| excerpts from RLP. |
[Jan. 18th, 2009|09:58 am] |
But you. You somehow know the truth. You take these phrases with no study at all, and you fill them with your theology, like someone filling helium balloons at a carnival. Then you hang a little basket below your balloons and float away, so delighted in the complex theological construct that you’ve put together. And from your elevated position you lay burdens on people that you could never keep yourself. Lightning bolts thrown down from the sky. Zeus never wielded as much power.
You are going to hell for your lack of faith or for your participation in a religious life or non-religious life that I don’t understand and therefore don’t approve of.
You may not be a sexual person, but must live in strict, celibate loneliness. You will fall in love many times over the years, but you must deny your love and break your own heart over and over and over again, all the days of your life. (And this from a preacher who can’t say no to a second bowl of ice cream.)
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Funny, but I think it's a good thing that Rick Warren is speaking at the inaugaration. I've never liked him, he is a pompous windbag, but he's a hell of a lot better than Jerry Falwell, who was sort of the Dick Cheney of Christianity. The people who listened to Falwell are now listening to Warren. They would never listen to the likes of Tony Campolo or Brian McLaren, in fact they probably hate those guys more than they hate Obama. Warren is taking some baby steps away from the lock step of the religious right, giving lip service, anyways, to racial reconciliation, helping the poor, and the environment. If he's giving lip service, some of his followers will take it seriously. And it's hard to help the poor for very long without having some independent thoughts. Rick Warren is a gateway drug to Brian McLaren, and you would like Brian McLaren. And he might be a gateway drug to Obama, as well. |
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| letter to Focus on the Family. |
[Oct. 30th, 2008|10:09 am] |
4 years ago, I believed we were on the same side, though perhaps tenuously so. I told a friend once that Focus on the Family was the carpetbombing Air Force and we were the Marines getting blown up by their bombs on the front lines. But at least they meant well.
I can't even say that anymore.
Your recent letter regarding Barack Obama's presidency in 2012 bore no resemblance to anything that I have found in my Bible. What happened to the Lion and the Lamb? The Beatitudes? The least of these? The drastic issues raised in your letter are not only unlikely, but also somewhat irrelevant to people of faith. Of all the nations condemned by prophets in the Bible, not one of them was condemned for something that you have predicted will occur by 2012. I don't believe any of these things will occur, but I am more concerned that our nation will be judged for things similar to those mentioned in the book of Amos than for anything mentioned in your letter.
The silver lining in all of this is that news of your letter has brought to my attention other people of faith who believe that hope and truth are better than fear and lies. Revelations 21:8 says that liars go to Hell. Please, for your own salvation, repent of your ways and turn back to Christ.
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PS- if there were suddenly lots and lots of people joining the group below, it might send Focus on the Family a signal that they are very much on the wrong track.
http://www.matthew25.org/action.htm
PPS- if it makes anyone feel better, only about 10% of the comments on the Christianity Today article about this letter are defending it. About 5% are saying it's probably not worth defending but we should still vote for McCain. The other 85% are a mix of outrage at Focus on the Family, resignations from being Evangelical, and even attacking Christianity Today for writing about the fact that FotF wrote the letter. |
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| 1 story in 100,000 |
[Oct. 26th, 2008|06:20 pm] |
I arrived at about 7:30. The pockets of my trenchcoat were filled with books, granola bars, sunglasses, and a can of mountain dew. To my right were a handful of homeless kids, possibly waiting to see what all the excitement was in the park where they normally slept on the benches. They obviously didn't sleep there last night.
I sat on the sidewalk. Ate my breakfast. Read my book. Watched the morning sun glow red off the windows on the buildings across the park. Waited as the crowd slowly swelled. I couldn't think of a more appropriate place to be for such an event. So many of my best memories have occurred within blocks of this place.
At about 8:00, the four guys with signs showed up. I initially was made aware of their presence by the sudden booing of all those around me. I looked up from my reading to see the fetus hanging like a stale fart over the stalwart men on the other side of the street. Fortunately, the homeless kid next to me had already finished his egg mcmuffin. The protesters stood defiant, chests puffed out, wearing sunglasses, trenchcoats, facial hair, and beatup cowboy hats. I wondered what mountain pass they'd wandered down from. I wondered how many hours they really thought they could stand there with their fatiguing arms bearing the weight of those hateful signs. I remembered the story of the rod of Aaron, and wondered if they were considering it, too. And if they took the eventual fatigue in their arms as a sign of sin or weakness in their own lives. Funny, I'd never really thought about protestors that much before. But when they are in front of a line you are waiting in, it's hard not to think about them.
Soon, a young white woman danced out in front of the protestors waving two small signs that said "War on Morons." The crowd cheered vigorously. The protestors looked a bit nervous and seeking inner strength. Fifteen or twenty minutes later, a young black woman danced in front of them displaying an Obama sign to the crowd. Same thing happened. I got an idea.
I thought about heaping burning coals on an enemies head. I thought about a cup of cold water. I thought about the story of a friend who had to make a choice once. I thought of what I would say. The man next to me had gone for a bathroom break. When he came back I asked him to watch my spot. I counted how many granola bars remained. It was about 8:45, and the protestors now cradled their signs in fatigued arms instead of raising them proudly overhead. And the crowd had long since wearied of taking their bait.
On the way to the port-a-potty, I stopped in front of the protestors and asked if they were hungry. They suddenly seemed very uncomfortable and said no. I proceeded to the bathroom, but decided I had to go back to them again when I was done. I asked again if they were hungry. Again, fear and nervousness and no. "We have food," came the defiant reply.
"Well, they won't let us take it inside, so I'll just leave these here in case you change your minds," I said, and placed a granola bar (still in the wrapper) in front of each of the four.
They gazed down at the food as if it were a steaming pile left on their front porch. I turned and walked back to my place in the crowd. Nobody cheered.
It was not eloquent. It was not charismatic. I didn't say anything about them looking tired, or choices of friends, or Bible verses, or what I believed in. I didn't tell them that their signs had made me lose my appetite. Part of me wished that I had gotten all of that through to them, but part of me knew I'd done exactly the right thing.
Because I know what their hate tastes like. I'd never held a sign in protest, but I'd condemned people to Hell for things far more petty and meaningless than what had brought these men here. And it was not logic, a Bible verse, or the fear of God that changed my mind. It was someone being nice to me in spite of everything I accused him of.
At about 9:20 we began filing across the street towards the metal detectors that awaited us on the bounds of the park. I glanced over at the protestors. A man with a coffee cup in hand was talking to them, of what I could not tell. The granola bars still lay on the ground where I had left them. To pick them up meant putting down their signs. To stomp upon them or kick them meant acknowledging that indeed what they felt was hate.
I don't know how many more hours those men stood there once I had gone inside. I do know that the line I was in wrapped around the library, across the width of the park, colfax avenue, and all the way to the 16th Street Mall. And whenever their eyes dropped to the ground from fear, shame, or fatigue, they would see food lying there. Perhaps someday all that hate will wear them out. And they'll decide it's time to eat.
The speech was great, the people I spent hours jammed next to waiting for it to happen were great. The people hanging from trees and lampposts and crowded on the steps of the capitol building three blocks away were great. But today I wanted to tell you about the hungry men standing on the outside. |
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goinked from ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.1) atomic_roses |
[Oct. 25th, 2008|03:17 pm] |
wassup 8 years later.
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| gone. |
[Jul. 25th, 2008|01:03 pm] |
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I'm leaving for Indiana tomorrow, and probably won't be around LJ or other intertubes for about a week. Not sure how much I'll catch up when I get back, so if there's anything terribly important send me a message or something. |
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| poker tonight. |
[Jul. 8th, 2008|11:23 pm] |
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Didn't even make the final table. I wasn't getting cards, which wasn't the problem. The problem was getting put out by the worst player at the table on a hand I should have known enough to get away from (maybe). I bet three times the big blind with JQ-suited, leaving me with about six big blinds left and one caller. I was thinking I'd go all in if he didn't bet regarless of whether I hit the flop. Well, a jack comes out and he makes the minimum bet. If he'd bet larger, I'd have thought about that Ace, but I just came out with the all-in raise over his bet. He didn't even think before calling and I knew he had the ace. As bad as he was playing, I should have realized a minimum bet from him could very well mean an ace. I think the best thing might have been to just call that bet, and see what the turn brought. Normally I wouldn't call with just a pair, but it was such a tiny bet compared to the pot. Anyways, maybe it's lack of sleep or something affecting my game. |
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| I once had faith that could move mountains... |
[Jun. 18th, 2008|01:00 pm] |
...but the moutains never moved. I did.
I've been thinking of this for the past few weeks and have thought of posting about it, but haven't yet for various reasons. Recently, in part due to my more frequent travels to Denver, I've become a bit nostalgic for this former life and have in fact begun to believe that it might still be possible. I find this sort of faith born at the apex of a conglomeration of social networks which on the face appear to be terribly incongruent with one another, but in my heart I see as two faces to the same coin. The currency is humanity, and it is at this improbable junction that this foolish concept (humanity) makes some bit of sense to me. I'm not sure when I lost this faith, it might have been when I left Denver for a fulltime job with benefits elsewhere, when I knew in my heart that Denver was where I was supposed to be.
Last night I played poker. There was record turnout, and nearly half the people signed up had to wait until someone went out to get a seat at one of the two tables. Sometime before the first break I knew that I would be in the money. Not in any scientific way, I dind't perform a t-Test or anything like that, but in a human way. I was getting ridiculously good cards and hitting every flop. I put a bunch of people out, became the chip leader, then lost most of them, but managed to hang on until the final table with timely aggressive play. I kept up the same thing there, and whenever I got called by someone with a better hand preflop, I'd end up hitting whatever I needed on the river. All the way until there was just three of us left (which meant I was in the money). I was big blind with pocket fours and the little blind called. I go all in and she calls and shows pocket twos. She hit the third on the flop. I couldn't be too upset after being on the other end of so many beats that night, and besides, I'd rather go out when the person I'm playing against gets lucky making a bad call than by doing something stupid myself. I was in the money, and that's what mattered.
Before the game started, I'd decided that I'd donate a certain portion of my resulting bankroll to a worthy cause. The cards weren't mine, the chips weren't mine, I was just in the position of trying to make them work for this higher calling. Kind of crazy how something like that can improve your game so much. Now I've always had a policy of donating some of my winnings whenever they are significant (because though I might be good at poker, I'm not really making the world a better place by winning at it), but this had a bit of urgency to it.
And it's not just poker, there's all kinds of money popping up all over the place. Earlier in the day while I was working on my house, someone just passing on the street asked me about my old camper top I'd been trying to sell on craigslist for the past three months. More money for the cause. Though I haven't actually received the money for it yet, I worked a contract last month writing narrations for the animations of a textbooks website. Which wasn't only a lot of fun and will look great on my CV, but they are going to be paying me an absurd amount of money for it. And for some odd reason, our stipends are much higher in the summer here than they are during the rest of the year (and this will mostly be used to get out from behind some of the debt I've accrued trying to keep my house from fallin apart). I've got a rough idea of about how much of this I will donate, and it will depend on what happens in the poker game next week, but even best case scenario it's a mere fraction of a percent of the money they need by the end of the month. Both humbling and empowering at the same time.
I'm not advocating some weird idea about getting lots of stuff if you give lots of stuff away. What I am saying is that my life is a lot better when I've got faith. It puts some substance to the hollow phrases of martyrdom I've been uttering for the past six months. So I think I'm going to keep living it that way. |
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