! Don't give yourselves to brutes, men who despise you, enslave you; who regiment your lives, tell you what to do, what to think and what to feel! Who drill you, diet you, treat you like cattle, use you as cannon fodder. Don't give yourselves to these unnatural men - machine men with machine minds and machine hearts! You are not machines, you are not cattle, you are men! You have the love of humanity in your hearts! You don't hate! Only the unloved hate; the unloved and the unnatural. Soldiers! Don't fight for slavery! Fight for liberty! In the seventeenth chapter of St. Luke, it is written that the kingdom of God is within man, not one man nor a group of men, but in all men! In you! You, the people, have the power, the power to create machines, the power to create happiness! You, the people, have the power to make this life free and beautiful, to make this life a wonderful adventure. Then in the name of democracy, let us use that power. Let us all unite. Let us fight for a new world, a decent world that will give men a chance to work, that will give youth a future and old age a security. By the promise of these things, brutes have risen to power. But they lie! They do not fulfill that promise. They never will! Dictators free themselves but they enslave the people. Now let us fight to fulfill that promise. Let us fight to free the world! To do away with national barriers! To do away with greed, with hate and intolerance! Let us fight for a world of reason, a world where science and progress will lead to all men's happiness. Soldiers, in the name of democracy, let us all unite!”
Charles Chaplin

Jim Hightower | Grassroots Democracy-Building in Iowa

Jim Hightower | Grassroots Democracy-Building in Iowa

Proving Competitive with Clinton Machine, Sanders Goes Big with Small Donations

Proving Competitive with Clinton Machine, Sanders Goes Big with Small Donations



IT'S ALL ABOUT MONEY.

THE KILLER IN ME IS THE KILLER IN YOU

Violence is a part of all of us. We all carry a dark side. When we are engaged in war, it is all of us that are responsible, not just the chosen few. With each death, humanity becomes less than what it could have been. When we take an eye for an eye, we move away from the common good, toward the common bad. And before long, we accept the common bad as okay, or something we can settle for. This is the law of diminishing humanity. We all take part in it. We are all responsible for it. We sit back and watch.