1 Thing That Opens the Door to Understanding

Suffering

I have not heard of any individual who has contracted the Covid-19 disease and gone through the paces of the horror that this virus inflicts, who is complaining about masks, quarantine and social distancing.

This is because the journey these souls were thrust upon produced enough suffering that a more complete understanding came into their lives than they might have achieved by watching Fox or CNN News.

For I will tell you—try as I will, I cannot conjure the sensation in my spirit that a person with darker skin experiences when delayed, questioned and taunted by a police officer.

Although I have listened for hours, I still don’t have the comprehension that every woman possesses after being subjugated, alienated and mistreated—simply for having a vagina.

There’s a certain amount of suffering that is the prequel to understanding.

“Touched by infirmities.”

A fascinating phrase.

It means that if I don’t sample the pain in this world, I may not be prepared to dole out the healing which is required.

So now, when I have one of those days of discomfort, when a confusion makes me wonder if I’m teetering in a deadly situation, I calm down and simply realize:

It’s my turn.

Yes, it has become necessary for me to catch up with the rest of humanity, which has already gained understanding through … suffering.

 

 

3 Things … June 25th, 2020

That God Remarks to the Angels Every Day About Us

 

1. “They sure like to talk.”

 

2. “Why do they all want to be so different from each other?”

 

3. “Prayers? Hymns? Bible classes? No one gets Me.”

Sensitize … (May 30th, 2020)

SENSITIZE 1

Every morning, Mr. Cring takes a personal moment with his audience.

Click the picture below to see the video

 

Things I Learned from R. B. (May 24th, 2020)

Jonathots Daily Blog

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Episode 16

For nearly five months, I had been squirreling some money away, trying to fund an idea I believed needed to be pursued.

It was time.

Whatever inspiration had once possessed the soul of our family—to travel across the country, working, living and making music together—had gradually dissipated down to a stream of loyalty and an irritating question.

If we weren’t doing this, what in the hell would we do?

My wife mustered the energy to be happy, but certainly had lost the desire to schedule, travel and perform.

My sons were thrilled to be brothers, enjoined with me, but knew deep in their hearts that the “call of the mild” must replace the “call of the wild.”

They needed lives of their own.

This would take money.

I knew it was foolish to announce to the family my campaign. It just might make them fearful that if they ate an extra apricot, they were destroying our future.

So I kept it private.

After five months, I had a small sum I was grateful for—but knew it was nowhere in the ballpark of fulfilling the need.

We were traveling across the panhandle of Florida, heading toward Jacksonville when I said a very simple prayer.

“Dear Lord, I’ve painted myself into a corner. Either help the paint to dry quickly or direct me clearly on how to leap out of my predicament.”

Also, it had become more difficult to acquire schedulings. It takes a lot of passion to convince somebody of what you want to do—and honestly, people were not quite as open to being convinced.

So in late August, in boiling hot Jacksonville, we succeeded in getting one booking for the week–on the Sunday night.

One opportunity to pay our way.

One mission field.

One audience.

I came to a decision before we rolled up to our engagement.

“Whatever we have at the end of tonight I will use to set us up somewhere and give my sons the chance to launch their own lives.”

Yet I was discouraged when I arrived and realized we were at a church that only had fifty people on a Sunday night—a black church, which meant we might have to wade through some resistance.

It’s not that black churches were difficult, but sometimes, because of the nature of the South and memories of segregation, the parishioners wondered why a white family was coming to a black church instead of sharing their talents with white folk.

I put those thoughts out of my mind, making sure they were busy elsewhere. Instead, I took a count of my situation.

I felt I needed three thousand dollars to settle in.

With some amazing blessings from the previous two weeks, I had managed to collect $1434 in cash.

That night, when the pastor introduced me and I stepped in front of an audience of forty-two people, the calculator in my brain boiled over with frustration.

I needed to make about thirty-five dollars a person to get my nest egg.

Now, I am not negative by any stretch of the imagination but am also not a fool. I don’t know whether I could have pulled a gun and gotten thirty-five dollars a person out of the gathering. There were several souls who might have needed me to donate to them.

But no matter.

Whatever happened, I was going to take the whole family to our next destination and do the best we could.

We would no longer be “on the road again.”

Over the years I have experienced some magical nights, yet none to compare with the warmth and tenderness exchanged in that sanctuary.

About halfway through I realized that these strangers had decided to become one with us, and we, likewise, one with them.

We laughed.

We cried.

We sang nearly every song we could play.

At the end the pastor stood and took up the offering.

I was astounded when he handed me $1,433.

Now, I will not tell you that I should ever have taken my family on the road. I also will not lie to you and say that everything I did on that journey was well-thought-out or appropriate.

But the science of our music, the Mother Nature of what apparently was a good season, and the humanity of this congregation launched us to our new beginnings.

The next morning as I drove north, I explained what I envisioned for us to do as a family.

They were relieved.

They didn’t act that way—there were some tears of regret.

But there were also some shouts of “hallelujah” over the new possibility.

To avoid a motel room, we drove all the way into Nashville, Tennessee, and in just three hours, located a new apartment.

We spent that first night sleeping on the floor of our new home.

The next four days were nothing short of miraculous.

My sons got out, secured social security numbers, found jobs and set in motion getting drivers’ licenses.

It all fell in place—mainly because I felt as if I was no longer forcing the direction. Rather, the passions of my children were driving the solution.

I hooked up a phone—landline. Two hours later it rang.

It was R. B., calling from Tacoma.

I don’t know how he knew we were coming to Nashville or how he successfully tracked down our phone number so quickly.

He did a little hemming and he did a little hawing, and somewhere in between, I got the idea that he had hatched his own plan.

He needed his own miracle.

Sensing his frustration and his desperation, I said, “Hey, buddy, why don’t you just move to Nashville? It’s where you started. It’s where we met—and it’s where they make music. How can you lose?”

Two weeks later, driving a car that should not even have been on the road, he arrived, found a small one-room apartment and settled in.

We were in the same community again, with even less in common.

Still, all in all, it was better for both of us than where we found ourselves short weeks before.

Sit Down Comedy … May 1st, 2020

Jonathots Daily Blog

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Sit Down Comedy

Normal people work abnormally hard to appear normal.

Not for me.

It seems exhausting, if not humiliating.

I am peculiar, set apart—engaged in an uncommon consciousness, constantly and purposely dismantling the complexity into its simpler units.

I am peculiar.

How do I know? I respond to the information provided.

I get on the bus in front of me, noting that it’s been a while since any buses have passed by. For to remain normal, you must coincide with the majority.

A vote is always being taken.

It would be best if you voted with the masses, but acceptably good if you change your mind and disappear into the crowd.

I am peculiar.

I don’t think women will gain equality by acting their rendition of being men. Matter of fact, the whole concept of gender equality is foolish since we are all so much the same. It makes me giggle that we continue to try to compare the two, when oneness seems obvious.

The black man will never be able to tell his black sister that they are humans as long as they’re encouraged to rally without seeing improvement, struggle minus achievement and fail to guard their offspring from being cursed as inferior due to crime and sloth.

Religion is the wicked stepmother who refuses to let the children sit and dine with Father. Religion wants Father all to herself, so she can stumble from His presence to establish the rules and regulations which turn seekers into the distraught.

I am peculiar because I don’t think art is a paint by number set, with stipulations being made up by frustrated, discordant human trolls who have lost their lust for life and sit around finding ways to mock and condemn the human race.

I am peculiar because I hate politics.

Politics dresses up in a jim-dandy suit and marches off, teaspoon in hand, to fill the ocean of need while simultaneously carrying a thimble to empty the shit-hole.

Verily, verily, I say unto you, our common sense is not allowed to be common and is spurned for having too much practicality.

I am peculiar.

I’m not better than anyone.

I wear my flaws and virtues in equal glory.

I am not superior.

I am satisfied with my humanity, sporting its knowledge of good and evil.

What I see are beautiful people who smear mud, acid, poison and medications all over themselves in an attempt to emerge beautiful.

Why? Because it’s normally accepted that we possess an ugliness that needs disguised.

I can no longer condone a God who hates humans and wants them to become little gods so He can destroy them for their presumption.

What’s it like to be normal? How does it feel?

Do you ever have a moment’s rest?

Do you grow weary in well-doing?

Do you ever wish to do less, yet become so much more?

Do you want your vote to be honored instead of tallied by crooked counters bound to a party?

Do you wish that heaven was more real because you feel God on the Earth?

Are you sick to death of being normal when it really isn’t your choice, but rather, a fallback position of a generation of frightened dreamers?

How peculiar.

 

The B. S. M. G. Report


Jonathots Daily Blog

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My friend, would you please define

Why you think we are all just fine?

BAD

What happens when good doesn’t make us better? Isn’t that bad?

  • A good economy.
  • A good job market
  • Good Christmas season.
  • Good outlook on the stock exchange.

Why don’t these things we call good make us better?

And what is the purpose of touting good things when they don’t internalize into human beings and transform them into dynamic individuals?

Is it possible that it’s bad when things are good?

Are we better when things are worse?

Is there a part of us that knows we’re not worthy and wants to find our own feet instead of being lifted?

I’m not sure, but I know this:

It seems to me to be bad when good doesn’t make us better.

SAD

Likewise, when joy brings no smile, is it really happiness?

If the “joy of the Lord is strength,” why does the believer frown?

If music truly brings joy, why are drugs necessary to make us high?

If being in love is actually a joyful thing, why do we spend our time lamenting our choice?

It seems to me to be pretty sad when joy brings no smile.

When a Christmas season comes and goes and we’re so engrossed in politics, impeachment, misconceptions and distractions that the carols play at the same decibel as years before—with identical emotion—yet fail to beckon our childlike spirit.

MAD

It makes me mad when the common gains no sense.

Why is it that we are trying to be the first generation to come to different conclusions than our ancestors did? Is it just so we can proclaim our uniqueness?

The Earth has been around for a long time and certainly has its ways.

Nature speaks to us.

Science teaches us.

And our human brothers and sisters join us.

It is common—but it gives no sense.

It is obvious—yet ignored.

A house divided against itself cannot stand.

But wait! Wait. Ours can.

He who hates his brother hates God.

No, no. We have a much different interpretation.

Lying is evil.

Oh, my goodness—you are so behind the times. We have discovered a way to lie and make it charming.

For there to be common sense, there must be sense we acknowledge as common among us all.

GLAD

I wonder if we’re prepared to avoid the pain by letting what is sane produce our gain.

This is the way to be glad.

Gladness is not sprinkled on us like fairy dust.

It isn’t an accidental stumbling into the hilarious.

Gladness is when the pain leaves because the sane produces gain.

Isn’t it bad when good doesn’t make us better?

I find it sad when joy produces no smile.

Are you mad when the common gains no sense?

Or are you like me?

Ready to be glad, relinquishing the pain by allowing what is sane to offer true gain.

1 Thing You Can Do in this Season

Listen to the Angels

Fortunately, we know what they sound like.

We are informed of what they foretold–what they beckoned into being.

It may be a little difficult to accomplish since everything is so noisy. There is a maddening blending of complacency, nastiness and anger that threatens to generate a dreary spirit.

We just have to remember what the angels said:

“Glad Tidings.”

And what are these?

Purposely seeking to find good news.

“Great joy.”

Actually allowing ourselves to be affected by a good thing and expressing happiness over it.

“For everybody.”

It’s time to strike out against class and racial warfare, and dare to focus on one another’s noses, realizing how much we have in common.

“Peace on Earth.”

The best way to achieve this is to cease chasing the latest war, insisting it’s inevitable. Peace is not the absence of conflict—but rather, bypassing it to acquire serenity.

“Goodwill.”

When did it become more interesting to discover something wrong in one another than to untangle the pretzel of human life and retrieve some virtue?

It is time to listen to the angels.

There’s enough that’s devilish in humanity already–without us welcoming an indifferent approach to the Christmas miracle.

 

 

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