I took my mother to Barnes & Noble this afternoon. She's 84, very healthy, and a constant reader. This is a relatively rural area. The opening of a B&N 25 miles from our homes was a pretty big deal. (After B&N opened, Amazon started sending me get-well cards.) In any event, it's always a treat to go there, scout out the books, buy a new magazine I've never tried before (today it was Wild West, I told you I have plebian tastes), and suck up some decent coffee while my mom shops. The parking lot was crowded, and so was the store, including a few leftover people in peculiar clothing which I assume is connected to celebrating the release of the new Harry Potter book. These revelers were a good-natured bunch, and so I'm inclined to doubt the extreme fundamentalist Christian view that J. K. Rowling is an incarnation of Old Scratch himself. I could be wrong, Old Scratch is a devious fellow.
I'm at No. 3 Equity Court, because I didn't have a working computer for the past couple of days, while "Rob" fixed it. No, I don't know what was wrong. It was broken. He fixed it. Point of the spear, that's what counts.
I got a compliment I honestly appreciated yesterday. I was in Federal District Court for a status conference on a criminal case. In that case, my client asked months ago for a new lawyer, and that motion was heard last week, and denied by the Magistrate Judge. After the hearing today, the District Judge (who I had cases against when she was a practicing lawyer) popped back into the Courtroom for something or other, and asked how I was getting along with my client. I told her that I'm getting along with the client great, that her motion was made at a frustrating time when she was going into drug rehab and was in need of extra TLC by me, but I was going quickly out of service on medical leave at the time, and I wasn't there as much as she needed me. The Judge commented that she figured it was something like that, because she'd never known me not to get along with my clients. Hey, I'll take the reputation of being a workmanlike decent human being over being known as a brilliant asshole any day of the week. I don't know how the Courts work in the bigger cities, but it's all very clubby in the small towns of West Virginia.
The rough and ineffectual insults which have percolated on the community blog lately are not distressing, they are merely pointless. The physical world has plenty of distress in it, why honor it here?
Three new books I've been anxiously waiting for are being released over the next six weeks.
Tomorrow - No. 3 Equity Court will be buzzing. Or, at least, I'll be here and busy.
Mizpah.
R
Friday, July 20, 2007
Monday, July 16, 2007
Oh, what a dandy f.ing fellow I am, and by the way this so-called Justice System is seriously broke.
I blogged in February about a domestic case that I’m doing “pro bono,” i.e., without charging a fee. I met my client when I was the volunteer domestic violence shelter lawyer at a domestic violence docket day in Family Court. Not a big deal, I get stuck doing that 3 or 4 times a year. This young mother had a domestic violence petition against a former boyfriend, and she told me a very sordid story based on having a pending Family Court case where he was seeking “joint parenting time” of her 9 year old son even though this guy is not the boy’s biological father. (Oh, but he is a convicted felon.) When she began hesitatingly to catalog a little of the history of abuse and her essentially disabling terror of the Courts, my purely self-aggrandizing so-called “noble instincts” kicked in, and I told her I’d do the Family Court petition case for her, too. What a wonderful human being I am. Great Caesar's Ghost, I'm a sanctimonious bastard, and it’s enough to make you sick.
I talked to this woman several times over the following few weeks. She didn’t trust me a hell of a lot, because nobody in a position of authority had ever really listened to her, and nobody had ever stood still while she dribbled out her story in a parade of non sequiturs. I think I know how to get clients relaxed and talking, and get the facts out of them, and it just takes time. Her story included a ton of sexual abuse, she was embarassed, and let’s face it, I’m not what you would call urbane and tactful, and she was just very uncomfortable telling this stuff to a guy. (I always had a woman representative of the local domestic violence shelter there when I talked with this client. That helped her comfort, my comfort, and gave me another brain to express ideas. I’m not proud, I’ll take suggestions wherever I can get them.) It was her fourth visit to me when she remembered to tell me about 3 nighttime break-in’s plus rapes that this guy had committed against her. And that was the milder stuff. This boyfriend was (is?) one sick puppy.
Doing this case was not a big damn deal. Now, if I stepped into an operating room and took out someone’s appendix, knowing only what I know now, I’d be worthy of some heavy-duty back-slapping. But doing a case? It’s just what I do. I planned it out before and during the first hearing (on Valentine’s Day, I love Family Court hearings on Valentine’s Day), and just followed the plan. Boring. Mind you, I did let the toxins flow during the hearing today, and the abuser left really smoking after the Judge ruled that he was an abuser, and would never have any contact, direct or indirect, with the boy or my client. I think I can safely count him among those who are less than friendly to me. But it’s still just a case. Besides, I piss people off one at a time, while the Judge pisses them off in droves, so he’s more liable to get ambushed than I am.
This woman was in a lot of danger without a lawyer. She hadn’t a clue what evidence was or how to present it. Common wisdom says that Judges collect every important fact, and then make wise rulings. That’s not what happens. They hear disjointed bits of evidence which tell darn little about the life stories of the people involved. They try to make sense of the evidence, get frustrated as hell, do the best they can with limited information and the good ones (this is a good one) then lose sleep and get ulcers. My client is on Social Security Disability, has zip for money, and without someone helping her gratis, she may have lost this case. The Judge couldn’t talk to her privately and find out the facts and determine what helped her case. He does 750 hearings a year, and can’t act as the advocate for 1500 people and, besides, he's not allowed to talk privately with "litigants." (Oh, the abuser was represented by a friend of mine who is a pretty good trial lawyer, and who thrives on aggression.)
What good things can you say about a system where the rich get good lawyers and the poor get dumped into a totally unfamiliar setting? What good things can you say about a system in which money is often the only thing that talks? This woman’s case was an exception, when access to the Courts should be the fucking rule. The monied interests are lying, cheating and stealing to convince the people to emasculate their advocates, to give more and more power to the judges (who are selected in one manner or another by monied interests - the exceptions are few) who by and large are conservative, money-protecting umpires, to convince the people to give away their rights to seek justice. Hell, we are afraid of the word, and I want to stand out on the front steps of the Courthouse and sermonize like a street evangelist that the building should be a place of Justice, where the right thing is always done. But too often the only fucking thing that matters is money. And in most cases (sometimes even in Family Court cases), the only justice I can get for people is money. I can’t fix their back injuries or erase any sorts of scars, I can’t make their spouses faithful, I can’t put love or light or acceptance back into their lives. Money. That’s how I spend most of my days, moving money around and piously taking my cut.
I had a fellow come in the office last week with a MAJOR criminal problem. I quoted him a “retainer” of “eighty-seven-fifty.” He thought that $87.50 was very reasonable for the services. He was the recipient of serious sticker-shock when I told him he misunderstood what I meant by the figure. I don’t have a clue where he went, or what has happened or will happen to him. I feel terrible about not helping him – but the landlord of No. 3 Equity Court doesn’t give me a break for being a dandy fellow. I’m downsizing the workers’ compensation practice because my ability to do those cases and make fees commensurate with the effort has gone down the tubes. I’m turning away several comp cases every week. I temporize with these people about how I “just can’t help you now-a-days like I used to be able to, blame the Legislature, not me” but I’m as much a slave of money as the lowest, meanest whore on the streets.
Like the old Don himself, I’m finding that the windmills are just beating Hell out of me. It’s not fun, and God’s going to have to punch my ticket before I’m off duty.
So, how was your day?
Mizpah.
R
I talked to this woman several times over the following few weeks. She didn’t trust me a hell of a lot, because nobody in a position of authority had ever really listened to her, and nobody had ever stood still while she dribbled out her story in a parade of non sequiturs. I think I know how to get clients relaxed and talking, and get the facts out of them, and it just takes time. Her story included a ton of sexual abuse, she was embarassed, and let’s face it, I’m not what you would call urbane and tactful, and she was just very uncomfortable telling this stuff to a guy. (I always had a woman representative of the local domestic violence shelter there when I talked with this client. That helped her comfort, my comfort, and gave me another brain to express ideas. I’m not proud, I’ll take suggestions wherever I can get them.) It was her fourth visit to me when she remembered to tell me about 3 nighttime break-in’s plus rapes that this guy had committed against her. And that was the milder stuff. This boyfriend was (is?) one sick puppy.
Doing this case was not a big damn deal. Now, if I stepped into an operating room and took out someone’s appendix, knowing only what I know now, I’d be worthy of some heavy-duty back-slapping. But doing a case? It’s just what I do. I planned it out before and during the first hearing (on Valentine’s Day, I love Family Court hearings on Valentine’s Day), and just followed the plan. Boring. Mind you, I did let the toxins flow during the hearing today, and the abuser left really smoking after the Judge ruled that he was an abuser, and would never have any contact, direct or indirect, with the boy or my client. I think I can safely count him among those who are less than friendly to me. But it’s still just a case. Besides, I piss people off one at a time, while the Judge pisses them off in droves, so he’s more liable to get ambushed than I am.
This woman was in a lot of danger without a lawyer. She hadn’t a clue what evidence was or how to present it. Common wisdom says that Judges collect every important fact, and then make wise rulings. That’s not what happens. They hear disjointed bits of evidence which tell darn little about the life stories of the people involved. They try to make sense of the evidence, get frustrated as hell, do the best they can with limited information and the good ones (this is a good one) then lose sleep and get ulcers. My client is on Social Security Disability, has zip for money, and without someone helping her gratis, she may have lost this case. The Judge couldn’t talk to her privately and find out the facts and determine what helped her case. He does 750 hearings a year, and can’t act as the advocate for 1500 people and, besides, he's not allowed to talk privately with "litigants." (Oh, the abuser was represented by a friend of mine who is a pretty good trial lawyer, and who thrives on aggression.)
What good things can you say about a system where the rich get good lawyers and the poor get dumped into a totally unfamiliar setting? What good things can you say about a system in which money is often the only thing that talks? This woman’s case was an exception, when access to the Courts should be the fucking rule. The monied interests are lying, cheating and stealing to convince the people to emasculate their advocates, to give more and more power to the judges (who are selected in one manner or another by monied interests - the exceptions are few) who by and large are conservative, money-protecting umpires, to convince the people to give away their rights to seek justice. Hell, we are afraid of the word, and I want to stand out on the front steps of the Courthouse and sermonize like a street evangelist that the building should be a place of Justice, where the right thing is always done. But too often the only fucking thing that matters is money. And in most cases (sometimes even in Family Court cases), the only justice I can get for people is money. I can’t fix their back injuries or erase any sorts of scars, I can’t make their spouses faithful, I can’t put love or light or acceptance back into their lives. Money. That’s how I spend most of my days, moving money around and piously taking my cut.
I had a fellow come in the office last week with a MAJOR criminal problem. I quoted him a “retainer” of “eighty-seven-fifty.” He thought that $87.50 was very reasonable for the services. He was the recipient of serious sticker-shock when I told him he misunderstood what I meant by the figure. I don’t have a clue where he went, or what has happened or will happen to him. I feel terrible about not helping him – but the landlord of No. 3 Equity Court doesn’t give me a break for being a dandy fellow. I’m downsizing the workers’ compensation practice because my ability to do those cases and make fees commensurate with the effort has gone down the tubes. I’m turning away several comp cases every week. I temporize with these people about how I “just can’t help you now-a-days like I used to be able to, blame the Legislature, not me” but I’m as much a slave of money as the lowest, meanest whore on the streets.
Like the old Don himself, I’m finding that the windmills are just beating Hell out of me. It’s not fun, and God’s going to have to punch my ticket before I’m off duty.
So, how was your day?
Mizpah.
R
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
I'm tired, I'm grumpy and Amazon parrots should be in the Amazon
Today was a couple of weeks long.
Among other things, I went to a home to do a mortgage signing for DiTech. They are killing local banks on interest rates, and are offering fixed rates. Great Caesar's Ghost, in reading those words, I see that I've been taking money from the corporate King for his enslavement of people. Shit. I'm a hypocrite. Dammit, how could I have missed this?
Anyway, this was the home of a mine fire boss. That's a very responsible management position in charge of safety. He works 6 days a week, 12 hours a day. In the home, there is a large-ish bird cage, and in that cage is an Amazon parrot. That disturbs me a lot. The bird shouldn't be in a cage in West Virginia, he should be in his natural habitat. Again, perhaps I'm a hypocrite, what with having two indoor cats (one of whom was with me when I lived alone, also an indoor cat then.)
My son had a minor injury in an ambulance incident a couple of days ago. He's black and blue all over. (Basically, an idiot cut off the ambulance which was hauling ass with a patient, and the driver dropped the hooks.) Welcome to what was my world, Tim. He's sanguine about it, and we've discussed why I told him to favor sitting in the backward facing seat. Good judgment comes from experience. Experience comes from bad judgment.
Yours in flaming hypocrisy,
R
Among other things, I went to a home to do a mortgage signing for DiTech. They are killing local banks on interest rates, and are offering fixed rates. Great Caesar's Ghost, in reading those words, I see that I've been taking money from the corporate King for his enslavement of people. Shit. I'm a hypocrite. Dammit, how could I have missed this?
Anyway, this was the home of a mine fire boss. That's a very responsible management position in charge of safety. He works 6 days a week, 12 hours a day. In the home, there is a large-ish bird cage, and in that cage is an Amazon parrot. That disturbs me a lot. The bird shouldn't be in a cage in West Virginia, he should be in his natural habitat. Again, perhaps I'm a hypocrite, what with having two indoor cats (one of whom was with me when I lived alone, also an indoor cat then.)
My son had a minor injury in an ambulance incident a couple of days ago. He's black and blue all over. (Basically, an idiot cut off the ambulance which was hauling ass with a patient, and the driver dropped the hooks.) Welcome to what was my world, Tim. He's sanguine about it, and we've discussed why I told him to favor sitting in the backward facing seat. Good judgment comes from experience. Experience comes from bad judgment.
Yours in flaming hypocrisy,
R
Friday, July 6, 2007
God, Me & Jesus; or, If I Should Die Before I Wake, I Pray the Lord My Soul to Take - But Don’t Be in a Hurry About It, God, OK?
A random discussion in the Community Blog set off alarms in my mind, ringing out danger, danger, fear, fire, foes, we’re getting too darn close to mortification of the mind about the mortification of the flesh, and it’s scary and I don’t want to be here. God. God? GOD? Are you there, God? Give me a sign, OK? A lightning bolt. A lightning bug. It doesn’t take much. I gotta know. Please, God.
“My God!” God is there, always present, always on our minds. To some, S/He’s in our hearts. That’s untrue, of course, the heart is a bundle of muscles that moves blood around, it’s not the seat of any thought or emotion or faith or hope. But that alludes to a deeper commitment in the mind, I suppose, and who am I to criticize how deep another’s commitment may be? Oh, I won’t use a bastardized masculine-feminine pronoun from here on out. God’s a Him. It says so right on the label, right beside “Made in Malaysia.” Or is it the Union Label? I get them confused.
Do I have the nerve to know God, or should I just reach for the Bombay Sapphire, pour one, and take the edge off? Do I have the integrity to talk about my faith (or lack thereof, or confusion thereof, or peculiarity thereof) and my fear and then talk of those times at night when I sit bolt upright in sudden terror because maybe there’s nothing out there but an End and Darkness? Do I have anything vaguely resembling the brain capacity to understand one “jot or tittle” of the truth which doubtless exists?
Human communication about God, positive or negative, loving, threatening, scared, all of it is usually strident and even confident if you can believe that. “I know THE way, [thump, thump goes the Book, thump, thump] and it’s beyond question, logic, critical thought or argument!” Or, how about, “You poor deluded fools, life is short, then you die, die, die, and it’s forever, buh-wa-ha-ha-haaaaa!” Even when we “deny God,” most of us capitalize the word God (as opposed to The Word of God), as if to use lowercase is an insult to Him, or maybe means we might be referring to some other “God.” Remember in the “Judeo-Christian tradition,” “Thou shalt have no other gods before me,” (italics mine) but notice that’s not an outright ban on other gods, just a requirement that we get the pecking order correct. This passage may be garbled. We’re reading it in English and it was written in . . . in . . . Hell, I don’t even know what language it was written in. God wrote it – what language was he using? Did he use a fountain pen? Funny how so many of our conversation fillers (“Oh, God”, “helluva thing”, “I swear to High Heaven”) refer to God.
We humans are so reluctant to talk about God. Even though God, or more precisely Death and What Happens Next, are on our minds a good bit. And it’s not comfortable for anyone to discuss God with less than the certainty of logic and authority. Anything less rings those alarms. I well remember a 1966 Time Magazine cover which caused an enormous commotion, because it said in huge red letters on a black background, “IS GOD DEAD?” How could they say that? Is that a question allowed by the Rules? I hope Hoyle or maybe Roberts has something to say about this.
Let's face it - some people believe that God IS. Some people believe that God IS NOT. We are scared out of our wits and it is sooooo uncomfortable to talk about God. Fess up – as we get older, we see God less and less as the Creator and Founder of Life and Source of Morals and more as the hopefully-present Bringer of Eternal Life, the guy who will help us beat the odds. We don't read the obituaries when we are 20, we’re too busy sinning, and we know that we are sinning, and that’s OK because we have LOTS of time to repent. We read the obituaries rather desultorily when we are 30, because maybe someone’s grandmother will have died. When we turn 40, the first wisps of the grave start to call to us, and we start really reading the obits. We are occasionally shocked at the sudden cardiac death or cancer death of someone younger than ourselves. At 50, we’ve given up pretense, and we just plain flat out read the obits, are glad that nearly all of the departed are older than us and, at least in my small town, often see that people we know who have died. That’ll put you back on your ear. My dear friend and brother Fred Griffith stopped in my office on a Wednesday and it was early April. His birthday was April 29, and I would always sing to him a little ditty wishing him and Hitler a Happy Birthday, “Happy BIRTHday Fred and HITler . . .” I didn’t sing it then, because it was early April, and he’d be back, and it would be a whole lot funnier on his birthday. When he came into my room, he expressed fear about my obvious bad health, and told me that "if the Good Lord lets me be here around for the next 10 years, I sure hope you're still here, too.” Those were his exact words, I’ll never forget them. Two days later, on Friday, his wife called me. Fred had collapsed and died at home. The paramedics did what they could, but the only effective thing that they could do was wave, so long, be seeing you, wherever you’re going, you’re blazing the trail for the rest of us. Fred donated his body to medical research. There is a gift inspired by love of God. I don’t know if I’d have the guts to do that. At age 60, the obits are the second thing we turn to (after looking up the Oriole’s scores), because we feel the “chill wind of Death” approaching us. We think that maybe we should "get right with God," or Jesus, or the Prophet (Peace Be Unto Him), or the Eternal Whoever. At 70, we make little jokes about how glad we are to wake up on the correct side of the grass, but we’re really not joking. And at 80? If we make it that far, we have numbed ourselves because Death is coming, and we’ve seen it soooo many times for most of our friends. Funny, we remember the shriveled specter in the casket not as an old person, but as the girl or boy we went to high school with, and they were so handsome or pretty and athletic and alive.
Most organized religions are very detailed, and you can’t tell the players without the program. For instance, St. John the Divine (aka St. John the Evangelist) wrote down his Revelation. Someone else numbered it, I hope - he shouldn’t have been bothered with that detail. In Revelations 19:11, et seq., he relates, “And I saw heaven opened and beheld a white horse, and he that sat upon his was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war. His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were many crowns; and he had a name written, that no man knew, but he himself. [I don’t know how St. John knew about the secret name if it was such a secret and all. But, I digress.] And he was clothed in a vesture dipped in blood; and his name is called “The Word of God.” And the armies which were in heaven followed him upon white horses, clothed in fine linen, white and clean. And out of his mouth goeth a sharp sword, that with it he should smite the nations:” Well, you get the drift. If St. John the Divine (Evangelist) is right, we’re in for quite an exhibition, come the Apocalypse.
Do you know that there are 70 sextillion stars in the Universe, that according to a recent sky survey by probably atheistic scientists? That number is incomprehensible. It is incomparably more than all of the grains of sand on all of the beaches and deserts of this Earth. Just imagine counting out the grains of sand in your toddler’s sand box. Even that’s a lot of sand. Even that’s a lot of stars. It is, to me at least, most improbable that God made all of those stars just for us. After all, the vast majority of those stars were totally invisible and unknown to us until very powerful telescopes were developed in the latter 20th Century.
Where is truth? I’m sorry, I mean Truth. There is truth in Jesus. What a ballsy guy, no wimp was he. He didn’t care a rap for "authority," and threw the money-changers and merchants and fakirs and jugglers and ad-men out of the Temple, saying that it was his FATHER'S house, not a den of theives. And he also had the nerve to announce that “as you have done it to the least of these, you have done it to me.” St. Matthew quoted him there. So much for Enron and Tyco and the S&L's and Ann Coulter. I think. But maybe Jesus isn’t as big as Ann Coulter in a true American’s living room.
Some religious leaders are pretty evil. Pat Robertson asked his buddy God to smite the left-wing liberals on the Supreme Court to make room for God-fearing men (did I say men?) whose hearts are pure and who know that God, Guns and Guts made America great. (Pat Robertson is also silly. He took credit for turning a hurricane away from North Carolina through what must have been a really, really good prayer.) I suspect that he doesn’t much appreciate the downright majesty of the heat exchanging process which creates a hurricane. Pastor John Hagee is real keen on corporal punishment for errant children. His Bible tells him so. Let’s not forget the Ayatollahs with their fatwas (essentially, they take out a contract on someone who has offended the faith in even a teensy little way), and with their promises of Paradise complete with 72 virgins (Who checks? Who counts?) for those who kill infidels and die themselves.
Some religious leaders are good and loving. Billy Graham is pretty doctrinaire, but he’s a nice fellow and doesn’t seem to meddle in God’s affairs concerning hurricanes. Another pastor, “Bishop” T.D. Jakes, always says positive and helpful things, and somehow I really do feel the love coming from my television set.
The acid test, though, is the believers in the trenches. Many religious people are good and kind and loving. I’m a Freemason. I’m glad of that, and it’s one of the best things I ever did. When I petitioned to join a lodge, I had to swear that I believe in a supreme being. Just who wasn’t important. One of my senior brothers, Billy Reid, who is a kind and decent and loving person, believes that “if you don't have Christ, you're lost.” Maybe the reverse of that puts it better, if you DO have Christ, you are NOT lost. Billy lets his faith and love show, neither under a bushel nor perched on his head like the headdress of a Las Vegas showgirl. Let’s see, Reverend Jeff Gill, a simple pastor, has benevolence and love in his heart. (There I go about the bundle of muscles again.) He spent the last night of my Dad's life at his bedside. Dad was already in a coma, and the family was numb with exhaustion and went home. Jeff did it not for a contribution or even to provide spiritually comforting words, but from pure, unadulterated Love. I remember tonight my dear friend Marleen, a very conventional Christian. (Before I met her, I had represented a fellow who had very cold-bloodedly killed a co-worker of hers. Is he a candidate for the literal Hell? I don’t think she would have thought so, but I may be wrong.) She put faith into action, through her “Women’s Ministry” at her church, through her family life, her comfortable moral example, and through her courage when she was diagnosed with bad ovarian cancer. I saw her in my office while she was doing chemotherapy. Her hair was gone, so she had a sort of “do-rag” scarf, and she had the biggest, most sincere smile, and talked about trying to learn the lesson that God and Jesus were teaching her. God, I hope she’s right there with Jesus now, just as she knew she would be.
Wrongs in the name of religion - How can I count that high? There are the Crusades, including the infamous “Children’s Crusade.” In the late Middle Ages, the Malleus Malificarum was written (literally, the “Witch’s Hammer,”) where the just and godly were taught how to torture, burn alive and thereby save the souls of witches. Much of applied Islam is violent. (I know, I know, an extremely small group of radicals has hijacked a kind and gentle religion, blah, blah, blah, now let’s see the kind and gentle people quit electing jihadists to lead them. The Afghani and Iraqi American-approved Constitutions adopt Islamic law, the Sharia. Hang on, ladies, I’ll pass around the chadors. Any color you want, as long as it’s black.) Did you know that 139 people were killed in riots over the publication in DENMARK of a CARTOON showing Muhammad with a bomb in his bonnet? Back to the Christians, there’s the IRA and the Orangemen, the Inquisition, Salem, a few dud popes, and more than a touch of hypocrisy.
Oh, another “wrong” is to condemn the unrepentent sinners (meaning those who don’t follow your particular dogma) to a literal Hell. Hell is an interesting place, by all accounts. First and foremost, it’s hotter ‘n . . . well, you know. There are Lakes of Fire, and for some reason lots and lots of sulphur. Some people say that there are several rings or levels, and that you get assigned a spot based on your sins, sort of like getting bad seats for your season tickets for the Orioles. I can’t help but wonder - Is this literal Hell the probable end for the people created by an allegedly loving God?
Now there are some outfits that do not subscribe to the “loving God” concept and thereby at least aren’t hypocritical in their dispatch of the ungodly to that literal Hell. For instance, there is the infamous Westboro Baptist Church of Kansas, that’s the outfit which does anti-gay protests at military funerals (without ever explaining the connection between their “cause” and the departed or the mourners). Their website (godhatesfags.com) does not pretend that God loves anyone. It’s at least refreshing that this group has no qualms about boldly flying the Jolly Roger. They’re just one of a parade of folks whose God is a pretty touchy individual.
We misuse religion and God even in small ways. In the movie "Patton," there is a scene where General Patton orders a chaplain to write a "weather prayer," so that the snow will subside and the army can go "from victory to victory to establish thy justice." At the beginning of football games, the teams often pray for success on the field. Obviously, one of their prayers won't be answered affirmatively. I prefer the prayers offered up at the beginning of NASCAR races, where the pastor commonly thanks God for the day (a pretty safe thing to be thankful for) and the people (ditto), and then prays for safety for all there. Even so, too often those prayers are not "successful" with respect to the drivers and crews. And they are almost NEVER totally successful for the fans attending the race. Let's face it, if you have a group of 200,000 people attending an exciting event, someone is going to die suddenly. Well, for that matter, ALL of us are going to die suddenly. Oh, we may know in advance the most probable cause and sequence of our death, but the instant where corporeal life ends and death begins is abrupt. One minute you’re there, then you’re . . . somewhere. Life is change. The secret of life, if there is one, is to make that critical exit on cue every time.
Where does my religious faith come from? Frankly, I'm not sure. I remember going to Bible school in the summers at a church in the little town of Buckhannon. We would draw pictures for our Moms, and play Red Rover, and sing "Jesus loves me, this I know, ‘cause the Bible tells me so." Did my faith start there? But I also have a clear memory of my mother reading me the story of Pegasus, a mythological creature, to help me go to sleep on Christmas Eve when I was 8. Did I know then that Pegasus was a myth? Did I think that Jesus was real? Which is more real, a Bible story or song, or a mother's love? Parent, God, I’m confused -“I’ll never ever know where God and Daddy went, ‘cause there was nothin’ those two couldn’t do . . .” I have been present at (not enough) births. I have been present at (too many) deaths. Of course, being a denizen of this place, I have read some about a lot of subjects. I’m a Jack of all Books, but a Master of None. How do I, Roger, KNOW that God is there, that the Universe is not some cosmic "thing" that just happens to exist? I only know of one way. It's not reading the Bible or listening to a sermon or reading accounts of evolution. (Evolution is not a theory, it is a fact, by the way. Ignorance is a fact, too.) It doesn’t offend me that in His creation, God uses DNA. His speed of light is 300,000 kilometers per second, and you don’t have to keep timing it with your stopwatch, and that’s fine with me. He doesn’t need to stop the Sun, blow down the walls of Jericho with horns, burn bushes in front of me, or bother Himself with pillars of salt. I know that God is there because when I open my mind, open my heart (and I know that I've criticized that phrase elsewhere), and I can FEEL and PERCEIVE GOD. When I am at the farm, and see a pileated woodpecker on the wing, GOD IS THERE WITH ME. When I look at my mountains, God is there. When I read a poem or (more rarely) write a poem, God is there with me. Oh, that's one reason that I think that the Boy Scouts' policy of not accepting atheists is moronic. Positively some of the most spiritual experiences I have ever had came in Boy Scout activities out in GOD'S COUNTRY. He’s there, I know it, and I’m not fooling.
Events in my life have shown me God’s presence. The friends I have, the women I have loved, my son - they come from God. There was an event in my life which has always represented the workings of God to me. On 18 December 1976, I was at a rescue company station for a "GI party," that is, painting and scrubbing the walls. An extraordinary series of nine events HAD to occur IN ORDER to place me and two of my lifetime friends at a specific location within 5 minutes of a specific event, and being there at any earlier or later time would have resulted in the death of a 20 year old mother and 6 month old child. What we did was not terribly remarkable - we simply applied our training. But to get us there on cue was an honest miracle. I’ve talked about babies. Heck with multiplying loaves, show me a baby, and you have proved a pure-dee miracle.
I have loved and oh my God, I have had pain. Why did you let me have pain, God? You’re not the Westboro Baptist guy, at least I hope you’re not. If you are, I’m in deep shit, that’s for sure. But at least I’ll have company in the Lake of Fire, and all of that nasty stuff.
So let me tell you exactly what I think of God. I don’t really know if He's a "he," a "she," both, neither, and that's not terribly important. I doubt that He is an old man with a beard, dressed in a toga, reaching out to touch His human creation with the Spark of Life, but I could be wrong. I know that he is there, and I believe that some of what are probably his minor works are the incomparably complex system of physics and chemistry and biochemistry and mathematics that makes this Earth operate as it does. I go to him when I am troubled, and often feel guilty that I don't acknowledge him as often when I'm sailing along happily. It is convenient and comfortable to ignore God passively, for to contemplate God is to contemplate Death (and I’m sure as that literal Hell going to capitalize that), and what if I'm wrong and there is no God and Death is final, and how long is forever, and what will become of my body or even will there be name or remembrance or memory of me when the sun burns out and will there be another cycle of creation, and how did this Universe come to be and has it been here already for an infinite time and how long is infinity, and my God I am scared and I am so small. God, are you there? Are you there in the pleasures of the flesh that you have given me, but some say are sinful? I love nuzzling in a woman’s breasts – but will I go to Hell? Or is God in my friends and in my ability to have friends and to communicate and love and dance and once again, the Universe is so big and so forever, and my God I am so small and insignificant. Or is the Real Immutable Truth in "Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are," although I can only see about 10,000 stars in the sky. And God you are so great and I am so small.
In the end, in the quiet hours when we are exhausted from our feeble attempts to embrace God and Infinity and have a drink with ol’ Thanatos, all we can do is rise up, brush the dirt off our blue jeans, and walk on and hope that we are going to be OK. God, I hope I’m going to be OK. Give me a sign. Give me a hint. I’m really scared.
“My God!” God is there, always present, always on our minds. To some, S/He’s in our hearts. That’s untrue, of course, the heart is a bundle of muscles that moves blood around, it’s not the seat of any thought or emotion or faith or hope. But that alludes to a deeper commitment in the mind, I suppose, and who am I to criticize how deep another’s commitment may be? Oh, I won’t use a bastardized masculine-feminine pronoun from here on out. God’s a Him. It says so right on the label, right beside “Made in Malaysia.” Or is it the Union Label? I get them confused.
Do I have the nerve to know God, or should I just reach for the Bombay Sapphire, pour one, and take the edge off? Do I have the integrity to talk about my faith (or lack thereof, or confusion thereof, or peculiarity thereof) and my fear and then talk of those times at night when I sit bolt upright in sudden terror because maybe there’s nothing out there but an End and Darkness? Do I have anything vaguely resembling the brain capacity to understand one “jot or tittle” of the truth which doubtless exists?
Human communication about God, positive or negative, loving, threatening, scared, all of it is usually strident and even confident if you can believe that. “I know THE way, [thump, thump goes the Book, thump, thump] and it’s beyond question, logic, critical thought or argument!” Or, how about, “You poor deluded fools, life is short, then you die, die, die, and it’s forever, buh-wa-ha-ha-haaaaa!” Even when we “deny God,” most of us capitalize the word God (as opposed to The Word of God), as if to use lowercase is an insult to Him, or maybe means we might be referring to some other “God.” Remember in the “Judeo-Christian tradition,” “Thou shalt have no other gods before me,” (italics mine) but notice that’s not an outright ban on other gods, just a requirement that we get the pecking order correct. This passage may be garbled. We’re reading it in English and it was written in . . . in . . . Hell, I don’t even know what language it was written in. God wrote it – what language was he using? Did he use a fountain pen? Funny how so many of our conversation fillers (“Oh, God”, “helluva thing”, “I swear to High Heaven”) refer to God.
We humans are so reluctant to talk about God. Even though God, or more precisely Death and What Happens Next, are on our minds a good bit. And it’s not comfortable for anyone to discuss God with less than the certainty of logic and authority. Anything less rings those alarms. I well remember a 1966 Time Magazine cover which caused an enormous commotion, because it said in huge red letters on a black background, “IS GOD DEAD?” How could they say that? Is that a question allowed by the Rules? I hope Hoyle or maybe Roberts has something to say about this.
Let's face it - some people believe that God IS. Some people believe that God IS NOT. We are scared out of our wits and it is sooooo uncomfortable to talk about God. Fess up – as we get older, we see God less and less as the Creator and Founder of Life and Source of Morals and more as the hopefully-present Bringer of Eternal Life, the guy who will help us beat the odds. We don't read the obituaries when we are 20, we’re too busy sinning, and we know that we are sinning, and that’s OK because we have LOTS of time to repent. We read the obituaries rather desultorily when we are 30, because maybe someone’s grandmother will have died. When we turn 40, the first wisps of the grave start to call to us, and we start really reading the obits. We are occasionally shocked at the sudden cardiac death or cancer death of someone younger than ourselves. At 50, we’ve given up pretense, and we just plain flat out read the obits, are glad that nearly all of the departed are older than us and, at least in my small town, often see that people we know who have died. That’ll put you back on your ear. My dear friend and brother Fred Griffith stopped in my office on a Wednesday and it was early April. His birthday was April 29, and I would always sing to him a little ditty wishing him and Hitler a Happy Birthday, “Happy BIRTHday Fred and HITler . . .” I didn’t sing it then, because it was early April, and he’d be back, and it would be a whole lot funnier on his birthday. When he came into my room, he expressed fear about my obvious bad health, and told me that "if the Good Lord lets me be here around for the next 10 years, I sure hope you're still here, too.” Those were his exact words, I’ll never forget them. Two days later, on Friday, his wife called me. Fred had collapsed and died at home. The paramedics did what they could, but the only effective thing that they could do was wave, so long, be seeing you, wherever you’re going, you’re blazing the trail for the rest of us. Fred donated his body to medical research. There is a gift inspired by love of God. I don’t know if I’d have the guts to do that. At age 60, the obits are the second thing we turn to (after looking up the Oriole’s scores), because we feel the “chill wind of Death” approaching us. We think that maybe we should "get right with God," or Jesus, or the Prophet (Peace Be Unto Him), or the Eternal Whoever. At 70, we make little jokes about how glad we are to wake up on the correct side of the grass, but we’re really not joking. And at 80? If we make it that far, we have numbed ourselves because Death is coming, and we’ve seen it soooo many times for most of our friends. Funny, we remember the shriveled specter in the casket not as an old person, but as the girl or boy we went to high school with, and they were so handsome or pretty and athletic and alive.
Most organized religions are very detailed, and you can’t tell the players without the program. For instance, St. John the Divine (aka St. John the Evangelist) wrote down his Revelation. Someone else numbered it, I hope - he shouldn’t have been bothered with that detail. In Revelations 19:11, et seq., he relates, “And I saw heaven opened and beheld a white horse, and he that sat upon his was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war. His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were many crowns; and he had a name written, that no man knew, but he himself. [I don’t know how St. John knew about the secret name if it was such a secret and all. But, I digress.] And he was clothed in a vesture dipped in blood; and his name is called “The Word of God.” And the armies which were in heaven followed him upon white horses, clothed in fine linen, white and clean. And out of his mouth goeth a sharp sword, that with it he should smite the nations:” Well, you get the drift. If St. John the Divine (Evangelist) is right, we’re in for quite an exhibition, come the Apocalypse.
Do you know that there are 70 sextillion stars in the Universe, that according to a recent sky survey by probably atheistic scientists? That number is incomprehensible. It is incomparably more than all of the grains of sand on all of the beaches and deserts of this Earth. Just imagine counting out the grains of sand in your toddler’s sand box. Even that’s a lot of sand. Even that’s a lot of stars. It is, to me at least, most improbable that God made all of those stars just for us. After all, the vast majority of those stars were totally invisible and unknown to us until very powerful telescopes were developed in the latter 20th Century.
Where is truth? I’m sorry, I mean Truth. There is truth in Jesus. What a ballsy guy, no wimp was he. He didn’t care a rap for "authority," and threw the money-changers and merchants and fakirs and jugglers and ad-men out of the Temple, saying that it was his FATHER'S house, not a den of theives. And he also had the nerve to announce that “as you have done it to the least of these, you have done it to me.” St. Matthew quoted him there. So much for Enron and Tyco and the S&L's and Ann Coulter. I think. But maybe Jesus isn’t as big as Ann Coulter in a true American’s living room.
Some religious leaders are pretty evil. Pat Robertson asked his buddy God to smite the left-wing liberals on the Supreme Court to make room for God-fearing men (did I say men?) whose hearts are pure and who know that God, Guns and Guts made America great. (Pat Robertson is also silly. He took credit for turning a hurricane away from North Carolina through what must have been a really, really good prayer.) I suspect that he doesn’t much appreciate the downright majesty of the heat exchanging process which creates a hurricane. Pastor John Hagee is real keen on corporal punishment for errant children. His Bible tells him so. Let’s not forget the Ayatollahs with their fatwas (essentially, they take out a contract on someone who has offended the faith in even a teensy little way), and with their promises of Paradise complete with 72 virgins (Who checks? Who counts?) for those who kill infidels and die themselves.
Some religious leaders are good and loving. Billy Graham is pretty doctrinaire, but he’s a nice fellow and doesn’t seem to meddle in God’s affairs concerning hurricanes. Another pastor, “Bishop” T.D. Jakes, always says positive and helpful things, and somehow I really do feel the love coming from my television set.
The acid test, though, is the believers in the trenches. Many religious people are good and kind and loving. I’m a Freemason. I’m glad of that, and it’s one of the best things I ever did. When I petitioned to join a lodge, I had to swear that I believe in a supreme being. Just who wasn’t important. One of my senior brothers, Billy Reid, who is a kind and decent and loving person, believes that “if you don't have Christ, you're lost.” Maybe the reverse of that puts it better, if you DO have Christ, you are NOT lost. Billy lets his faith and love show, neither under a bushel nor perched on his head like the headdress of a Las Vegas showgirl. Let’s see, Reverend Jeff Gill, a simple pastor, has benevolence and love in his heart. (There I go about the bundle of muscles again.) He spent the last night of my Dad's life at his bedside. Dad was already in a coma, and the family was numb with exhaustion and went home. Jeff did it not for a contribution or even to provide spiritually comforting words, but from pure, unadulterated Love. I remember tonight my dear friend Marleen, a very conventional Christian. (Before I met her, I had represented a fellow who had very cold-bloodedly killed a co-worker of hers. Is he a candidate for the literal Hell? I don’t think she would have thought so, but I may be wrong.) She put faith into action, through her “Women’s Ministry” at her church, through her family life, her comfortable moral example, and through her courage when she was diagnosed with bad ovarian cancer. I saw her in my office while she was doing chemotherapy. Her hair was gone, so she had a sort of “do-rag” scarf, and she had the biggest, most sincere smile, and talked about trying to learn the lesson that God and Jesus were teaching her. God, I hope she’s right there with Jesus now, just as she knew she would be.
Wrongs in the name of religion - How can I count that high? There are the Crusades, including the infamous “Children’s Crusade.” In the late Middle Ages, the Malleus Malificarum was written (literally, the “Witch’s Hammer,”) where the just and godly were taught how to torture, burn alive and thereby save the souls of witches. Much of applied Islam is violent. (I know, I know, an extremely small group of radicals has hijacked a kind and gentle religion, blah, blah, blah, now let’s see the kind and gentle people quit electing jihadists to lead them. The Afghani and Iraqi American-approved Constitutions adopt Islamic law, the Sharia. Hang on, ladies, I’ll pass around the chadors. Any color you want, as long as it’s black.) Did you know that 139 people were killed in riots over the publication in DENMARK of a CARTOON showing Muhammad with a bomb in his bonnet? Back to the Christians, there’s the IRA and the Orangemen, the Inquisition, Salem, a few dud popes, and more than a touch of hypocrisy.
Oh, another “wrong” is to condemn the unrepentent sinners (meaning those who don’t follow your particular dogma) to a literal Hell. Hell is an interesting place, by all accounts. First and foremost, it’s hotter ‘n . . . well, you know. There are Lakes of Fire, and for some reason lots and lots of sulphur. Some people say that there are several rings or levels, and that you get assigned a spot based on your sins, sort of like getting bad seats for your season tickets for the Orioles. I can’t help but wonder - Is this literal Hell the probable end for the people created by an allegedly loving God?
Now there are some outfits that do not subscribe to the “loving God” concept and thereby at least aren’t hypocritical in their dispatch of the ungodly to that literal Hell. For instance, there is the infamous Westboro Baptist Church of Kansas, that’s the outfit which does anti-gay protests at military funerals (without ever explaining the connection between their “cause” and the departed or the mourners). Their website (godhatesfags.com) does not pretend that God loves anyone. It’s at least refreshing that this group has no qualms about boldly flying the Jolly Roger. They’re just one of a parade of folks whose God is a pretty touchy individual.
We misuse religion and God even in small ways. In the movie "Patton," there is a scene where General Patton orders a chaplain to write a "weather prayer," so that the snow will subside and the army can go "from victory to victory to establish thy justice." At the beginning of football games, the teams often pray for success on the field. Obviously, one of their prayers won't be answered affirmatively. I prefer the prayers offered up at the beginning of NASCAR races, where the pastor commonly thanks God for the day (a pretty safe thing to be thankful for) and the people (ditto), and then prays for safety for all there. Even so, too often those prayers are not "successful" with respect to the drivers and crews. And they are almost NEVER totally successful for the fans attending the race. Let's face it, if you have a group of 200,000 people attending an exciting event, someone is going to die suddenly. Well, for that matter, ALL of us are going to die suddenly. Oh, we may know in advance the most probable cause and sequence of our death, but the instant where corporeal life ends and death begins is abrupt. One minute you’re there, then you’re . . . somewhere. Life is change. The secret of life, if there is one, is to make that critical exit on cue every time.
Where does my religious faith come from? Frankly, I'm not sure. I remember going to Bible school in the summers at a church in the little town of Buckhannon. We would draw pictures for our Moms, and play Red Rover, and sing "Jesus loves me, this I know, ‘cause the Bible tells me so." Did my faith start there? But I also have a clear memory of my mother reading me the story of Pegasus, a mythological creature, to help me go to sleep on Christmas Eve when I was 8. Did I know then that Pegasus was a myth? Did I think that Jesus was real? Which is more real, a Bible story or song, or a mother's love? Parent, God, I’m confused -“I’ll never ever know where God and Daddy went, ‘cause there was nothin’ those two couldn’t do . . .” I have been present at (not enough) births. I have been present at (too many) deaths. Of course, being a denizen of this place, I have read some about a lot of subjects. I’m a Jack of all Books, but a Master of None. How do I, Roger, KNOW that God is there, that the Universe is not some cosmic "thing" that just happens to exist? I only know of one way. It's not reading the Bible or listening to a sermon or reading accounts of evolution. (Evolution is not a theory, it is a fact, by the way. Ignorance is a fact, too.) It doesn’t offend me that in His creation, God uses DNA. His speed of light is 300,000 kilometers per second, and you don’t have to keep timing it with your stopwatch, and that’s fine with me. He doesn’t need to stop the Sun, blow down the walls of Jericho with horns, burn bushes in front of me, or bother Himself with pillars of salt. I know that God is there because when I open my mind, open my heart (and I know that I've criticized that phrase elsewhere), and I can FEEL and PERCEIVE GOD. When I am at the farm, and see a pileated woodpecker on the wing, GOD IS THERE WITH ME. When I look at my mountains, God is there. When I read a poem or (more rarely) write a poem, God is there with me. Oh, that's one reason that I think that the Boy Scouts' policy of not accepting atheists is moronic. Positively some of the most spiritual experiences I have ever had came in Boy Scout activities out in GOD'S COUNTRY. He’s there, I know it, and I’m not fooling.
Events in my life have shown me God’s presence. The friends I have, the women I have loved, my son - they come from God. There was an event in my life which has always represented the workings of God to me. On 18 December 1976, I was at a rescue company station for a "GI party," that is, painting and scrubbing the walls. An extraordinary series of nine events HAD to occur IN ORDER to place me and two of my lifetime friends at a specific location within 5 minutes of a specific event, and being there at any earlier or later time would have resulted in the death of a 20 year old mother and 6 month old child. What we did was not terribly remarkable - we simply applied our training. But to get us there on cue was an honest miracle. I’ve talked about babies. Heck with multiplying loaves, show me a baby, and you have proved a pure-dee miracle.
I have loved and oh my God, I have had pain. Why did you let me have pain, God? You’re not the Westboro Baptist guy, at least I hope you’re not. If you are, I’m in deep shit, that’s for sure. But at least I’ll have company in the Lake of Fire, and all of that nasty stuff.
So let me tell you exactly what I think of God. I don’t really know if He's a "he," a "she," both, neither, and that's not terribly important. I doubt that He is an old man with a beard, dressed in a toga, reaching out to touch His human creation with the Spark of Life, but I could be wrong. I know that he is there, and I believe that some of what are probably his minor works are the incomparably complex system of physics and chemistry and biochemistry and mathematics that makes this Earth operate as it does. I go to him when I am troubled, and often feel guilty that I don't acknowledge him as often when I'm sailing along happily. It is convenient and comfortable to ignore God passively, for to contemplate God is to contemplate Death (and I’m sure as that literal Hell going to capitalize that), and what if I'm wrong and there is no God and Death is final, and how long is forever, and what will become of my body or even will there be name or remembrance or memory of me when the sun burns out and will there be another cycle of creation, and how did this Universe come to be and has it been here already for an infinite time and how long is infinity, and my God I am scared and I am so small. God, are you there? Are you there in the pleasures of the flesh that you have given me, but some say are sinful? I love nuzzling in a woman’s breasts – but will I go to Hell? Or is God in my friends and in my ability to have friends and to communicate and love and dance and once again, the Universe is so big and so forever, and my God I am so small and insignificant. Or is the Real Immutable Truth in "Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are," although I can only see about 10,000 stars in the sky. And God you are so great and I am so small.
In the end, in the quiet hours when we are exhausted from our feeble attempts to embrace God and Infinity and have a drink with ol’ Thanatos, all we can do is rise up, brush the dirt off our blue jeans, and walk on and hope that we are going to be OK. God, I hope I’m going to be OK. Give me a sign. Give me a hint. I’m really scared.
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