Jonathots Daily Blog
(3738)
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(3737)
by Jonathan Richard Cring
Hustling along the common square
Delirious with hope, yet barely aware
Something living, growing inside
Closing her mind, let it abide
Living in the moment seems safe and sane
Worrying of ‘morrows, what will she obtain?
Did she like her? Did they agree?
For all to see, how can it be
That happiness can end this careless tale
Fools are found to always fail
Just give her a chance to make a scheme
Perhaps a door to allow for her dream
To be what she wanted–no common fool
Find her place in the school
Two, three, four o’clock
One more time around the block
Raincoat sniffs of old worn tires
Almost forgot, then the memory fires
Walking in the open door
There’s the boy–nothing more
No place to go and find retreat
Time and truth finally meet
So girl became a mother
And mother birthed brother
Jarring moment in reality
Mercifully immersed in vitality
Though the freshman lost her place
The lady found her space
Our guest reader is Elizabeth, who lives in Florida with her husband and family
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(3736)
A. “Crowns make my face look fat”
B. “How does one get promoted from here?”
C. “I have castle but I’m not allowed to behead serfs.”
D. “I have a large boat and a rock group named after me. Eat that.”
E. “Met Donald something or other…”
Jonathots Daily Blog
(3735)
There are matters that are too important to ignore or leave to chance. These are salient moments.
“I’m just human.”
This statement has been used to excuse murderous behavior. It also has been the opening refrain of a testimony offered in appreciation of God’s grace.
But if being human is a weakness, then what are eight billion people supposed to do with their lives? Are they to walk the Earth as emotional zombies, never able to connect with a good idea two days in a row?
Or must they give in to the dark human trinity?
Is this really what God intended? Did He create an inferior race as worship slaves to His glory? Or, as the story goes, did He breathe into them the breath of life, give them His image and declare them living souls?
It’s time for us to decide:
Are we created in God’s image, tempted by evil?
Or are we born in sin, struggling to do even a little good?
I don’t think I’m alone in needing a reason to get up in the morning other than, “I’m going to go to heaven when I die.”
So let us turn to Jesus to see what he said about this situation. He summed it up in the Sermon on the Mount when he said, “Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father in Heaven is perfect.”
What did he mean by perfect?
He’s talking about a perfect human life. And a perfect human life is defined thusly:
“I will continue to try to do better until it’s unnecessary anymore for me to try.”
Even though we may be captivated by sin, we still have free will. How many victories can we chalk up before we fail? How much fun can we have learning how to improve?
The power we possess is in choosing. The gift we’ve been given is the breath of life. And we have a personal kinship with God.
So here is your salient moment:
Start acting more like your Father or be prepared to be a monkey’s uncle.
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(3734)
Matthew leaned up from his prone position on the bed and kissed the very naked back of Leonora, the oboist.
“Don’t do that,” she complained. “Now my back is all wet from your gooey lips and I feel cold.”
“You’re welcome,” said Matthew with a lovey-dovey hum.
The two of them lay in the bed, very still, for a solid minute, maybe two. Matthew interrupted the silence.
“You had a great idea,” he said.
“Which one?” Leonora asked.
“You know. When you decided to divide our evening into two parts–dinner, then the movie–and you declared it two different dates, and so when we ended up coming to my place to have sex, it was like we were finishing up the second date…”
“Actually the third,” corrected Leonora. “You forgot about the time we spent with the quintet in the Gallery.”
“So we waited until the third date, then, to have sex. Very proper,” Matthew noted approvingly.
“I thought so,” purred Leonora.
“You know what I like?” asked Matthew.
Leonora suddenly sat straight up in the bed and turned to Matthew. “You’re one of those. One of those goddamn guys who can’t keep his mouth shut and go to sleep. You’re part girl. That’s it, you know. You’ve got to have conversation, commentary, closeness and cuddle-wuddles to make you feel like what we did had really deep meaning, instead of being like two baboons cracking a nut.”
Matthew eased up to sit on his butt. “Wow. There’s an image I don’t need. So are you gonna think I’m weird if I tell you that this was great, and it felt great and you were great?”
Leonora sighed. “No, I think I pretty well knew that when you finished your orgasm by singing ‘American Pie.'”
“I always liked that song,” said Matthew. “Very underrated.”
“And so are you, my dear,” she said, patting him on the head. She pulled back the sheet and walked across the room totally naked, attempting to gather her belongings.
“Are you leaving?” asked Matthew.
Leonora turned to speak to him as she squeezed into her panties. “Yes. I have a life. My horn calls me. I have friends. Somewhere in my house I have a pet cat, even though he rarely makes an appearance. I just assume he’s still there because the food disappears and the house smells like shit.”
As she finished speaking, the doorbell rang. Matthew looked over at Leonora and mouthed, “I don’t know…”
He leaped to his feet and said, “Hold on a second. Let’s both put on those thick white terry cloth robes, and go to the door and answer it, pretending we are Mr. and Mrs. Normal Tourist from Des Moines, Iowa.”
“Make it Rapid City, South Dakota and you’ve got a deal,” said Leonora.
They donned the robes and headed to the door. Opening it, they found Soos standing there with a gentleman who greatly resembled Jubal Carlos, but with a much different haircut.
Matthew, displaying great shock, asked, “Don’t you think you should call me first before you just show up?”
Soos pushed past him, gave Leonora an uncomfortable hug and stepped into the living room. “We tried to call. You don’t answer, you’re never home, your mailbox is full. It’s almost like you’re dead, but nobody’s found out yet.”
The Jubal lookalike held out his hand. “I’m Jasper–Jubal’s brother. Nice to meet you.” He, too. walked right past the visitors from the Dakotas and stepped into the living room.
Jasper and Soos found nice seats on the couch as Matthew pointed to Soos and said to Leonora, “This is my friend from college. We call her Soos… Ahhh…You’ve already been introduced to Jasper…”
He turned to Soos and Jasper. “This is my…What should I say? My protegé in love.”
“What the hell?” Leonora gave a quick wave to Soos and Jasper.
Matthew, stung by his own awkward description, stumbled into the room. “What is it you want, Soos?”
Soos looked around the room, her eyes falling on nine or ten bottles of Jack Daniels, sitting in a corner, abandoned.
“Well,” she said, “I thought that since you’re the executive producer of this organization, you might like to have an update.”
Matthew sat down in a big, plump chair. “Well, actually, I get updates on the news broadcasts.”
“Well, that’s not very personal,” said Jasper.
“Exactly,” said Matthew. “That’s what I’m trying to avoid. Getting personal.”
“Who are these people?” Leonora asked Matthew, obviously perturbed.
Soos stepped in to offer an explanation. “We are his comrades, business cohorts and missionaries, if you will, on this project to make Jesus popular again. You may have heard of it…”
Leonora rolled her eyes like eyes had never been rolled before. “Yes, I’ve heard of it.”
Turning to Matthew, she asked, “Are you part of this?”
Matthew pointed at Leonora and said, “Great question. I got the thing started. Jubal Carlos, who’s his brother…” He pointed to Jasper. “Picked up the ball, and now it seems that Little Boy Blue is blowing the horn of insanity.”
“No shit,” said Leonora.
“Ooh, a non-believer,” Soos squealed with some giddy glee. “I love non-believers.”
“I am not a non-believer,” snapped Leonora. “I just don’t call it God. When I was asked in college about my faith, I told them I was a Panist.”
Jasper wrinkled his brow. “Panist?”
Leonora stepped across the room and found her own seat in a straight-back chair. “Yes. Greek. Pan–all. Ist–me. I believe in everything, everyone and every creature. I make no distinction between the busy ant and your Jewish God.”
“Wow,” said Soos. And nothing more.
Matthew sat back admiringly. For the first time in many years, he realized he had made love to a woman who actually had a brain.
Soos, unperturbed, launched.
She explained that Michael Hinston had become an inspiration in Soulsbury to all around him–a leader and compassionate man, seeking to help others.
On and on she spoke. Of miracles. Moments. She mentioned the wonderful series done by Jennifer Carmen in North Carolina, featuring Jubal’s life and story. She nearly cried when explaining that the United Nations had put out a proclamation stating that this was to become the “Decade of Kindness.”
When Soos finally slowed up, Jasper jumped in. “Word has it you’re not that enthusiastic about the things we’re doing, Matthew. Is that right?”
Matthew just sat and stared at Jasper. He didn’t want to hurt the feelings of a man he had just met, but he also didn’t want to lie and pretend–especially in front of his exciting new lover.
“It’s just my experience,” said Matthew, “that the more you believe in God, the weaker you become. I’m tired of being weak.”
Jasper stood to his feet, strolled across the room, turned on his heel and began.
“Did you ever hear the story, “Horace the horse? Yes, Horace the horse lived in a barn. Unlike the other horses, he determined he never to be trained, saddled and used to herd cows and ride across the plains. So every time the saddle was brought in his direction, he spit, snorted and kicked, scaring away all those who tried to tame him. The ranchers who owned the horses decided to refuse Horace any food. So when the other horses went out to work for the day, and Horace had a lot of time on his hooves, Horace decided he would trick them by trying out the pig feed and the chicken portions. At first he felt very smart, but he got weaker, sicker and pretty soon, he could barely stand on his four legs.”
“One day a young girl–the daughter of the owner of the ranch–brought him an apple and a bag of oats. It tasted so good. The next morning Horace the horse decided he’d join his brethren. So when they placed the saddle on his back, he didn’t look on it as a burden, but instead, an opportunity to carry someone else’s burden.”
Jasper stopped his story like a preacher does when he finishes and it’s almost time for the Doxology.
“What the hell…?” asked Matthew. “Horace the horse??”
Leonora interrupted. “Oh, you didn’t understand, Matthew? Our friend Jasper, here, thinks that all God’s creatures should be saddled. Saddled with guilt. Saddled with fear. Saddled with rules. And saddled with worry.”
She paused. “And if we’re not saddled, well, they’re going to tell us right now–there’s no way we can be happy.”
Jasper tried to interrupt but Leonora held up a hand. “No,” she said. “You shut the fuck up. You come waltzing in here, and you’ve decided that you’ve got so much God you just have to spill it on everybody else. Well, here you go, big fella. Some of God’s horses don’t want saddles. They want to run free. They want to see a mountain in the distance, and believe it’s thirty miles away, start running toward it and discover it’s a hundred. But they still keep running. Here’s your problem. That little Dixie accent you throw in so you’ll be like part of the people? You think it makes you sound real. Simple. You know what I hear when you talk like that? I hear little girls screaming, running from the church that was just firebombed by the Ku Klux Klan. So if your goal today was to impress me with how wonderful your Lordy Lord is, well, you just made me hate the son-of-a-bitch even more.”
The room fell still.
Soos quietly stood to her feet and said, “You’re absolutely right. We’ve been rude.”
Jasper nodded his head, and walked toward the door. “I was wrong. I must have gotten in my preacher mode.”
The two left without saying another word, finding their own exit. After the door shut behind them, Matthew sat in his chair and Leonora walked over to stare out the window at the Las Vegas playground below.
They had learned a lot about each other in a very short period of time.
The question was, could they live with it?
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(3733)
In Luke the 7th Chapter, a Pharisee named Simon invited Jesus to dinner.
Why?
As the story rolls out, it becomes obvious that it wasn’t a “special” invitation. Jesus arrived to a very generic, all-male environment, believing that he was a special guest, but was ushered in to be seated as if he’s one of hundreds at a Golden Corral Buffet.
You see, Simon wanted to be “the guy.” He wanted to be that fellow who was open-minded enough to extend an invitation to Jesus. But at the same time, he was sure to portray that he was not getting on board with the Carpenter’s crowd.
Nasty politics. Insincere feelings.
So Jesus plopped down to have dinner, thoroughly ignored.
Except for one woman. She was a whore. Luke makes it clear that she was not an out of work prostitute, nor one who had decided to forsake her profession.
Matter of fact, we are led to believe that she had just come from the job site to see Jesus. She probably still had the smell of a man on her. She certainly had the look of evil to those religious men who had presumably gathered to consider the turn of some phrase uttered by a prophet a thousand years ago.
She brought a gift–ointment. She brought her tears, and she used her hair to dry those tears as they drizzled on his feet.
It was a sensual experience.
It was so intimate that the Pharisees, especially Simon, became infuriated that Jesus did not stop the awkwardness of the moment.
They whispered. “If he were truly a prophet, he would know what kind of woman she is…”
When Jesus realized they were critiquing the woman’s gentleness and mocking her right to be considered, he spoke up.
First, he asks Simon’s permission to speak to him. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t offer counsel where it is not wanted. He asks for the grace to share.
And then he explains the three essentials to reaching people–whether it’s for God or for business.
He tells Simon, “When I came here you offered me no water, you gave me no kiss and you provided no oil. Yet this woman has given me the water of her tears, has kissed my feet with her warmth and anointed me with oil she brought in her alabaster box.”
Water. Kiss. Oil.
All humans need all three of these.
We need water to be cleansed. We need water to drink. We need water to be refreshed, instead of having things withheld, leaving us thirsty.
Simon thought they were going to have a great conversation over dinner about their disagreements. Jesus said, “You don’t get it, dude. It’s about water. It’s about offering a kiss.”
Intimacy.
I, for one, am sick and tired of ministry that has no connection. It takes more than three or four scriptures being read aloud for us to feel caressed.
The human race has not failed. Rather, the messengers of God have settled for meetings in dark rooms to discuss minutia.
The woman gave Jesus a kiss and he said it was good.
There is no ministry without intimacy. If you don’t plan on looking deeply into someone’s eyes, drying their tears and hugging them, then quit. Save yourself the aggravation of performing religious duties that have become meaningless.
And finally, it was the oil–the oil of gladness, the oil of healing.
It touched Jesus.
How magnificent is it to know that you are a woman who has just risen from the bed of being with a lover, and worked up the gumption to come to Jesus’ feet humbly, admitting your confusion, and know that you moved him?
Ministry is not about theology.
Ministry is not about church.
Ministry is not about praise and worship.
It’s about bringing the water for cleansing, the kiss for intimacy and the oil for healing.
Jesus did not come to Earth to explain Heaven.
Jesus came to Earth so we once and for all could make sense of Earth.
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A voice writing in the wilderness
G-Poppers … July 20th, 2018
G-Pop was nine years old when Bobby moved into the village and started attending the little elementary school.
At first the parents thought he might be a Negro, since he had skin a couple of shades darker, and curly hair. But on careful inspection and tracking down some details, it was confirmed that he was Italian. This allowed him to be suitable for playtime and interaction.
But Bobby was different.
He wasn’t like all the scared children from our burg who were frightened to death to displease the grownups who held the key to play-time and candy. Bobby didn’t care.
When the teacher came into the room, the rest of the students fell silent–like attending a funeral. But Bobby just kept chattering, glancing up at the teacher and smiling back at all the other terrified third-graders.
He was the same way during recess. He played hard, rough and mean. But at the same time, he was sweet-talking to the girls, so they liked him. In no time at all, he developed a reputation among the teachers, staff and some of the parents of being a brat.
Yes. Bobby the Brat.
What concerned them most of all was that there seemed to be a breakdown of discipline across the board–because other students began to feel the liberty to be curt, selfish and overly aggressive.
There was so much pressure on Bobby that when the time to begin fourth grade rolled around, he was gone. His parents left town.
Bobby the Brat had departed, so things went back to being orderly. Even though we all denounce the blandness of being orderly, disorderly comes with a nastiness which spews out poison which has been deposited in our “mad hole.”
Yes. All God’s children got a mad hole.
It’s a space deep inside where we stuff all of our frustration, misgiving and prejudice, thinking it’s a garbage can–but really, it’s just a container where our bigotries decay.
And then one day, we reach a point of rage when this poison is vomited out of our mouths.
It’s a mad hole.
It’s never cleaned out–ignored.
People try to freshen it–try to put a lid on it, so to speak, but as long as it exists, it will eventually erupt.
G-Pop wants his children to know that the truth is, you can’t get provoked unless you’re already pissed.
Nobody pissed you off. They just provoked you until you finally spilled all the putrid contents of your mad hole.
Often all it takes is for Bobby the Brat to come along and tease us with the notion that we aren’t crazy and we should speak out our stupidities loud and clear, for everyone to hear.
So we do.
Civility dies, kindness is mocked, being nice is deemed weak and the only distinction we have seems to be in the horror of our mad hole.
Mad hole
In my soul
Take it in
Make it sin
First the hate
Of your fate
Rots your brain
With things insane
It’s begun
Load your gun
Me against you
Us against them
Don’t wonder if it’s true
Repeat it again
Mad hole
Leaves a space
For me to despise
The human race
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on July 20, 2018 at 2:48 pm Leave a CommentTags: aggressive, brat, discipline, G-Poppers, garbage can, gun, hate, human race, insane, Italian, mad hole, Negro, orderly, pissed off, poison, putrid, recess, sin, soul, teachers, third graders, vomit