If You Care

Last election cycle, we had a herd of contenders jostling for the Democratic presidential nomination. The final head count going into the primaries was nine. It was natural enough to refer to them as the nine dwarfs, the trouble was deciding who was Grumpy (Howard Dean?), Sleepy (not Howard Dean), Happy (not Howard Dean), Dopey (a nine-way tie), etc.
Well, my fellow Republicans, I am about to transgress Ronald Reagan's eleventh commandment.
On the Republican side you have what looks like a line forming at the water fountain.
Have you ever seen anyone looking presidential in line at the water fountain?
The top-tier candidates (new media obsession word) which now appear to consist of Guliani, Thompson, non-candidate Gingrich, and Romney are enough to make me consider not voting. I know I cannot conscientiously not vote, but, I'm also wondering how I can conscientiously vote, particularly if I'm faced with Guliani, Gingrich or Thompson.
RINO does not even begin to describe the New Yorker's New Yorker Guliani. If you are tempted to start viewing Guliani in the stage lights of electability, ask yourself how much better off we would be if we sold our soul to the devil to elect a Republican. I understand there is such a thing as throwing your vote away on an unelectable candidate, but you must have a rudimentary knowledge of New Yorkers' values. They have none. I admit I would be stunned if a pro-choice, pro-civil union, pro-gun-control (yes, I know he addressed the NRA, and I've never heard a Republican sound so much like a Democrat) candidate won the GOP nomination, but stranger things have happened. Northeastern Republicans are mystifying to anyone living below Pennsylvania. It's not unlike being a Unitarian and attending the Southern Baptist Church.
Newt Gingrich, on the other hand, carries some socially conservative credentials. He carries them everywhere he goes, like a driver's license. If he's pulled over by evangelicals, he's covered. This is what bothers me. I would prefer he carry them like a concealed weapon.
His affair is also problematic. Marvin Olasky of World Magazine recently wrote an article in which he discussed the findings of researchers who have found that candidates who struggle with honesty in their marriage tend to struggle with honesty in other areas as well.
What a shock. His point, though, was a good one. Can we trust the country to a man who was unable to keep the most basic vow to his wife?
The man is fiscally brilliant and articulates conservative economic policy like no other. So I think he should stick to his political action committees and leave leadership to leaders.
Now, ol' Fred.
I have a personal sticking point with Fred Thompson. I know we're not electing a pastor here, but a 65 year old man with a ten month old son and an eighteen year old wife just creeps me out.
Not to mention his eighteen year old wife (little exaggeration there) dresses like a seventeen dollar hooker.
James Dobson, not the Apostle Paul by any means, but a very good source of information if you happen to be a Christian and you happen to vote, rained all over Thompson's parade in an e-mail to friends. Thompson "has no passion, no zeal, and no apparent 'want to' " and furthermore, "can't speak his way out of a wet paper bag." He also pointed out that Thompson opposes a constitutional amendment to defend marriage and supports McCain-Feingold finance reform.
Mitt Romney. I am suspending judgement on Romney, but I'm definitely not excited about him.
If you don't mind me quoting Olasky again, Romney is "slick."
And his pro-life credentials are somewhat suspect as well. They look a lot like George Bush Sr.'s in 1988. Can a man change his mind? Absolutely. About whether murder is murder? Possibly. It just stinks when a Massachusetts governor suddenly changes his mind about abortion with the national scene looming in the distance.
The fact is, they all look mighty small standing in the shadow of the current president.

Who wants to be strong?

Three of the people reading this blog will find it recycled.
There was a recent book published about Mother Theresa entitled Mother Theresa: Come Be My Light that included some of her personal correspondence with friends and confessors that reveals a side of this servant of humanity that hostile non-Christians will wave around like a smoking gun.
Nominal positive thinking Zig Ziglar Christians will find it uncomfortable reading and likely move on to something else.
Mother Theresa was obviously Catholic.
I am obviously Protestant.
My belief that she made it to Heaven is not to say that doctrine is unimportant.
Doctrine is extremely important.
God is more merciful, however, than doctrine is important.
Mother Theresa, it seems, suffered a lack of good feeling.
I stated this in an intentionally trite manner.
For over forty-five years, from the early 1960's, until the day she died, she went through what St. John of the Cross termed "the dark night of the soul." That is to say, she suffered an absence of the felt presence of God.
(And read the letters before you say, "Sure, she didn't feel God's presence! She was Catholic!")
She suffered bitterly under a "dryness", a "darkness", a "torture."
"This smile," she wrote of her everlasting beaming craggy visage, "is a cloak that covers everything."
"Such deep longing for God- and. . .repulsed -empty -no faith -no love -no zeal."
Do we understand the desperation of the beggarly position God wishes us to come to?
It is truly a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.
Even for a Christian to fall into God's forge . . .
As C.S. Lewis said of Aslan in his mildly successful children's book, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, "Safe?! Don't you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? Course he isn't safe! But he's good."
Our spiritual life is typically cyclical. We loathe the valleys but recognize that a valley lies between mountains. And so we are comforted.
God, however, wants to really test us. And thus some find themselves following a valley (as following the road God would have us take) as it winds perpetually down between mountains rather than simply passing through the valley to ascend the next peak.
To be comforted at all in this life is to be the faint-hearted recipient of God's tender mercy. At times, we comfort ourselves with remembrance and reiteration of God's promises.
Still other times, fewer and farther between, are times of God's personal reassurance.
But these rapturous experiences are not what God wishes us to live for.
They are brief respites, points by which we erroneously measure our progress, when the real distance is gained when we are slogging along with no landmarks in sight.
I am caused to wonder whether comforting ourselves, that is, pushing the encroaching darkness back with a waving candle is not getting ahead of God.
Perhaps He wishes us to not grow accustomed to the darkness, but not fear it, trusting that He will lay no stone in our paths to stumble over.
I don't mean that we should ignore or take no comfort in the promises of God, I am saying that shouting them out in the darkness with a quavering voice, or worse still, mumbling them frantically to ourselves with our head stuck in the sand gives the lie to what we are saying.
God may let us take comfort or rest in nothing.
He may cause the blessing of family to be done away with. He may deny you friendship, and He may sequester you in an emotionless vacuum. He may cause the end-all, the hope of Heaven itself, to become clouded and nebulous in our minds. Everything is fair game, in His insane quest to gain our true trust.
In a dark room, on a moonless night, your pupils will eventually dilate enough, using what luminosity there is from the stars, or a distant streetlight, to gradually outline the bed, the chairs, the curtains.
But in a room with no windows, and no doors, your eyes will not assist you.
Do you suppose Thomas ever wished he had believed before he saw?
I am gradually learning not to take placebos. It's not easy. We are programmed to seek resolutions to our disillusionment; a weepy emotional conclusion to a dry spell, an epiphany, something to testify about on Wednesday night, "All week long I struggled, but I was having my devotions, and the Lord broke through. . . ."
I have reassured myself a thousand times that emotion is not important.
And each time I do, I feel better.

Sufferin Delusions

The trouble with picking up a book like The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins is that I now feel compelled, obligated somehow to him, to answer his general assertion that those who believe in God suffer, more importantly, cause others to suffer, under a harmful delusion.
I am not overly interested in science. I am fascinated by nature, but in much the same way that I love music. I don't necessarily wish to know how it works, I just enjoy the end result.
Having the question put to me, however, a few retorts leap to my mind; Antonin Scalia's biting sarcasm in describing the cunning deceit the disciples of Christ employed in order to have themselves crucified upside down, boiled in oil, or exiled to Patmos (talk about selfish motivation); the simplistic yet persistent question of the origin of that first indefatigable molecule ( I have heard artful and exceeding scientific attempts to explain away the origin of species, but only disinterested conjecture on the origin of life); or my own conversion experience, which Dawkins lists as the least convincing proof offered by theists.
This, by the way, could fill a whole book by itself, probably not written by Dawkins.
If he insists that I be a skeptic such as he is, believing only what I can personally experience, in regarding my supernatural experience versus his entirely physically explainable life, then, having been overwhelmed with my "own reality" wouldn't it be irresponsible to accept his in lieu of mine?
Anyway, I find myself doubting whether he has considered the implications or full consequence of his conclusions.
For example, despite the accolades of courage with which atheists and evolutionists glad-hand each-other, (they don't need no crutches, an irony in itself, after painting such a pitiful picture of delusional Christians suffering under the crushing burden of God, it hardly then becomes courageous or altruistic to deny God, in fact, it's only the selfish thing to do) I am wondering whether Dawkins is honest enough to admit that his life has as much meaning or future as a pile of dung.
And now I am sounding like the cool rationalistic Dawkins who alternately refers to God as sex-obsessed, misogynistic and sadistic, harsh words indeed for someone whose only misdeed has been not to exist. I do understand that his epithets are directed more at me, as one who has created God, than at God Himself. Still, his vitriol retains a curious forcefulness, and at best seems several notches below level-headed.
I digress, however. Indeed, I excel at digressing.
The original course I set out on is that if Dawkins is as intellectually honest as he says he is, he will find absolutely no meaning in life, for it was never anticipated, produces no results, and has no end other than procreation, which [PG-13 warning] derives its only pleasure from its result; offspring.
Yeah.
It's either a mind-numbing chicken-egg conundrum or way over my head.
In other words, he will be the most shiftless, positively uninspired atheistic apologist on the face of this pointless, coincidental earth. He will, as a natural result, have no use, in fact, no tolerance for music, art, poetry or beauty of any kind, and if he does, he will be at a dissatisfying loss to explain why.
Furthermore, he will cease to be, will have never become, the God-debunking zealot that he is.
We would only know his opinions on the matter if we were able to observe his thoughts, as he never would have had the motivation, the eagerness, or the God-given hatred of God to write down his thoughts. Or, had he, simply as a means of monetary pursuit, if we are to find his crusader's motives suspect, this again would end in confusion, since the pursuit of wealth is only an offshoot of the pursuit of happiness, which is unavoidably an offshoot of the pursuit of meaning.

Maybe more later.

Faith?

The sun sinks low, and here I go
Wrestling with questions that refuse an answer. . . .
Just as I satisfy my quest to justify God and His ways and drift off to sleep with a smile on my face whispering, "Transcendence, higher ways. . .", another fork appears in the road ahead and I sit bolt upright with a worried look.
Transcendence is the catch-all only if you continually keep your eyes upon the transcendent One.
But as you gaze steadfastly upon Him, something will inevitably begin to nag at you, and the feeling creeps over you that comes upon you when you are driving and become transfixed by some distant curiosity, or a bit of scenery, a map.
Lost in the distance, something begins to nag at you,
the road, the road
And your head jerks back around, catching an imaginary obstacle in the corner of your traitorous eye, swerve, and hit the ditch, only to get out, and find there was nothing in the road after all.
I realize keeping your eyes on the road while driving is the responsible thing to do.
But spiritual responsibility has a way of becoming a spiritual liability.
In other words, probably you shouldn't be the one driving.
Your imagination tends to run away with you.
This path of faith can be a place
So barren of what I understand
Someone once had the unmitigated gall to ask Daniel Boone if he'd ever gotten lost.
"No." he replied, with an addendum, "I got confused once for about two weeks, but I never have been lost."
Is that an equivocation, bravado or a lie?
Or, the truth.
Seeing as how he was still around for someone to ask him if he'd ever been lost, it appears we have to take him at his word when he said he hadn't.
Many's a time I've been making my way out of the brush, fighting through to a clearing ahead, and savagely kicking the same boulder I've already passed three times.
Two or three years ago, (you see how these crisis have a way of escaping us, hanging from a cliff, praying Oh God help me, seeing a disembodied hand reach down and pull us back over the edge, Never mind, God, this disembodied hand just helped me.) I was headed to work on a Saturday. To further set the scenario, I think we can assume we were hard up for money, or I can guarantee I would've been at home in bed. Anyway, the truck dies.
I'm not a mechanic. Having said that, let me elaborate. I hate working on cars, and much the hatred is multiplied when I'm working on a car that died on my way to work on a Saturday to earn some already needed money.
As I blundered around town asking questions, I kept fighting the rising doubt, the endless parade of open-ended decimal points and dollar signs
To counter this, I clutched a rosary and feverishly muttered a Hail Mary.
That is to say, I may as well have been.
I repeatedly assured myself, all in the name of faith, that the dead truck was going to undergo some sort of miraculous resurrection, something on the order of Lazarus, or a reversal of the fig tree.
Essentially, I was quoting a mantra, vain repetition, I think it's called, and invoking a heady line of positive thinking.
The trouble with positive thinking is that one single question mark negates all the positive and puts you back at square one.
I believe the truck will be fixed so I won't have to spend a lot of money on it.
The truck is going to cost a lot of money to fix so I must be going to get a check in the mail.
If you're God and you are allowing your pupil to undergo a trust exam and he's speeding around town, frantically repeating "God will take care of this, He will take care of this." do you graduate your pupil?
You're not and I'm not. God, on the other hand, is, and He prompts "Yes, I will take care of this and you, more specifically, if this culminates in your truck being hauled off to the junk yard."

More later

Newt

So how is calling the Bush's war on terror "phony" any different than John Edwards deriding the war on terror as "a bumper sticker war"?
Newt Gingrich is shrewd.
He is fiscally brilliant, and he articulates his policies well.
He is also politically sharp.
His recent comments regarding his fellow Republicans and Bush in particular are nothing if not sly.
His "trained seals" barb pointed at the Republican presidential candidates was a marvel of efficiency in the way of non-binding ridicule.
He counted on his remarks being taken somewhat out of context, and was able to calmly point out that he was not, in fact, technically referring to the candidates as trained seals, but was rather offering a commentary on the political process. Left explicitly unspoken but impressed upon the minds of his listeners is his contempt for candidates who would allow themselves to be treated like trained seals.
He has been ratcheting up the rhetoric on the war on terror, on Alberto Gonzales, on the political impotency of the Republican controlled White House, House, and Senate of 2001-2006, (neglecting to comment on his capitulation to Clinton in the budget battle showdown of the Clinton) in a largely successful, I think, attempt to jazz up his image in the mind of potential voters, should he "have to run."
I have never seen a man running harder for president who is not running for president.
And that is another part of his strategy.
Timing is everything.
While the conventional wisdom is jump in early and ride out the storm, he is, somewhat like the other non-candidate, Fred Thompson, busy creating an image of himself and a perception of the other candidates, poor, well-meaning saps, and just biding his time.
He is watching the atmospheric conditions brew and waiting for the perfect storm.
His early-on interview with James Dobson in which he knew the blunt Dobson would confront him with his extra-marital affair was another master preemptive strike.
He was able to come off as contrite, fully aware of the pain he'd caused and even courageous for baring his soul to evangelicals.
A lesson learned, and we are expected to forget that he carried on an affair with a young intern while his wife was in the hospital for cancer treatment.
God will most certainly forgive, but, personally, I would like to see a little more shame-facedness from the man, whom I view as nothing but a political hack; a very smart political hack, somewhere in the moral vicinity as Dick Morris.

Who is this that darkens counsel without knowledge?

I sometimes regret that we have no concept of the time which elapsed during the trial of Job.
I think that the reason that this was excluded from the Bible is the same reason we are not told when Christ will rapture his church.
The temptation to measure our troubles against time would be irresistible. If only we can hold out as long as Job . . .
I imagine Job would be eager to point something out, My friend, do you imagine that time healed the wounds of the loss of my children?
And again, Did you think that God simply made it all better by restoring my wealth and giving me more children?
The exact purpose behind Job's ordeal I think he is still in the process of discovering, but I imagine the first thing he learned was that his protestations of innocence in the face of accusations had the same quality of frustrated ignorance that grips a child when the needle inoculates him against small pox.
I think that what dawned on Job as he listened to God speak from the whirlwind was a fleeting but profound glimpse of God's transcendence.
Nowhere in God's response to Job will you find an apology or an explanation for what Job had suffered.
In essence, God was saying, "Child, you don't need a reason, you just need to remember who I am."
Another reason I search for a calendar in the life of Job is not so much questioning how much pain and suffering Job endured, but wondering how long Job spoke to God before God answered?
I believe that this was the greatest pain Job endured. The brassy heavens.
Job didn't long for recompense as much as he longed for reassurance that his tormentor was God and not fate.
I reflect on the terror that filled Job's soul as the Voice overwhelmed from the whirlwind. I think it must have felt something like letting go of the cliff's edge.
I think it must have felt something like surrender, and I think it must have felt like being swept downstream in a raging torrent into the arms of God.
I think it must have felt like being sanctified; the terror you feel of laying your will down on an altar to be brutally sacrificed only to awaken to a sweet realization as the thing lies in death throes that you have been rid of a killing cancer.
I wish to know how long the patron saint of suffering suffered before the breathtaking rebuke of God carried away all his care and all his questions.
Empathy for Job comes not as first-hand knowledge of such grief and pain, but identification with the wait.
Oswald Chambers writes, "There are times when there is no illumination and no thrill, but just the daily round, the common task. Routine is God's way of saving us between our times of inspiration."
Hear, hear . . . . . .
. . . . . how long in between inspirations?
I remember the tempestuous relationship with emotion, good and bad, that I rode out during the first year after my conversion. I remember the storms, and I remember Jesus walking on the water in the dead of night. I remember so much breathless fear, and such sweet reassurance.
The caveat of maturity, however agonizingly slow, is the loss of a childish innocence.
Read the word carefully, childish, not childlike.
The innocence I speak of is naivete, not faith. But naivete and helplessness has its benefits. God pampers babies.
When you come to recognize Satan's exploitation of an over-active conscience, you don't require the calm reassurance, Yes, you're doing fine.
The waves don't get so big, but I haven't seen Jesus walking on the water in the night for a long time.

More later . . .

Note: Reflection is good for the soul. Whether or not it comes with a cute, tidy little conclusion. . . .well. . . .Job?

. . .and Jacob have they hated, continued.

Benjamin Netanyahu is a treasure trove of background information regarding the Arab-Israeli conflict. He makes no pretense of objectivity and he points out that the term "Zionist" once had a positive connotation.

It is now spoken with the same derisive judgemental ism as the "neo-con" label and also has some additional connections.

Neo-cons, (neo-conservatives) are johnny-come-latelys, according to the context. They are ex-liberals who had the unmitigated gall to change their minds. Or, according to the father of neo-conservatism, Irving Kristol, neo-cons are "liberals mugged by reality." Either way, the sneer is that the change of heart was gratuitously motivated, and had nothing to do with a desire for truth. It is also interesting to note that application of the label, "neo-con" more often than not refers to Jewish ex-liberals, and once again we see anti-Semitism haunting the halls of liberal dogma.

Tracking the Jew-hating phenomenon elsewhere follows the liberal Democratic global peace aspirations straight up the glass doors of the United Nations, which has its own record of anti-Semitism. It has a history of reducing the fever-pitched anarchy in the Middle East to one cause, the Arab-Israeli conflict, and is solidly on the side of the "Palestinian refugees" against the imperialism of the vast expansionist Israeli empire. "Peace, not apartheid," after all.

The fact is that if you took the Jews out of the picture, the Arabs would only fill the void of peace with vicious infighting, as they have done again and again. Their history of nomadic violence is blamed on the time-honored clan structure of the Arab world. Clan loyalty supersedes national or racial loyalty and is supposedly the justification for their blood lust. Heaven forbid we view them simply as power-hungry racist thugs.

An American, an Englishman, and an Israeli were captured by cannibals and placed in a giant pot to be boiled alive. They were, of course, given a last request. The American asked for a steak, which he was given. The Englishman, in keeping with stereotypes, asked for a shot of whiskey and a smoke, and was obliged. The Israeli then asked for the chief to give him a good swift kick in the pants. The chief initially balked at the strange request, but finally reluctantly complied. Whereupon, the Israeli drew a pistol and shot every last one of the cannibals dead.

The American and the Englishman looked first at each other and then at the Israeli in complete disbelief. After a stunned silence, the Englishman asked incredulously, "Look here, chap, did you have that gun all along, or did you just conjure it up out of thin air?"

"Oh, I had it all along." replied the Israeli.

"Then why in blazes didn't you use it a long time ago?" growled the American.

"What," said the Israeli, "-and have the UN brand me an aggressor?"

With some liberties taken, this joke was included in a letter written from the front lines in the days preceding the Six Day War by Benjamin Netanyahu's brother Jonathan to his family back home, as a way of explaining why Israel stayed their hand in the face of massive troop buildups along the Syrian, Jordanian and Egyptian borders. Only after Egypt committed an act of war by closing the Straits of Tiran, a strategic life flow for Israel, did Israel respond, and then only to Egypt. They continued to wait for Syria and Jordan to join in, and then proceeded to overwhelm it's enemies with the total efficiency that characterizes most of the tiny country's combat operations.

The U.N., true to form, proceeded with a series of resolutions chiding the Israelis for their aggression against the poor, defenseless Arab coalition.

The media seems to have almost ordered an all-out blackout on the connection between modern-day Palestinian "freedom fighters" and Nazi ideology, but the Arabs make no effort to hide their open admiration for Hitler's solution to the "Jewish problem," which means that perhaps those referring to Iranian President Ahmadenijad as "an Arab Hitler" may be exercising more than exaggeration. The connections between Nazism and Arab anti-Jewish terror are many and well-documented. Haj Amin al-Husseini, the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, and Yasser Arafat's inspiration and mentor was a close friend of Adolf Eichmann and Heinrich Himmler. He advised them on their campaign to rid Europe of Jewry, and even visited Auschwitz accompanied by Eichmann. Following World War II, Arab nations welcomed escaping SS officers into their governments. Many Palestinian leaders even adopted Hitlerian nicknames, such as Abu Hitler, a senior commander in Arafat's personal escort.

In the 70's, members of the German Neo-Nazi faction "Adolf Hitler Free Corps" were trained by the PLO to wage terror, and members of the same group collaborated with Black September, the terror arm of Arafat's Fatah, in the assassination of Jewish Olympic athletes in Munich.

If it appears to you that I am saying that there is an anti-Semite behind every bush, that is not precisely what I am saying. I am saying that if there is no anti-Semite behind any given bush, it is because they are hiding in the bush. Hyperbole notwithstanding, the hatred for God's chosen people grows not only in Palestinian or German soil. Like a dandelion plucked by Satan and blown into the wind, the unreasoning prejudice these people inspire has been carried to the four corners of the earth and springs up through the baked desert soil of the Sudan, flourishes in the frozen tundra of Russia, and juts up through cracks in the concrete jungles of North America.

More later. . .

. . .and Jacob have they hated

Listening to the radio provides some unexpected insight.
How many times have you heard someone call a talk show, and start their point with, "I'm not a conspiracy theorist, but . . ." and then proceed to proffer evidence of a perceived conspiracy.
Prompting me to ask Devan, "Do you suppose anyone has ever called into to a talk show and said, 'I'm a conspiracy theorist, and . . .etc., etc.' "
Everyone loves the idea of a conspiracy, but no one wants to be seen as paranoid.
Generally, conspiracies are fantastic and unfounded, but there is one conspiracy I firmly believe in.
It has tentacles everywhere, and in the most unlikely places, but traced back, my suspicions are confirmed. It has one origin.
The history of this conspiracy and the staggering spread of evidence is such that I don't know where to start.
I'll start with a book I read about a man named George Lincoln Rockwell.
The man's parents possibly had high hopes for the child they dubbed with the Christian name and surname of two U.S. presidents. Indeed, he did advance to the national scene, and it was in politics and ideology, as the founder of the American Nazi Party.
Rockwell became convinced, over the course of his life, of the superiority of the white race. He broadened the appeal of white supremacy beyond Hitler's Aryan supermen. Pitching the big tent, he welcomed in whites of European descent, and all other non-Aryan whites. He claims to have had a religious experience while burning candles on an altar in front of Adolf Hitler's picture. He swore allegiance to his dead hero.
White supremacy most famously denigrates blacks, and Rockwell was no exception. He and his people released musical records with inflammatory lyrics regarding blacks. He was vitriolic in his hatred for the black race, and considered them vastly inferior.
So, reading on, I was stunned to read of the joint rallies of Rockwell's Nazis and Elijah Mohammed's Black Panthers.
The common ground on which these two proponents of racial superiority stood is an ancient, blood-soaked piece of land.
Hatred was the motivation for both of these activists, and their hatred of each other's race was strong, but they shared a hatred that was stronger yet, a hatred forged in hellfire long ago, the hatred of the Jews.
Anti-semitism has a long, layered history. Beginning with Haman's final solution, the inexplicable hatred this race triggers extends down through history to the present.
Undoubtedly, Jewish people face the greatest threat from the Muslim population, and yet, there are so many unseen threads that travel back to America and tie themselves to many people and ideologies who are in direct opposition to all things Muslim, except anti-Semitism.
Wikipedia tells me of a new form of anti-semitism, simply called new anti-semitism, that is new because of its convergence of the left, the far right, and Islam.
Immediately, the unexplored connection of Al-Queda to Timothy McVeigh, the Oklahoma City bomber, comes to mind. The connection remains largely ignored, I believe, because of the desire of the U.S. media to isolate McVeigh as simply an unhinged, former military, far right-wing, home-grown terrorist. The picture becomes disturbing and far too conspiratorial when far-right ideology becomes linked with radical Islam by anti-Semitism, which has also found a new home in the terrorist-appeasing Democratic Party.
The unlikely alliance becomes more troubling when you consider the underlying theories behind the hatred of all things Jewish. The far right is convinced that Jews control everything. The media, the banks. . .what else is there? They feel it is their duty to expose the Jewish conspiracy.
I mentioned Mohammed's Black Panthers. The Black Muslim ideology continues to share with the far right the belief that Jews are in control. Hearken unto Minster Louis Farrakhan and his rhetoric, "Jewish blood-suckers." Take notice of the word "blood-suckers." It is an outgrowth of the view of Jews as a parasitic people, preying upon their host nation. It is an old distortion, one not even laid to rest with the birth of Israel in 1948, with two billion Muslims claiming the land as their own, and descending on the minuscule, new-born nation with a vast Arab alliance to rid the previously un-used, un-wanted wasteland of their most hated enemy.
Even confined within the restrictive borders of their own homeland, they are still viewed as a parasite preying upon the host.
The Jewish conspiracy is the mother of all conspiracies.
The extreme ends of many ideologies are tied together with this idea, reminding us that ideology is a circle and when a fascist comes to the end of his radicalism, he will find himself a Communist, and vice versa.
Rockwell believed blacks were inferior and must be subjugated. Mohammed believed blacks were superior and must overcome the white "blue-eyed devils." But both saw Jewish control as the puppet master forcing their people to strive with each other.
You can feel the crawling hatred, so insidious it makes the blood slow in your veins, in the innocuous suggestion of the anti-war protester. "The Muslims hate us because we support Israel." Often left unspoken is the irritation with Israel for having brought the vengeful Muslims down on our head.
Less subtle are the allegations that Israel possessed fore-knowledge of 9-11, and even that the Mossad brought down the twin towers, to unleash the U.S. on Israel's enemies.
The proof of the anti-semitic conspiracy lies in the multiplied and diverse outbursts of anti-semitism.
The Egyptians are credited with planting the seed. The Egyptian historian Manetho wrote that the Israelites were simply expelled Egyptian lepers under the influence of Moses.
The Greeks massacred Jews in Alexandria in 38 A.D. for being "misanthropes."
The Romans had their own Jewish problem. Not content with simply having conquered the Jews, in 19 A.D., Tiberius expelled all Jews from Rome, relocating them to Sardinia. The penalty for non-compliance was slavery for life. In the second century as well, the Romans committed genocide against the Jews during bar Kokhba's revolt. Additionally, the Jews were attacked in Roman cities for issues involving Jewish fiancial and intellectual successes.
The first time the death of Christ became an excuse for hating Jews, (a favorite of the KKK), was in 167 A.D. in a sermon given by Melito of Sardis entitled On The Passover.
The moniker of Christ-killer was also snarled at Jews by officers of the SS.
The Roman Catholic Church, as well, affixed the blame for the death of Christ to the Jewish race, influencing even the renegade Martin Luther to pen some disturbing anti-semitic suggestions.
The Muslim persecution of Jews began in the ninth century, with Muslim rulers enforcing blood libels, forced conversions, massacres and expulsion of Jews.
Expulsion and forced one-child policies were also enforced against Jewish people in Prussia and Bohemia.
During the American Civil War, Gen. Ulysses S. Grant issued an order (hastily rescinded by President Lincoln) expelling all Jews from areas under his control. Grant later issued an order "that no Jews are to be permitted to travel on the road southward."
Grant's aide, Col. John V. DuBois ordered "all cotton speculators, Jews, and vagabonds with no honest means of support" expelled from the district, and furthermore, "The Israelites especially should be kept out. . .they are such an intolerable nuisance."
The KKK, initially formed in 1866, with as much an emphasis on resisting Reconstruction as on racial superiority, was a short lived organization, with Southern elites viewing the uncontrollable nature of the Klan as just another excuse for the Federals to come down on all Southerners. In 1915, however, it was reformed in response to a wide-spreading brush fire of anti-Semitism sparked by the lynching of a Jewish businessman accused, by virtue of some sloppy circumstantial evidence, of rape and murder.
The Klan's membership peaked during the 1920's, with a whopping 4 to 5 million men.
It dropped radically following WWII, resulting partly from prominent members' support of the Nazis.
It is virtually non-existent as an organized movement today, but the strong anti-Semitic mantle has been taken up by the growing Neo-Nazi movement. The Neo-Nazis are not tremendously organized, but galvanized, particularly in Germany, by their hatred of Jews.
As I mentioned earlier, the nation of Israel is blamed for many of America's woes. Democrats accuse President Bush for "flying under two flags." i.e., the flag of the United States and the flag of Israel.
Echoing Charles Lindbergh's sneaky Nazism, every U.S. intervention in the Middle East is blamed on Israel by everyone from Sen. Ernest Hollings to Pat Buchanan.
Additionally, the long-standing furor over the U.S. imprisonment of Israeli spy Jonathan Pollard was reason enough to accuse former Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu of "extortion" for trying to attach the release of Pollard, labeled a "treasonous snake," to President Clinton's ill-fated Wye River Peace Accord.

More later. . .

On Getting Distracted

Listening to Sean Hannity, and getting mad, suddenly seemed as absurd as becoming emotionally involved in a sappy movie.
Today, my frustration with Hannity received its satisfaction of vindication. Such arrogance would reveal itself in sophomoric ridicule, I thought as I listened to Hannity mock a stuttering caller/detractor, the way a junior high bully would.
That was that. Hannity is a jerk. I felt better. Until I remembered Sean Hannity couldn't read my mind, couldn't hear my muttered undertones, and, more infuriating, wouldn't be at all crestfallen to find out that I think he is a jerk.
Sucker.
How different am I, pounding on the dash, than a Sopranos addict screaming at the television while the credits roll?
It is times like these that I feel perhaps we were better off before the information age and the new media.
Before talk radio and television, what medium could have possibly incited me to be so upset with a man I've never met? What's worse, I'm a willing participant in the advertising conquest that bankrolls said jerk.
It's a phase, don't worry. I'll get over it.
I'm become somewhat consistently jaded when it comes to having my emotions manipulated by movies.
It's only the completely innocuous scenes that put a lump in my throat. The scenes with the tears, the rain, the sunsets and the saccharine music I only analyze.
By George, nobody is gonna jerk me around.
Until I turn on the radio, under the dubious auspices of being informed.
The truth is, I listen to, well, let's see, I listen to remind myself why I am right in thinking in what I am thinking. I rehash, and reiterate, and regurgitate everything in a perpetual information or misinformation overload.
There is nothing wrong with knowing what is going on. Nor is there anything wrong with combining religion and politics, thank you, Jerry Falwell.
But in feeding my fury over immigration, I start to mirror those I disagree with.
I'm upset because I feel conservative punditry has elevated a chiefly economic issue to a moral imperative.
And I've lost focus.
Blogs notwithstanding, the immigration debate will be resolved, or not, with or without my consent or approval.
Lost souls, however, I can do something about.
Illegal immigration, Hillary Clinton's strident liberalism, Sean Hannity's hubris, border security, national security, Newt Gingrich's fresh new coat of morality, Mitt Romney's Mormonism, Rudy Gulianni's New Yorkness, all topics of concern, but all potential distractions.
No surprise, here. Spiritual concerns are featherweight, and they fly into the air when disturbed by a stiff wind.

Ad Nauseum

I have a confession to make.
I'm prejudiced.
I happen to like Hispanics.
That being said as a gesture of honesty, I think a lot of people dislike Hispanics.
And, I believe this prejudice is kicking up a lot of the dust we see swirling over this immigration fracas.
I'm well aware that accusing conservatives of prejudice in regards to immigration has been addressed and deemed race-baiting.
I observe, however.
I live in Kentucky. The two largest minorities are African-American and Hispanic.
Studying the behavior of my fellow white brothers and sisters in reaction to both minorities has revealed two things to me.
The Jim Crow days are over. Black people are accepted, assimilated, and integrated. From where I stand, we now look at blacks and see simply another human, perhaps one who can sing better, laugh harder, and cook better, but just another human nonetheless. I see blacks and whites working together in complete harmony. I believe MLK can rest in peace. His dream came true.
On the other hand, when I observe whites and Hispanics, I see sullenness, rolling eyes, irritation. Particularly, (sorry for any controversy this may arouse) among white women.
I see a lot of white people who seem to resent being in the same room as a Hispanic.
Why is this?
You can rattle off your list.
Refusal to assimilate, refusal to learn English, etc.
I am convinced, however, that the reason we have not learned to accept Hispanics as they are, broken English, cha-cha music and all, is because we have not yet been told to accept them.
How many movies have you seen which address the issue of racism in regard to Hispanics?
How many highly publicized hate crimes verdicts have been handed down for white-on-Hispanic, or black-on-Hispanic crime?
Has the Catholic church apologized for enslaving Hispanics, as the Southern Baptist Convention apologized for enslaving African- Americans?
Which month is Hispanic-American history month, and if there is one, how come I haven't heard about it?
How many Jesse Jacksons, or Al Sharptons do the Latinos have?
Just today, a Hispanic male driver clipped a little girl in an Austin neighborhood. She was later taken to the hospital and treated for non-life threatening injuries. At the scene of the accident, however, nine black males descended on the driver of the car, and when another Hispanic male attempted to intervene, they beat him to death.
Let's see if the fuss made over this even begins to compare the explosion we heard over the shooting death of a black male at a strip club the night before his wedding.
I am not suggesting that illegal immigrants be given a pass because they're discriminated against, such as our jury system gave to O.J. Simpson, I am suggesting that the whole reason this discussion raises such rancor is, one, because, it's an economic issue, and two, because people don't like Mexicans. I simply don't believe the American public is capable of rendering a thoughtful judgement on anything.
Illegal immigration is seen as being a drain on the economy, and worse, an irritation and an inconvenience.
It's the economy stupid, and I ain't gonna sit there and try to talk to no Mexican who ain't got the courtesy to learn to speak no English.
Honestly, I'm sick of this.
I listened to the great Sean Hannity treat Tony Snow like Sean doesn't treat Bob Beckle or Melissa Etheridge or Howard Stern, for crying out loud.
He was argumentative, petulant and came off sounding like a cross between Pat Buchanaan and Alec Baldwin.
Hannity repeatedly accuses the president and his supporters of being out of touch with the American people. If I wasn't so exasperated, I'd be amused. Since when do conservatives seek for justification in popular opinion?
I wouldn't go so far as to say that if a majority of the American public support something, I'm automatically against it, but you better believe I'm going to look at it with narrow-eyed suspicion.
Again, I say it's like living in a town full of drunks. If there's a riot, there's been a shortage of booze.
If one-tenth the energy devoted to this issue by talk radio were devoted to, say, the abortion issue, South Dakota wouldn't be the only state to suggest banning it.
Illegal immigration is a problem and needs to be dealt with, but I, for one, am disgusted when I see this issue and the Duke lacrosse scandal as having become our identity.
The only way I would have been happy with the outcome of the Duke mess, by the way, is if they'd put Mike Nifong, the stripper, and the three young Duke thugs all in the same cell together for about six months.
More later.

So What Was Frances Schaeffer Trying To Prove?

How does a good fundamentalist balance Christian activism with pre-millenialist theology?
How do you put your heart in your warning against abortion, homosexual activism, and radical Islam when you believe these things are signs of the times?
Put another way, how hypocritical do you feel when you affect grimness over a tumultuous Middle East and the apocalyptic rantings of Iran's president, against a rising bubble of excitement in your gut?
I often feel pitied admiration for the likes of James Dobson, cheering him on, muttering under my breath, "Man, you're beating your head against a brick wall."
I harbor no optimism for the salvation of my country, much less the world.
It's not simply a matter of eschatology. I know that James Dobson knows that the world will not continue to get better and better until it's good enough for God to live in. He's fighting the good fight, don't misunderstand me, but what end does he see?
It could be that I'm simply not compassionate enough to muster the energy to place behind the hope that drives a dedicated Christian activist.
It could be the cynicism of youth, (I'm a Generation X-er, after all. "Hope, where is hope? Don't be a dope, hope is gone.")
There is a passage in a novel that has influenced me, perhaps more than it should.
It is a burst of exasperation from a weary, burned out pastor responding to the blazing, fresh-faced optimism of a young pastor, determined to take the town for Christ.
"Have you even asked this town if it wants to be taken for Christ? . . .I guarantee you, Kyle, I know some people around here who do not wish to be taken for Christ. . .No one . . .has ever. . .taken a city for Christ. Not Paul, not Peter, nobody. Not even Christ took a town for Christ."
Taking a town for Christ, or fervent prayers for a revival to be poured out on this city are owing in part to a certain score-keeping mentality that is inseparable from humanity.
There is something of a war cry in the prayer, "God, take this town for Christ!"
I think most of us would be more suited for battling against principalities and powers if it were a physical matter.
I remember reading the Darkness books by Peretti at a fairly young age and then bolting outside with a broom handle to mow down demons like weeds.
They were, in fact, weeds, and they did fall before my broom handle like Destroyer's hordes fell under Tal's sword.
I'm not equating my immaturity with the zeal of evangelism, but I can't help but be reminded of it when I listen to the words of a worship song, "You know I feel there's somethin bout to break now. You know I feel there's a city here to take now. . .We've got this leather backed book and a freedom cry and we're an army of God who are ready to die."
What army?
Maybe I'm blind but I see a few scattered, exhausted soldiers just standing up under the weight of their armour and a whole bunch more who have shed everything but their sword and are running around hacking on trees for the glory of God.

"Our job is to reclaim America for Christ, whatever the cost. As the vice regents of God, we are to exercise godly dominion and influence over our neighborhoods, our schools, our government, our literature and arts, our sports arenas, our entertainment media, our news media, our scientific endeavors -- in short, over every aspect and institution of human society." -D. James Kennedy

Head in the clouds or head in the sand, what's the difference?
I recently looked at a website called Theocracy Watch.
They are the brave souls warning America about the drumbeat of doom. These people are literally terrified of the rise of the Christian right and their impending "theocracy."
I want to laugh so hard that I reach that stage when it's hard to tell laughing from crying.
Yeah, sure. Lock up the kids. Bar the windows. We're coming to get you.
We're gonna haul you in to a church and force communion down your throat, and make you recite the Ten Commandments, the Four Spiritual Laws, and Martin Luther's Ninety-Five Theses.
Beyond the absurdity of worrying about a Christian conspiracy is the sad fact that if we wished to conspire, we'd be hard put to gather ten of us around a bonfire to come up with a secret password.

More later.

I fully intend to reconcile my view with optimism.

Really.

Theory of Relativity (and Einstein rolled over and groaned)

Where does relativism end?
How much of it do we ingest every day and how much do we breathe out?
Relative, i.e. not absolute or independent.
I'm sure there would be a consensus among most of us, that-
Noam Chomsky is a zealot.
Not only that, he's zealous about absolutely nothing, and quite literally.
Nietzsche, was, in my mind, not the father of, (the claim to that title goes to the one who spoke the words, ". . .and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.") but the Bill Gates of functional moral relativism. He made it user-friendly and progressively, since his death, more necessary until now, we're confounded without it. He was also Adolf Hitler's false prophet.
It doesn't impress me that Nietzsche held anti-Semitism in low regard. He had no right to hold anything in low regard. He certainly couldn't have said that killing Jews for being Jews was wrong, now, could he?
But Nietzsche was the hairy, scary, real deal.
He emblazoned the pages of his books with courageous pronouncements. He minced no words, he made no concessions, and, to his credit, was quite possibly the least contradictory relativist I've ever read after.
But his stuff was a little too strong for us to stomach.
Especially after the development of his ideas arguably contributed to the Holocaust. So, we watered it down a little.
Not unlike evangelical Christianity does with predestination.
Poor John Calvin must have been in a theological slump when he walked up to the plate with that predestination idea.
But the doctrine of eternal security, he knocked that one out of the park!
Which is not unlike saying he used a matchstick to hit one out.
Just a curious aside, if the doctrine of eternal security was based on predestination and it was, how come everyone goes around assuming they are one of the ones God chose to go to Heaven and not hell?
So, are you a relativist?
Before you lower your eyebrows, when was the last time, when discussing a difference in a certain point of doctrine, or standard of living, you said, "Well, I have confidence in that person, I just don't agree with them on this or that."?
Without getting into specifics, (I haven't the nerve) what exactly is it that makes you so sure that the person is dead wrong, and all right at the same time?
Just how far back up through the ranks and levels of rules and regulations can we take this "personal conviction" stuff?
All the way to the very first ten?
Where do you put the kibosh on not judging?
When they start getting on your nerves?
The deeper I sink into this quagmire, the more I realize that "judge not that ye be not judged" is a command only understood and followed properly by the most devout, an order I long to join.
Did it mean, "Decide not for yourself whether this person is right or wrong?"
Upon quick perusal, I say, "No, it doesn't, it just means, keep your decision to yourself."
Quick perusal is generally a bad idea.
Looking closer, I see a command, a directive given to the heart, an attitude the Lord instructed us to cultivate.
It means, desperately wish and hope for and believe the best about your brother's spirituality, and when you are proved wrong, don't "aha!" Rather mourn and intercede for that soul as if it were your own.
Furthermore, "their Christianity is their business," is pure flippancy when viewed through this Christ lens.
We are to become heavily invested in our brother's success as a follower of Jesus.
Don't just not care.
Don't just make it a matter not for your concern.
Until now, there is a story about the Wesley brothers I have always regarded with some degree of cynicism.
It is said that John stated that Charles reserved judgement, and wished to be convinced of someones spirituality, but that he, John, took them at their word. I, John said, have been more often right than Charles.
I'm as cynical as the next cynic, but now, I wonder, without deciding for sure, can the confidence you place in someone become a self-fulfilling prophecy?

An Ineffective Coalition

The impetus behind my frustration with the current furor over immigration is the disingenuous "conservative" motivation behind it.
I know plenty of hard-core, blue-collar, pro-union, yellow-dog Democrats who are just as vehement around their wad of tobacco about the flood of illegals as is the bespectacled Newt Gingrich.
The only distinction lies in the presentation of the case. The case of the blue-collar Democrat may be summed up in an anecdotal comparison; Renowned for his reserve, Calvin Coolidge reportedly attended church one Sunday without his wife. Upon returning to the White House, his wife asked after the service and the topic of the sermon. "Adultery" was the extent of Coolidge's report. "Well. . ." the First Lady insisted, "What did the minister have to say on the subject?"
"He's against it." Coolidge replied.
Gingrich's presentation for the case against II, if we can abbreviate, is intellectual and eloquent.
The commonality?
The motivation.
I.E., the good of the country, which, after unauthorized translation means, the good of me.
In the Dem's case, more money, and less difficulty conversing with mono-lingual Hispanics.
In Newt's case, a prospective presidential campaign.
I realize there are other, better examples of high-profile II opponents, and their motivation may be less suspect than that of either the union Democrat or the politician.
However, the trumpeting of an impending conservative victory in regard to the languishing immigration bill disgusts me.
Opposition to II is no more begotten of conservative ideology than opposition to human rights abuse is the spawn of liberalism.
Unless, of course, you agree to call a spade a spade and acknowledge that your conservatism in this matter is pure fiscal conservatism.
Again, keep in mind, I discuss the issue of Hispanic influx (which is the wind that drives the storm) and not the issue, linked though it is, of national security.
My frustration lies in the company that I, as a conservative ideologue by virtue of my Christianity, must keep.
The instability of the Peggy Noonan-dubbed conservative coalition was made evident to me when Sean Hannity invited Howard Stern as a guest on his show, following the FCC censure of Stern.
The realization dawned not as a result of Hannity hosting Stern. After all, he features (and opposes) many others I differ with.
It was not even the result of Hannity's essentially gutless, completely ineffective handling of Stern's barely restrained stream of filth.
It was the many calls afterwards from loyal Hannity listeners who also laid claim to being loyal Stern listeners.
Are these the people with whom I share the foxhole?
Disciples of Howard Stern?
Everything I stand for as a social conservative, every reason I call myself a conservative is diametrically opposed to everything that motivates Howard Stern.
If there is evil, there must be good, if there is a Satan, there must be a God, and if there is a Howard Stern, it must mean there was an original concept of purity in which he found his identity by spending his life mocking.
To call yourself a conservative, but gleefully indulge the sickness of a Stern, an Imus, an Opie and Anthony, a Bob and Tom under the guise of First Amendment rights is to expose yourself as nothing but a libertarian, which is another word for the most self-centered creature on God's green earth.
Probably more later.

The Death of a Bill

Just as I was prepared to fire the silver bullet at the afore-mentioned conservative pundits, asking, so, what's your plan?, Sean Hannity let fly with a concrete suggestion.
Before we do anything, stop the flow.
Easier said than done, but the point is taken.
Illegal immigration is a monumental multi-faceted problem, but turning the water off before you start to mop up the puddle is common sense.
Beefing up border patrol, included in the now dying bill, is perhaps more of the same, but again, I trust border agents to turn back the tide more than I trust a fence.
A comprehensive electronic database allowing the government to closely monitor employers is an even better idea included in the dying bill.
Much of the focus has been on the illegals instead of the avenues taken by them.
They aren't swimming the river individually.
Preemptive intelligence focused on smuggling networks would seem to be only more common sense.
The proposed path to citizenship has suffered another accusation by yet another conservative pundit, Mike McConnell. To make a way, straight and narrow though it may be, to citizenship for those who chose to enter the country illegally is not fair to those who wish to enter the country but have chosen not to come in under the radar.
I find that an odd argument, especially coming from the no-nonsense McConnell.
This is not about them, this is about us, correct?
The primary objective is how to fix the problem for America, not all the foreigners who want in.
And if we are to begin trying to be all things to all people, let us either apologize to the Hutus slaughtered in Rwanda or forsake Darfur altogether.
America is a steward trusted with great responsibility, but our own interests come into play.
Altruism applied in our personal lives is commanded, but applied geo-politically unfortunately doesn't preserve a nation very well.
The security issues raised by Mark trump the economic issues.
If we have nukes going off in our cities, priorities will hurriedly realign.
More later.
And by the way, Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi will be popping champagne corks if this bill is killed.
Unlike Bush, they do everything for political expediency, and don't think they aren't going to play up this Republican division for every dime it's worth

Trouble on the Border

I don't know how many people read this blog.
Last estimates were somewhere in upwards of single digits.
Sometime in the next quarter some analysts predict breaking into double digits.
But I really would like some feedback on this one.
I'm in a political funk.
I'm disgusted with liberals, predictably.
I'm disgusted with conservatives.
And I'm uncomfortable siding with John McCain against John Cornyn.
There's an issue that has come down out of nowhere, like a handichopper on an unsuspecting potato.
Illegal immigration has been a problem for decades.
It has been one of those things we live with and joke about, like Congress.
I suppose it had gotten to the point where I assumed it was one of those things that would never be addressed, and if it were, it would be in some droning congressional session in the middle of August, with the pages and the C-Span camera men knocking back cappuccinos and punching each other to stay awake.
What becomes a hot push-button issue for a public whose list of concerns is topped by American Idol and NASCAR, and becomes outraged only when their direct deposit paycheck doesn't clear the bank until noon on Friday?
Who'da thunk it?
This is the first thing that bothers me.
As disenfranchised as I am with my countrymen, I'm bound to cast a jaundiced eye on any issue that roils such widespread concern. Such as it would be for one sober to live in a community of drunks. If there's a riot, chances are there's been a shortage or prohibition. Society in general is too stupefied to be upset over anything legitimate.
So what am I left with?
Across the board, there is one issue that unites us all in one common purpose: money.
If there's an uprising, as they say, follow the money.
Illegals are seen as being a drain on the old pocketbook.
So we've decided to build a what?
The first time I heard somebody raise the idea of a fence, I thought it was good.
As a joke, not an idea.
Fences work good for cattle and chickens.
People, however, bent on the American dream, will tend to be repelled by it only if it is forty feet high with high voltage running on top and underneath and manned by guards every 100 yards armed with assault rifles.
Such as the Berlin Wall.
And if you wish to run away screaming with hysterical conjecture at the comparison, don't let me stop you.
Let me say that I think the border should be beefed up, and the government should come down hard on employers who hire illegals.
I do believe illegal immigration is a problem.
I just find the idea of a fence ridiculous.
So we have a bill in the Senate with the express purpose of fixing the problem of illegal immigration.
Early on, President Bush advocated a guest-worker program; the best idea yet.
Conservative pundits howled amnesty, and it went the way of the president's approval numbers.
So now, we have another Bush-backed idea.
We have a proposed path to citizenship for an estimated 12 million illegals.
If you want legal status, which is an excellent deterrent to deportation, you own up.
You pay a 6,500 dollar fine, prove yourself proficient in English, pass a criminal background check, pay all back taxes, prove full-time employment, and go back to the Mother land to await a visa, for a minimum of thirteen years.
And conservative pundits howled amnesty again.
I'm seeing two Latinos, Miguel and Gorge, looking at each other with raised eyebrows and low whistles, "With friends like this, amigo, who needs amnesty?"
I hesitate to begin a list of the president's detractors on this because I should get to bed sometime tonight, but . . .
Sean Hannity takes the concept of beating a dead horse to new proportions, (Think of whacking a dried up jaw bone down the road with a stick) and then references all the flak he's taking over all the flak he's giving the president.
Laura Ingraham whines that all this time conservatives have begged the president to take the gloves off, and now he's taken them off and punched conservatives in the nose.
Peggy Noonan accuses the President of sundering the conservative coalition, serving notice on me that there was such a thing.
Michael Savage ravages the bill because the name Bush is attached to it and because if Michael Savage wasn't savage, he'd just be another nutritional expert with a political talk show.
Rush Limbaugh has opposed the president on this, but has studiously avoided joining the Bush bash.
President Bush doesn't do things for political expediency.
I do have a charming gift for understatement, don't I?
More later.

plot thickens

How much farther he could go on bald tires in this blizzard, Moses didn't know, but the slow and easy approach seemed to be working so far, so he kept the '93 Corolla in the center of the lane and glided along; no sudden moves, no quick acceleration, no hard brakes,
He was furious with himself. He couldn't have foreseen this storm. The weather forecasters sure didn't. They predicted a light dusting. But this kind of weather was the one thing he didn't, and should have, taken into account. It didn't do this in El Paso. It didn't even do this in Las Cruces. Even as close as Alamogordo, the snow had only iced the desert, frosting the mesquite and ocotillo and stretching over the sandy ground with a meager two inches. The farther up the mountain he came, the more nervous he got. The snow flew thicker and heavier. The roads went from wet to slushy to snow-packed, and since he'd left the highway, he'd not seen one set of tracks. That was another thing that bothered him. Leaving the deep fresh tracks behind him, he felt as if he were throwing out meat for some predator to follow. It was bad enough coming up here in the daytime. He hadn't been on this road in the daylight in months. It was more than a little confusing. He was used to following the dim outline of the pale gravel road in the moonlight, no headlights. In broad daylight, with all this blasted snow, he wasn't completely confident of his bearings. He wasn't sure how he'd made it this far, but he knew if he stopped, it was over. He could maneuver the rust-ravaged beater over the worst kind of desert terrain, but this snow. . .
His hands were starting to meld to the wheel, and his eyes ached, planting a headache solidly on top of his tensed neck and clenched teeth. He'd even turned the radio off, something he could never remember doing. If he could've stopped long enough to admit it to himself, he was scared spitless. But Moses wasn't the type to admit anything to anyone, least of all himself.
He couldn't afford to. One admission would knock over the first domino, and he'd been setting them up, one right after the other, for years. They curved and twisted and even looped back on themselves for all he knew. If one fell, they'd collapse so far back he could see his childhood, something he didn't care to see. Keep moving, don't stay in one spot too long. That was the reason he was mad. He knew as soon as he'd put those grave markers up, they should've split. For that matter, he shouldn't have even put the stupid things there. He just did it for Carson.
He couldn't have cared less where those two worthless people were rotting, but Carson missed his mother, and begged for a place where he could go and talk to her.
He shouldn't have buried them around here, shouldn't have put the markers up, shouldn't have left Carson up here so long, shouldn't have waited until this mother of all blizzards to come up here and get Carson, and shouldn't have taken that last turn, he had a bad feeling.
But he was afraid to slow down, much less stop, in more ways than one.
He had convinced himself, a long forgotten time ago, that he knew what he was doing. He was an impressive sight, with all that devil-may-care confidence. He cut an impressive figure anyway. He was tall for a Hispanic, something he could thank his German mother's side of the family for, if nothing else. His eyes were a clear blue, and his lashes were thick. His hair had the lustrous black sheen of his father's, but with more curl. His skin was the smooth, flawless color of dusk. And a dedicated work-out schedule had added smooth pads of muscle to his chest and back, filling him out like a hard-edged soccer player. His demeanor was quick and sure. The slight swagger, to anyone who cared to look hard enough, had just enough of a self-conscious check to it to reveal a bottomless insecurity. But it was pretty near perfect, and it didn't matter, anyway. Whatever was unnatural he'd done for so long it blended in. Even his voice, with the ragged edge to it, had an affected quality to it. His English, especially, had a flowing, almost musical cadence. He used profanity like rhythm, punctuating his carefully chosen phrases with a syncopated beat. He sprinkled a little Spanish cursing in his English as well, and gave it a nice overall American Salsa flavor.
He'd created himself. And he'd done it so well, that no one, least of all him, would ever know who he was to start with. It was somewhere back on that first domino.

It's Not That Easy

Recently, (a relative term) I mentioned a form of occult worship which combines certain elements of charismatic Christianity with Haitian vodou. It is representative of a religious culture awash in bizarre concoctions of doctrine.
Where I erred was in judging this to be a modern, or post-modern curiosity. The Isrealites persisted in combining all forms of idol worship with Judaism.
Much earlier, Cain insisted on sacrificing vegetables to God, and was only his mother's son. From Eve's initial protest and then acceptance of the serpent's dubious theology, I seem to gather that she chose to believe that the eating of the forbidden fruit dovetailed quite nicely with the rest of her theology. Outright rebellion it was not. Heresy rarely is.
I rehash to bring up another subject that I again considered a novelty; the practice of self-inflicted penance in the stead of God's convicting changing power. Upon reflection I am stunned by the prevalence of the prostitution of guilt.
Guilt has overtaken NASCAR as the national pastime. We are guilt-ridden, and, at the same time, extremely careless. And it is our guilt that enables us to be so care-free. It's easy. You compartmentalize. Guilt needn't interfere with our pursuit of happiness.
I grew curious over lyrics from a certain Christian group, recently, and availed myself of their website to see what made them tick. It wasn't jeweled movement.
I read of their reticence to be classed with "cheesy, holier-than-thou evangelicals." Their prioritizing of social concerns was in curious order for a group of professed Christians. They long to record anti-war songs, but feel their audience may not be ready for it. Asked about a rumor that they were stumping for Hillary Clinton for president, they placidly denied it, "at this time", although, they then went on to note that they did like her husband, but were currently "intrigued" by Barack Obama. They acknowledged abortion as a societal tragedy, but seemed more concerned with pushing the issue on environmental issues. They conjured up taboos set in place by the Christian establishment, and then bemoaned the imaginary restraints placed on them.
As I read on, I became disgusted with what seemed to be one of the most whining, pretentious, self-righteous, judgemental rants I'd ever heard from one group who calls themselves Christian on another group who calls itself Christian. (Oddly enough, there's really not that many self-righteous evangelicals around. They're all too busy sputtering, "Christians aren't perfect, just forgiven."; a worthy mantra, if applied correctly.)
This same group, who funds a large charity dedicated to the care of AIDS sufferers in Africa, expends most of their precious musical and lyrical talent on critical introspection.
Thoughtful, I would have called it. Spiritual navel-gazing now seems to be a more applicable term.
Evangelicals misuse guilt as well. By and large, the late twentieth century mutant strain of Calvinism now pervades every major evangelical denomination. Guilt is common here, also. An old friend, in fact. The worse you can feel about crucifying Jesus afresh every day in thought, word and deed, the more spiritual you are. It is a glorified form of self-deprecation. How awful it is that we cannot keep from pounding new nails in His hands every day! The studied conscientiousness of how our continual sin extracts continual sacrifice from Christ burdens many a radio preacher, oh, if only we could quit!
I myself am not above abusing guilt.
If I offend anyone, this troubles me deeply. I apologize, profusely, unsatisfied until the offended party forgives. A self-serving attitude manifests itself in my desperation for an apology. I don't wish to trouble myself any longer over the wrong I've done another. I question whether I ever troubled myself over the harm I caused another or whether I was sorry simply because I found myself inconvenienced by having to suffer through repentance. Acceptance of the apology and forgiveness is, consequently, nothing more than a placebo. All this was a subconscious process until recently, and frankly, I'm irritated that it ever reared its ugly head above water.
Furthermore, in referencing the relative ease with which I live out my Christianity, I wished to know whether we have truly taken on His yoke, or if we have, have we lightened the load?
I enjoy my Christianity. I've grown used to the sacrifice.
In case the glaring contradiction lurking in the last statement didn't jump out and bite you on the nose, I'll point it out.
If one grows used to sacrifice, it ceases to be sacrifice.
If your servitude becomes a comfortable fit, it needs alteration. It should chafe a little.
Does one go hunting for trouble? Perhaps not, but if you are advancing as you should be, you are behind enemy lines and trouble will find you.
Every Easter season we are treated to the spectacle of crucifixion in the Philippines.
By submitting to fifteen or twenty minutes of the most excruciating physical pain imaginable, you make a one-time, life-time sacrifice of our will.
If only it were that easy.
We are required to sacrifice our will daily.
Entire sanctification is appropriately categorized as surrender. Whereupon, however, we are not deposited in a stockade and instructed not to attempt escape.
Instead, we are taken to the arsenal, armed, and sent back out to do battle with our old comrade-in-arms, Self.

the little boy

He would never know whether it was a sixth sense or the sight of a branch springing upward, shedding it's burden of snow, out of the corner of his eye.
Whatever the reason, he had begun to rise out of his crouched position and turn, so that the blow had not the force it might have.
As it was, it was stunning, and vibrated his skull down to the base of his neck.
Dallas Cowboys blue swam in front of him.
Another blow, more solid, more square.
A child's face, looking afraid. . .
Another blow.

He resisted consciousness, because he vaguely suspected that he probably would prefer to remain unconscious.
He became aware of his surroundings in waking glimpses, before squeezing his eyes tightly shut and willing himself back into darkness.
A dirt floor, exposed rafters with nails jutting through plywood, a pile of sticks in a corner, a card table stacked with cans, an ax handle that looked fleetingly familiar.
He knew the boy was there, and he knew he couldn't move. He lay on his side, with both arms behind him. His left arm was completely numb, but he could feel the rope chafing his right wrist.
He lay as still as possible, feeling that if he could avoid attention, life might go on indefinitely. Not ideal, but discomfort was better than any new developments.
He was in the back of the room, farthest from the door. Somehow that didn't disturb him as much as it might have, because no instinct stirred within him to escape. Not yet. It was easier to lay still.
The cold, seeping up from the earth, further immobilized him. The semi-fetal position sustained the little warmth remaining in his body, yet another reason for remaining completely stationary. He began to discern a cycle to life. The door would open at roughly regular intervals, and for a time he could sense no movement. During these times, the door would remain open, permitting an intrusive draft that dulled any relief he might've gleaned from his respites of solitude.
Following usually what seemed about ten minutes, the door would scrape closed, and the other cabin-dweller would take up residence in the cabin's one chair, and watch him, or so Joshua assumed, with his eyes shut.
Time passed, doors opened and closed. He shuddered and slept.
His captor's chair creaked and cans clattered.
Consciousness stalked his resistant brain.

conscience kills the cat

He ate slowly, a laptop open on the kitchen table behind the bowl of soup and a mug of Chai tea.
He quickly forgot the intrusion, or thought he had, until he finished eating, when, as he arose to place bowl and spoon in the dishwasher and glanced outside at the mounting drifts, he was struck, reluctantly, by the improbability of it.
His nearest neighbor was twelve miles away.
Where did the boy come from?
He stood frozen, capitulating to the hateful notion that someone was intruding in his personal space.
David Copperfield sat upright by the leg of the table, regarding him with a kittenish cocked head. Joshua made his decision in a decisive, sudden movement toward the sink, causing Copperfield to attack his leg and Ebenezer to sit up quickly, ears pricking forward.
It was no good not knowing.
He'd constructed and sanctified this universe of his too long and too jealously to ignore the intrusion.
Neighbors, with kids, this close, was as the introduction of sin into the garden of Eden.
He shrugged into his coat and began lacing his boots, leveling a stern gaze at the eager Ebenezer. The dog was definitely staying. He'd have the intruders sought out and befriended before Joshua made it out of the yard.
He slipped out onto the porch and shut the door firmly behind him.
The tracks of his visitor were softening in the continuing snowfall, visible now as slight depressions in the deepening banks.
He followed quickly, but watchfully, not wanting to be seen before he saw.
The tracks continued down the road for a good mile, ricocheting off both sides of the road, sometimes detouring off into the woods a few steps, where gleamed the fresh wood of a broken branch or once, a partially assembled miniature snowman, lacking a head and sporting one arm.
The trail continued so, until at an upward left-hand curve in the road, the tracks followed instead a logging trail that forged straight ahead off the main road.
Here, the tracks began to straighten and the stride seemed to lengthen.
A destination seemed imminent.
The trail dropped off suddenly down a steep grade, leaving Joshua to wonder how a logging truck would possibly manage.
The snow was steadily consuming the forest, piling on the slenderest branches three and four inches deep, clinging to the rough pine bark like cumulus moss, creeping up the tree trunks, slowly obscuring any color or depth-perception.
The world closed in around him. The drooping clouds were impenetrable. Visibility was limited by the deepening drifts and the clustering puffs of snow that grew inexorably on every horizontal, diagonal, and vertical surface. Every color save white was being blotted out. He was going snow-blind.
A stiff breeze accompanied the storm, whirling the flakes into a maddening flurry, brushing his cheeks, resting on his eyelashes, blurring his vision.
He wasn't fond of hats but was wishing for once he'd neglected his wardrobe preferences and thought of comfort.
He frequently reached his hand up to brush the snow from his bare head before it had a chance to melt and then freeze again in his hair.
He almost walked right past it.
A little ways off the trail, a horizontal angle flickered at the corner of his blurred vision.
In the chaotic honesty of nature, the curves and crooks and spider-webbed branches, the tiny glimpse of man-made uniformity jumped out at him.
He stood very still, squinting into the wind, straining to see the now barely visible tracks and where they led. Tracking the boy was quickly becoming guesswork in the deepening snow.
He couldn't be sure.
Afraid of being spotted, although he had no proof as yet this was where the trail ended, he stood in his tracks for a long while before finally deciding to backtrack a little and get off the trail into the trees where the snowfall would be limited by the obstructing branches.
He found a spot under two crowding pines and hunched down, and studied the structure before him.
He'd seen it before, knew it was here, and if it hadn't appeared (possibly) that the tracks led to it, he wouldn't have considered looking here.
It was a very small, extremely rustic A-frame cabin, probably an old hunting headquarters, framed with odds and ends of lumber and particle board and supplemented heavily by young pines with the bark still remaining. The door was a sheet of plywood. A strip of rubber, formerly functioning as a hinge, hung cracked and dry on the four-by-four doorjamb and swung freely in the wind. The door was, however, apparently fastened or braced from within, as it fit snug against the doorjamb revealing only a half-inch crack at the top.
A drift obscured his line of vision to the bottom of the door, the sight of which would no doubt tell him if this were the unlikely end of the trail. If snow had drifted up on the door, he could move on, if it were swept back, the trail ended here and he would have no choice but to investigate. Neighborly he wasn't, but neither was he cruel. If the boy were here, he obviously couldn't stay, and if he wasn't, well . . .he'd cross that bridge later.
The whiteout was beginning to make his eyes ache. He opened them wider, straining. Multi-colored spots blotted his vision.
He shut them for a moment, tightly. The spots multiplied, bursting fireworks fading into blackness.
He kept them closed, wondering how long he could wonder around out here before the storm became a real blizzard and he became more lost than the boy he was looking for.
The wind gusted, nudging at the plywood door.

a little personal history

Lee and Matt wriggled free of the crowd as the chapel steadily disgorged it’s congregation into the fountain square.
“So, where are you going tonight and with who?” Lee asked.
“Have no idea.” Matt scanned the crowd.
“Oh, I see, you haven’t decided yet, you’re just looking the roster over for options.”
“More or less.” Matt responded slowly.
“It’s nice not to have to worry about that.” Lee spoke to the night air, since he knew Matt wasn’t really listening.
He was, though.
“What about Karen Smith?”
There it was again. He fervently wished Mr. and Mrs. Smith had never met. The result was causing him problems.The sooner this scuttlebutt died, the happier he would be. It couldn’t be long now. He’d avoided her like the plague for the last two weeks, trying to starve the rumor. In that way, and some other ways, rumors were like jackrabbits. Born easy, die hard. Not to mention the way the way they hopped around and popped up out of nowhere when you least expected them.
“What about her?”
“I heard you were- well, Angie was telling me-”
“You’ve been talking to Angie.” Lee cut him off crisply, glancing up at the moon.
“Yeah.”
“What else has Angie told you that you took for truth and gospel?”
Matt chuckled.
“Point taken. So. . .find somebody else.”
“I knew you weren’t listening when I said it was nice not to have to worry about that.”
“I was listening.”
“Then what’s your point?”
Matt shrugged, zipping his coat up before belaboring the point “Isn’t it a little depressing,” he smiled in his own inscrutable way, “-not to even think about women? I mean, less trouble, yeah, but what fun is it?”
“For you. Females for you have pros and cons. For me, it’s all cons. Why should I regret not having something I don’t want?”
Matt saw a blonde head in the distance and conceded the argument quickly. “I suppose you should suit yourself.”
“I am suiting myself, thank you very much.” he muttered to Matt’s departing back.
Having said that, he suddenly found himself in the near vicinity of an entourage of Karen Smith admirers; three of them, orbiting like Saturn, Venus, and Jupiter around the same sun.
He looked purposefully elsewhere, his eyes rolling involuntarily. He stopped short when his gaze settled back into place and locked onto a pair of large green eyes.
The minute their eyes met, she spoke, charmingly sarcastic.
“Oh, look. There’s Karen and all her men.”
He bristled in spite of his resolve to let the whole matter die of starvation. This insidious, casual rumor had gone far enough, and nobody was going to stop it but him. Time to put it to the sword.
He stepped closer, turning his back on the Smith solar system, and looked down into a face that was even prettier up close, and the eyes bigger.
“Do me a favor,” he requested in a tersely intimate tone, “and do not refer to me as one of Karen Smith’s ‘men.’”
Behind him, Venus laughed at something the Sun had said.
She looked up at him with just a touch of sobered remorse, but still saucy, and said, “I’ll be your girl for tonight, if you want me to.” Just like that.
His initial feeling was mild panic. The sudden dryness in his mouth was not what he wished to experience when being flirted with, given his self-confirmed and somewhat prideful independence of . . . And furthermore, it was unsettling, coming from her. Everything he had ever seen in her pointed to sincerity, not given to friendly flirting. In fact the first time he’d ever spoken to her, it was to say, “If you get your nose any higher in the air, and it rains, you’ll drown.” Such was her reserved, indifferent air to males; an attitude not easily reconciled with the coy insolence that saturated her enticing remark.
He weakly resisted until it came to him that it would take a better man than he to laugh and move on.
“We’re going out, somewhere.”
Sellout, he told himself
“Why don’t you come along, both of you.” he gestured towards her friend Dory who was regarding Natalie with what he would recall later as a shocked look.
Natalie now looked slightly bewildered. “Where?” she finally asked, supremely unsure of herself now.
“Not sure. Gotta find everybody. I’m supposed to meet em over by the post office. Hang on, I’ll go see if they’re there.”
He moved off through the crowd, while she turned away with a dismayed look in her eyes.
Ten minutes later, he returned to the same spot.
She wasn’t there. Neither was Dory.
He meandered through the idling crowd, until he saw his cousin.
“Hey, you seen Natalie?”
“’I think I saw her headed toward the dean of women’s office.”
What’s she doing in there?
“Would you go get her, we’re supposed to go to Covington and her and Dory were gonna come.”
“I’ll try.”
She returned shortly with the two of them in tow; Natalie, reluctantly, it appeared, accompanied by Jack Alder.
“He coming?”
“Yeah,” his cousin volunteered, “They’re gonna ride with him.”
Whatever for?
Since it appeared that Natalie was not going to look directly at him, he shrugged and dug his keys out of his pocket.
“Hey, can I ride with you?” Shelby asked. “Manuel said he’d be by later. so he can bring me back.”
“Sure.”
He and Shelby arrived last, since he never could find anything, not a gas station, much less a specific restaurant to which he’d never been, without at least three wrong turns and an occasional jaunt the wrong way down a one way street, pedal pressed to the floor, desperately racing to dart down a side street scant feet before the shocked, indignant glares of drivers coming the opposite direction, clearly offended at having to take their foot off the accelerator. And since his parents never could find it regardless of how many wrong turns and how much frenzied speeding down one-way streets, they never made it at all.
He and Jack sat opposite Natalie and Dory. He opposite Natalie, Jack opposite a nervous Dory. It appeared there were something afoot there, also. Chad and his brother and his brother’s perpetual fiancee sat to Lee’s right.
Chad, leaning into Lee’s peripheral vision from the opposite end and side of the table, flashed a downright smug smile at Lee, shifting his look significantly towards Natalie, then back at Lee.
What?
Chad then went back to conversing with his brother in hushed tones, with Lee and Natalie obviously the topic, judging from the sideways jerks of the head, and the glances down their direction that never quite reached them.
Sometime between the main course and dessert, Lee found himself intrigued. Not impressed, for he’d already been impressed. There was an abundance of impressive traits; beautifully shaped eyes, perfect mouth that needed no lipstick, auburn hair, endearing little mannerisms.
But what was intriguing was her complete lack of pretense. Sincerity, that was the word. She didn’t ooze goodwill, or exude enthusiasm or coquetry. She was just sitting there talking, not embarrassed, shy, or overconfident, yet apparently interested in him. He was definitely off balance. Every girl he’d ever known up to this point had served to reinforce his conviction that females were all well and good, just not for him. He was a little disgusted. Not very disgusted, just disgusted enough to be amused at his disgust. What sort of way was this for a woman to act? Just when he’d been completely content to categorize all women essentially the same, and just as content to leave them be as they were and go on his merry way without them, no hard feelings, thank you, this enigma casually stepped into his path and looked him full in the face. No pretense, no designs, just plain, undisguised interest. He’d never seen anything like it. And so, as one does with a novelty, he stopped to look.
When they had done with supper, and curfew loomed large, he got up to pay for his meal. When he returned to the table, he was disappointed to find them already gone. Manuel had since arrived and left, taking Shelby with him, so Lee got in his truck alone and blundered his way back to the college, five minutes past curfew, and meandered up the stairs to his room. He pulled his tie and dress shirt off and sat down at the desk in his khakis and t-shirt to spellcheck the essay due the next day. Halfway through, Matt eased the door open and ambled in.
“Where you been, boy?” Lee drawled.
“Went out with James Tackett and Levi and some girls.”
Lee chuckled. “I think I’ve finally got you figured out. You never go out with the same bunch twice in the same month. I don’t even know anybody named Tackett.”
“Linda’s cousin.”
“Linda?”
“Yeah, you know, blond hair. . .”
Lee put his pen down and twisted in his chair. “Blonde, really?”
A sheepish little smile flitted across Matt’s face. He dove onto his bunk. “So, what’d you do all night? Plot the violent overthrow of the marriage institution?”
“I went to Uno’s pizzeria.” Lee replied cryptically, turning back to his essay.
“By yourself, or with another bachelor?”
Lee doodled in the margin and said nothing.
“Oh, I see. By yourself.” Matt gripped the edge of his blanket and rolled toward the wall, thus relieving Lee of the burden of explanation.
The next morning, Lee’s eyes opened at seven o’clock. Just as he started to close them again, a thought nudged him awake.
He dressed quickly with the light off, leaving Matt and Jim still asleep and hurried downstairs and across campus to the cafeteria.
He came in the side entrance and searched the cluster of students down at the far end.
Sure enough, there she was.
He sauntered down the other side of the room, picking up a glass of juice and a muffin and headed for her table.
The closest seat available appeared to be three seats down from her, so he sat down, grateful when Shane Crosby across the table and four seats down hollered, “Well, look who’s up at this unearthly hour.”
He watched out of the corner of his eye and saw Natalie lean forward and look his way.
Fifteen minutes and some general commiseration about finals passed by and Natalie stood, leaving.
Lee gulped the last of his juice and shoved his chair back directly in front of her, unsure of what he was doing, just not ready to give up so easily.
“And where are you going?”
She never missed a beat, pulling a chair out from the opposite table and sat down, scant inches away from him.
She leveled that saucy sincerity at him and smiled. “Did you want to talk to me?”
Well . . . at least she cut through all that preliminary nonsense.
He smiled too, if a little shakily, and came right back, deciding that honesty, in the end, was bound to be the best policy.
“That’s what I came down here for.”
When the thirty minute conversation was over, he couldn’t remember exactly what it was they talked about, only that as they both departed the cafeteria for eight o-clock class, she asked, “When do you eat lunch?”
“Around one o’clock.”
“Okay.” she replied without inflection in her voice, leaving Lee with the pleasant impression that she simply took it for granted that they would see eachother at lunch.
Which they did.
And as they were leaving again, she asked about his finals, and why didn’t he bring his books down to the lounge and study there?
Finals more or less took a back seat as it will when two people who want to get to know eachother attempt to “study”together.
“So, when are you going home?” Lee asked, closing his philosophy book, finally conceding to himself the folly of trying to study while drinking in this new pleasure that was Natalie.
“My mom is supposed to pick me on Thursday, but . . .the old blue van hasn’t been running so well, so . . .”
Lee felt he had been around long enough to spot a hint like that one. But . . .no sense tackling conclusions.
“How are you gonna make it home if your Mom can’t make it?” he asked bluntly.
He nailed her. Her eyes went down and her pencil rolled in drunken circles in the margin of her notebook. Lee smiled inside. She had that same look last night after she had offered her company for the evening.
He quickly relented. “I could take you.”
He always gave up too easy. So did she.
He liked the way she gave up the charade; with a little smile in her eyes when she said, “Oh, but that’s way out of your way.”
“Oh, I think I could spare the time.”
The smile appeared on her lips. “I’d like that.”
I’ll just bet you would.

Yeah, it is a little self-absorbed.
Its my blog.