SENSITIZE 22
Every morning, Mr. Cring takes a personal moment with his audience.
Today: Everything “Hitler” or “Nazi” is illegal in Germany. America needs to make racism illegal. Cring discusses how.
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The B. S. M. G. Report
Jonathots Daily Blog
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The meek will inherit
Because they’re willing to share it
BAD
We are in the midst of severely ignoring the currency of the Christmas season.
We have begun to believe that December can be filled with our foolishness and chicanery, when during that thirty days, the Earth always takes a collective gasp for air, so that we can survive the rest of our yearly journey.
But now, we have instead decided to go politically crazy, emotionally distraught and spiritually bankrupt.
How about a simple example?
A seventeen-year-old boy decides to take the family car to a party and does some illegal drinking. Coming out, he gets behind the wheel and drives the car home, where he finds his mother and father waiting for him at the door, unable to deny his intoxication.
But let’s say that same young man went to the party, got just as drunk and drove home, but on the way to his house, crashed his car into a tree. A half-hour later, his parents arrive at the police station to retrieve him.
Just for the sake of discussion, back to that same young man, same party, same drunkenness—but this time, on the drive home he hits a young boy on a bicycle and kills him.
I present these three scenarios to you because we need to discuss some differences among the words errant, mistake and crime.
To the legalist or someone who is toeing the letter of the law, I suppose the boy who arrives home in his car intoxicated is committing a crime. But dare I say, there probably is not a mother or father in America who would view it that way.
They would recognize the behavior as “errant.” It would need to be corrected in-house.
Yet these same parents would probably not consider crashing into a tree to merely be errant. They wouldn’t call it a crime—they would say it was a mistake. Once again, punishment would be in order.
But the parents would have no say whatsoever in the matter if their son killed somebody while drunk. That would be considered by one and all to be a crime.
We have made a severe mistake by impeaching President Donald Trump.
Whether you consider what he did with Ukraine to be errant behavior, a mistake or a crime, the populace will need to sustain that opinion.
Yet what is missing is acknowledgment.
No one has admitted errant behavior or a mistake, so it begins to feel like a crime.
Here’s the question:
Did Donald Trump do something errant, make a mistake, or was it a crime?
We will probably never know—because he refuses to admit his part in the problem.
SAD
It makes me downright sad.
If you put Republicans and Democrats together, you kind of have a great world.
Republicans are all about “hometown.”
- Their lovely burgs.
- Their families.
- Their dogs.
- God’s country.
Democrats, on the other hand, are about the Earth.
- Climate change.
- Global poverty.
- Gender equality across the planet.
Doggone it, I like them all.
I’d like to take the better parts of my hometown and spread them across the globe.
I want to treat the Earth well. So why don’t I come back to my hometown and get started?
It’s sad that we have two great forces that fight against one another instead of turning the Earth into a marvelous hometown.
MAD
But it is maddening that none of this can happen because the ability to confess our faults has diminished until it seems to have finally disappeared.
One of my favorite phrases from the Good Book is, “Confess your faults to one another so you can be healed.”
I don’t want to live in a world that is constantly misshapen, out of step, angry and frustrated simply because we think it’s weak to admit our missteps.
What a great time to come along and stand in front of your friends and proclaim your foibles without fear.
GLAD
Because you know what makes me glad?
Not even an impeachment, violence, partisan politics and hours of boring hearings on television can dim the power and spirit of Christmas.
It is in our DNA to try to give a damn in the month of December.
It’s a glorious time. And it doesn’t go away unless we chase it away.
It is bad that we cannot decide what has happened with our President.
It makes me sad that our Republicans and Democrats don’t know how perfect they would be together.
And I’m mad that we don’t confess our faults to be healed.
But I’m glad it’s December:
We’re birthing great ideas to create a “stable world.”
3 Things … April 25th, 2019
Jonathots Daily Blog
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That Are Never Illegal
1. Smiling in a grumpy world
2. Telling the truth
3. Giving without strings attached
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Iz and Pal (Bedouin Buddies)
Jonathots Daily Blog
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Sitting Three
It was nearly sunset before Jubal and Amir’s fathers became concerned that there was anything extraordinary about the absence of their sons. It was not unusual for the boys to be busy at chores and play, but night is the time to be home. Except now, minus two young men. Some inquiring was done, but frantic energy came with the morning.
Meanwhile, two friends sat at the crest of a hill in the sand, talking, fiddling, playing and laughing.
“I don’t like my name,” said Jubal.
“I like yours better than mine,” Amir inserted.
“Jubal is just so old and religious.”
“Amir sucks.”
Jubal objected. “I like Amir better than Jubal.”
“That’s because it’s not your name,” Amir said, lightly punching him in the arm.
“We need new names,” decided Jubal.
Amir nodded his head. “We’re starting new lives—might as well have new names.”
Jubal giggled. “Maybe I could be Frank and you could be Bob.”
Amir clapped his hands. “Where did you get Frank and Bob?” he asked.
Jubal peered around as if wondering if someone were listening in. “My uncle has cable television,” he explained. “It’s illegal. And sometimes I watch the American shows.”
Amir sat straight up. “What are they like? I mean, our television is so…you know. Boring. Everything in Farsi.”
Jubal leaned forward, whispering. “I have seen women without coverings.”
Amir’s eyes widened. “You mean…?”
Jubal interrupted. “Yes. I mean their tops.”
Amir was impressed to the point of speechless. On and on they talked—about American television, dreams, women, parents and even hot sand.
“I have a new name for you,” Jubal said with a flair of inspiration.
“Oh. What is it?” inquired Amir.
“I think I will call you Pal.”
“Pal?” asked Amir with a squint.
“Yes, it’s short for Palestinian,” said Jubal.
Amir leaped to his feet, and with one arm extended in the air, proclaimed, “Then I shall call you Iz.”
Jubal jumped to his feet, too, asking, “What’s Iz?”
Amir danced around in a little circle and replied, “It is very short—for Israeli.”
This exchange welcomed great laughter. They giggled and danced and wiggled, which deteriorated into a fake boxing match.
Finally, Amir took a breath and spoke. “So is our new little country called Paliz? Or Izpal?”
Jubal firmly shook his head. “Let’s not get started with that. That’s how our people ended up killing each other.”
Now, the word “killing” doesn’t normally invoke laughter, but on a hot day, silly friends will find almost anything hilarious. They giggled, stopped and started again because stopping seemed so ridiculous. At length, Jubal ceased laughing and said, “I have something to show you.”
“All right.” Amir was a bit bewildered by the solemn transition. Jubal walked over to the small tent they had pitched and returned, gingerly cupping an object in his hands.
“What is it?” asked Amir.
Jubal paused. “It’s a hand grenade.”
Amir scooted away. “What do you have that for?”
Jubal rebuked him. “Don’t be foolish. Do you really think they won’t find us here? Do you think they’ll let us stay? Do you think they’re going to pat us on the back and say, ‘Great job, boys.’ They’re all crazy with hate, so they want us to be crazy, too. So I needed something to convince them we are serious—and we’ll never return to being just Arab and Jewish little boys again”
Amir was impressed. “Where did you get it?” he challenged.
“A patrol of Israeli troops came into our town, and it fell out of one of their bags,” Jubal explained. “Before I could think, I grabbed it and took it back to the soldier. He thanked me and gave me some chocolate. Then I thought about us—if we were going to be together—how we needed something. So I cautiously followed the troops, until they rested next to a well. When the young soldier went over to draw some water to drink, I stole the grenade from his pack.”
Amir was frightened. “What are you going to do with it?”
“I don’t know,” said Jubal, with a tear in his voice. “I didn’t think that through. I just don’t want to go back to any place where you cannot be my friend.”
Iz and Pal shook hands, very careful to set the grenade to the side. It was nearly midday.
They would soon be discovered.
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Dudley … June 8th, 2017
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DUDLEY
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Confessing… May 30th, 2015
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I confess so I can heal.
If I deny, I remain sick.
It was the rage.
Many years ago in a galaxy not far away–matter of fact, right here–folks started trying to do presumptuous things in an attempt to prove they had great faith.
I was just a young man, and susceptible to suggestion, since I already had a bit of the seed of naughtiness sown in my heart.
So when I heard these people of faith proclaiming different ways to achieve success by believing that God “was going to take care of everything,” I leaped in with both feet–my wallet open.
I was particularly drawn to the story of one man who said he wrote a check on Friday from his back account where he had no funds, believing that by Monday, when the check would normally come in and bounce merrily, God would provide the money.
Of course, in his story there was a super-fabulous intervention of finance, which protected him from a bank error “not in his favor.”
So I decided to try it. Coming up short on my rent and groceries, I wrote a check for cash on Friday at the local IGA, bought my groceries and pleased my landlord, and then sat back, waiting for intervention from my “Investor which art in heaven.”
It never came.
So fearing I was going to have a check arrive in my bank with non-sufficient funds, I went out and wrote another check for cash to deposit in my account, to buy me two or three days, and to avoid embarrassment.
Needless to say, that check was not covered either, so I launched on a calamity of financial danger, which eventually led me to open up another bank account so that I could more easily cover my checks, which were now flying wildly through the air.
Of course, each time I wrote a check, I had a little bit more need, so the amount grew and grew.
Actually, I was rather self-satisfied with the solution I had arrived at to handle my personal indebtedness. But when I privately shared it with a friend, he explained that what I was doing was illegal. He told me it was called “kiting.”
I was frightened by the word “illegal,” but that didn’t stop me for another two or three weeks.
Finally, breathlessly, my conscience caught up with my ego, and I realized I needed to stop this craziness.
So I ceased, which immediately caused seven checks to bounce–all of them at the doorstep of my local, kind IGA manager.
The total was $3,453.
He was not nearly as angry as he was terrified about what he was going to do with this deficit. It was completely within his rights to call the police and have me arrested.
He didn’t.
I told him I would pay it off. It took six months of concentration, hard work and the kindness of friends to get me out of the pickle caused by my false faith.
Now that 40 years have passed, I wonder if any of that presumption is still left in my soul. Am I still looking for God to take care of all my problems, instead of allowing Him to provide the wisdom and strength to help me through them?
I hope I learned from that lesson.
I hope I realize that the best way to prove my faith is not by exaggerating my need, but by simplifying my life, becoming more generous and using the talents God has given me… to acquire a wage.
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***************************
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WITHIN
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Iffing Way (Part 7) Nic at Night … December 1, 2014
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What if a voice of sanity had risen up at various stages in the story of human history, to offer a challenging view when craziness was about to win the day?
If …
He was summoned, forcibly invited.
He felt like a schoolboy under the control of the master, with no will of his own. But he knew what it was about.
The head chair on a committee where he sat had a vendetta. Now, the distinguished leader would choose to call it something else. Perhaps “a needful intrusion.” “A holy mission.” Or even, “a matter of course.”
He knew better.
He wasn’t sure if it was jealousy on the part of the chair person, ignorance, or even something as simple as an ongoing tiff with his wife which had left him grumpy.
It wasn’t the first time there had been a summons. No, many times the subject had been discussed and debated, but finally tabled, with everyone leaving in a huff, unfulfilled.
But this time was different. Apparently the boss now felt he had the votes to pull off his will.
It was all so bizarre.
In the midst of a decline of popularity of the national faith, a young man from Nazareth had arrived on the scene and re-energized the populace. Now, an intelligent conclave of distinguished fellows might have seen this as an opportunity to bring in fresh blood and move people to spiritual awareness. But this particular gathering of theologians and pseudo-politicians lacked vision.
He was preplexed. What was even more confusing to him was that he had made a journey by night to visit this young man who was stirring up the religious system. He clearly remembered two words from their discourse:
“Born again.”
The carpenter-turned-preacher had told him that he needed to be “reborn” to be in step with what was going on. He was offended. So because he considered himself to be a dynamic debater, he tried to make the young Galilean feel stupid or awkward by challenging the meaning of the term. Facts are, he knew what this young Jesus meant by “born again.”
Everything around him reeked of old–ancient ideas and meaningless practices.
Yet that night, he’d found himself walking away–trying to include the message of the Nazarene instead of being born again into it.
But this was different.
He knew that Caiaphas was in charge of the board, and was seeking to levy punishment against this innocent unaware.
What was he going to do?
He prided himself on the fact that he was smarter than Caiaphas because the officious leader was so headstrong that he frequently left himself wide open for counter-point.
Yet he had grown weary of argument and become known as a sympathizer, which was now rendering him ineffective among his peers. After all, it was not only improper, but illegal to be a follower of Jesus.
Arriving at the meeting, it quickly became obvious that Caiaphas had a death warrant for Jesus.
What was he going to do? Should he remain silent, and still curry the favor of his fellows? Or was it time to be born again and use the wisdom and style that he had developed over years of practice, to help save the life of the freshest idea to come around in decades?
It was nighttime again. But this time he would not walk away and pretend he didn’t understand.
He made a case against Caiaphas–quietly, reverently, but also with a conniving purpose. In no time at all, the stubborn Pharisee was speaking double-talk and the committee dismissed itself to go back to their homes, unresolved.
Jesus was saved for another night.
Jesus would be able to continue to teach.
And Nicodemus would be able to hold his head high and just maybe start the process in his life…of being born again.
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*****
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