He assumes he has THE TRUTH
as did those who kept slaves
and had women under the thumb,

but he has forgotten how to spell

ass-u-me
and his logic made me numb
because he left out science’s
steady roll of the

drum.
He thinks his truth will set
others free
to be
just like he loves to
be
but his cleverness
gives me
the hebeejeebees.
He states that evangelicals
must be diligent in
getting behind
the assumptions
right to the
hypotheses so patently
false,
but  false by
what standard —
an extrapolated,
isolated
text from holy
writ?
Not to nitpick,
but such eisegesis
is clearly not intended
by our brother Jesus.
And so, while this
blogger seemingly has
never had an unpublished
thought and has many
followers who
apparently have
very itchy ears,
I will not return to
this preacher’s blog

at any time in a

future that’s
near.

An elder from a former parish

died quickly, within three months

from start to finish. The former

pastor was informed thirty years

after being the pastor. Former

parishioners reached out all

those years later and all the

events those years contained

without previous contact. What

was the connection that precipi-

tated contact and that transcend-

ed time?  Time then, now and in

the future? The spirit of Einstein

and Jesus at work — one before

his time and the other right on

time — then, now and

in the future — eternity?

Standing in the salad section of the deli at

Whole Foods in Phoenix during the lunch

hour one May day, he heard a woman on

her cell phone saying, “Well, I really don’t

think it is my fault.” And he mumbled

audibly within ear shot, “Don’t we all think

it’s really not our fault?” As she was totally

absorbed in her conversation, he didn’t think

she heard him and even if she had, at most,

her response probably would have been to

glance at him and furrow her brow dismiss-

ively. Then as she grabbed some fresh

arugula and headed to another aisle, he

continued to no one in particular but every-

one in general with no one paying any atten-

tion whatsoever, “Wouldn’t it be refreshing to

hear someone take some responsibility and

say simply, ‘I really think it is my fault,’?”

But that, he then thought, would be like

standing in the salad section of the deli

at a Whole Foods in Phoenix, Arizona on

a ten degree below zero Fahrenheit day not

just in the otherwise merry month of May

but any month, for that matter, wondering

why there wasn’t any fresh arugula to be

had while the salad manager of the deli

section stood before all saying, instead of

simply passing the buck to God as would

have been completely understandable and

expected, “I take complete responsibility.

I should have anticipated this given the reality

of global warming and constructed a hot-

house in which to grow the highly desired

arugula. I believe it is my fault.” After which

the crowd, which had braved the un-

believable cold for their cherished arugula,

stormed the Bastille and hung the salad

manager on a meat hook in the meat section

of the deli and then pushed the hook out-

side in the subzero desert. And just maybe,

in part, that is why no one really thinks it is

his or her fault.

After they celebrated

Swedish Christmas

with all the goodies like

meat balls, herring in wine

sauce, and so many

anchovies

in olive oil,

salty, smoked roe,

luscious Lutfisk,

potato sausage and

jellied head cheese,

and after he had guzzled

too much Glug,

his wife looked at his

pitiful mug.

With pain so great in his

already sprained left

ankle,

he said if there

was saving grace,

it was that he passed

on the hot sauce mackerel,

(like that act would save

him). He plaintively moaned 

and seemingly solicited divine

intervention and admitted

that he certainly over-did it.

He said he should have left

the pig’s snout out 

(like that

would have done the trick),

because he was now suffering

from an excruciating

case of gout.

So his wife, with kindness in

her voice, said, “Put your leg

up, dear,

and I’ll take the dog out.

Don’t give it a thought

or worry

your sorry mug;

I’ll be sure to

drink the rest of the Glug.”

“Better Late Than Never,”

is a phrase I like better and better.

In light of it, I never say never

rather “Better late than never.”

I rejoice that I can be so clever

in realizing things I thought

I wouldn’t, couldn’t ever,

like my dog of fifteen years

whom I never understood

for the better.

There are those who said

after dachshund/beagle Happy

died and was off my tether,

he would be waiting at the

Pearly Gates to give me what

for all together.

But then someone sent me

a book on doggie behavior

and I have had four Chocolate

Labs who couldn’t have had

it any better.

Plus my doggie loving wife

said, “Better late than never,

and I’ll put you on my tether

till you treat our dogs better.”

And “Never say never” a

variation on “Better Late

than Never,”

had given me hope while I was

hopeless when

my late wife left prematurely

for the Great-Hereafter.

As sorry as I was that over

twenty-six years I didn’t

behave better,

my wife of eighteen

years says, “Never give

up. You are behaving

steadier and steadier.”

So when things look bleak

and you are ashamed of

your behavior, just say a

prayer and hear the Lord

answer back, “Well, Bub,

better late than never,

so never say never, never ever,

and by the way your dog

Happy after being with us

up here in the hereafter

forgives your sorry you-

know-what, wishes you

well and barks out loud,

“Better late than never and

if you were here and not there,

there would be no more

chances for you to live better.’”

So Happy the dog advised

me to take care

and cherish every moment

ever so rare.

Emerging quietly and almost without

notice until the first note

from within the aluminum,

glass, plastic and steel government office

filled with winter coated

citizens observing signs

requiring “silencio,” came a flute, then

violins and a soprano voice and

then one after another winter

coated citizens joining in on a cold, gray,

cloudy day singing “Here

Comes the Sun” in English

with Spanish subtitles for those outside

the drab architecture watching

the cheering, clapping and finally

bright colors and warmth emerging

noticeably within the cold, hard,

aluminum, plastic and steel office.

She heard someone say,

“The loss of a great love

is great suffering,” and

caught the involuntary

moan before it escaped

from her heart and

emerged barely audible

from her lips.

She cleared her throat,

swallowed hard and

excused herself for

a moment.

Already established communities

are hard to enter and harder of

which to become a part (ask any

in-law who feels more like an

outlaw), especially family size

churches whose members have

known each other seemingly for

eons and who have things in

common sometimes without that

even being blood – sometimes

like gravitating naturally toward

the external, majestic male

member instead of the female

counterpart and all the wonders

of that deep, dark wonderfully

mysterious place and being a

type A personality and a straight,

elderly white guy, who has spent

a lifetime spelunking for love, he

felt that the open and affirming,

everyone is welcome safe place

wasn’t going to be his place as he

saw the looks of suspicion on the

family members’ faces week after

week after week as he sought his

place in the back pew, because

whether he liked it or not and

even if it wasn’t true, in his case,

he has been, is and will be for some

time to come the enemy and even

though Jesus broke down the

dividing wall of hostility, fear is often

impervious to a self-sacrificial wrecking

ball when all you have known are the

wrecking balls of hostility, and so

whether he wants to accept it or not,

turn around is fair play even on a play-

ing field that has been leveled by love

and while he accepts the reality that

he is not in the club, he looks forward

to the kairos time of the community

that transcends clubs which may

mean more chronos time than he

has left, and, perhaps, that’s why

such a thing as hope exists.

They are anything but wealthy

financially, thank God, they say

because they don’t know if they

could resist the accompanying

temptations. It’s the same with

jobs. They did okay, again they

say, but nothing to boast about

except, perhaps, for jobs well

done, which might be a lot to

brag about, if they were the brag-

ging types, which, because of

circumstances they are not, thank

God — again they think for the

same reason, that being pride,

big heads and delusions of gran-

deur which, invariably, attack

the one percent with a predict-

ability rating greater than that

of the predictability of the

extent of the bubonic plague,

but they didn’t have the internet

back then to help track the

rapid spread of that disease.

Still, effects of the diseases of

greed and hubris are always

no-brainers and one hundred

percent predictable. Some

just get lucky and are passed

over and saved by grace, like

the covenant children in Egypt.