The man took the chocolate lab for a
walk in the rain on the second day of

the week-long tryout period. The six-
year-old dog, going on six months,

tugged frantically to the left and then
the right on the leash and then stopped

stone still and stared at an old, blue
van in a driveway. The dog hadn’t seen

his former master in six months which
had been spent in a cage in a down

state animal shelter. The man wondered
if a dog has an elephant’s memory. “Did

he drive a van, Buddy? Did you used to
ride in a van?” Then the man hesitated,

thought for a second and remembered that
dogs actually see shades of blue even

though color challenged and said, as
if the dog would understand, “Did your

master drive an old, dark blue van,
Buddy?” While the dog continued to

stand and stare at the van, the man
stood in the rain staring at the dog.

The man started to choke up, cleared
his throat, tugged on the leash and

said,“Come on, Bud, let’s go.”

The good old days when civil rights were
advocated for all including LGBT’s,
marriage was recognized for all sexual

orientations, women began to have power
over their own bodies, environmentalism
wasn’t a seven syllable dirty word, black

lives began to matter, browns, yellows
and reds and immigrants began to see
hope on the horizon, a brilliant bi-

racial president held forth with in-
credible dignity, moral rectitude and
a great sense of humor, there were

really, super angry, scared to death
whites who felt their Ozzie and Harriet
world was all slipping away and so they

got a white supremacist, racist guy who
happens to be a malevolent narcissist
elected to the presidency of the United

States while Adolph rose up from the grave
all these years after cowardly committing
suicide and shouted “Mein Kampf,” straight

armed salutes were seen here and there
and the bomb loomed large over amber waves
of grain and purple mountains majesty –

at least for the time being and all in
what seemed like a nano-second of
extreme democratic fragility.

There are dirty, oink, oink, old white
guys with an enormous amount of fleeting,
dying, extinguishing, vanishing power
grabbing, grabbing, grabbing, thinking
with their Little Elvis, dealing with
their Little Elvis, intimidating with
their Little Elvis, imploring with their
Little Elvis, begging with their Little
Elvis, threatening with their Little
Elvis when finally after the smoke clears
and the millions have been spent, all they
are left with is their limp Little Elvis to
shake, shake, shake and shake again
to get the last damn drop out at any old,
dirty urinal and not in their old, long
past white, cotton underpants which their
wives probably wash and perhaps even still
iron.

The brilliance faded
from the leaves when the rain came.
Soon leaves will fall.

Wind whipped wet leaves
tumble to the soggy soil
leaving branches bare.

While we drove into the city, we
watched all the trees shedding
their chlorophyll and turning various
colors from muted to brilliant. As
we drove past all those trees, we
tried to name them by their colors
and weren’t very successful, but,
nevertheless, we were mesmerized
by the colors, soon to disappear
until the next year.

After centuries of dualistic dismissal, religion is finally
ready to befriend the wisdom of science. And science is
regaining the humility to recognize that the intuitions
and metaphors of religion were not as naïve as they once
imagined. We were both in our own way trying honestly to
name our experience.*

As he read the meditation, he thought
of his “God of the Gaps” days when he
surely should have known better but
was behind the eight ball, so to speak,
in philosophical theology. Catching up
would come after an embarrassing
experience when a campus ministry
colleague laughingly blurted out the
accusatory comment in a staff meeting.
Humiliation can be a great impetus to
research and learning he thought. He
still flushes and gets a little warm
at the remembrance. He knows he owes
much to his pre and post doctoral
studies at his other alma mater, The
School of Hard Knocks.

*Richard Rohr, Daily Meditations, October 22, 2017

I _ad s_rger_ on t_e tip of
t_e i_dex fi ger of _ _ rig_t _a_d.
Fill i_ t_e bla_ks,
if _o_ ca_.

He swore he had made his last soup of the season
when his wife asked for a reason.
He said, “Enough is enough,”
And walked out of the kitchen in a big huff.
That evening his wife baked seasoned chicken
And the next morning, without warning
he got up saying, “I bet the left-over chicken
would make excellent soup,”
so he made for the kitchen.
His wife asked, “What is your reasoning?”
“My darling, nothing but the glory of your
unique, homemade seasoning.
“The pièces de résistance, it will be
like the glorious taste of new honey from the bee,
or my name is not Chef Boy Bobby.”
So he got the big pot
and went chop, chop, chop
with vegetables from the crisper.
He tossed in the seasoned chicken,
and then gave his wife a whisper.
“Thank you, darling, for making the
chicken richly seasoned.
It has given me a new soup-making reason.”
So he grabbed a full bottle of white wine
And his wife shouted, “Darling, it is too early. Look at the time.”
He poured into the pot all of the white wine
and said, “All will be just fine.
Darling, your love is my only reason
in and out of season.
You have inspired me to be
the great Chef Boy Bobby.”
With that she gave him a kiss
and left him to his soup making bliss.

It’s semantics — the way words are put
together; it’s all in the verbal inflection:
“Well, you know, he did sign up for it,”
as a note of condolence to a grieving widow?
Cold, uncaring, matter-of-fact, at a time
that matter-of-fact is the last thing needed.
And then there is “He was a hero to sign up
for it, for what may come, for what you hope
doesn’t but may and God forbid, did.” The (p)-
resident of the White House was coached by a
military father who lost a son to war, but
trusting anything to the (p)-resident is
always risky and given the (p)-resident’s
tin ear, we all need to fear what will come
out of his mouth, something none of us,
especially a grieving wife, wishes to hear.

Does every regret in life
Follow in nocturnal strife?
The softest pillow, it is said
Is a clear conscience instead.
Do the pearly gates creek loudly each night
With those waiting to contest every slight?
Is that why you toss and turn
Anticipating confrontations which burn?
Hell is now, so it is said.
Who knew it would be each night in your bed?
Is being unforgiven something pridefully to cherish
with the inevitable nightly result being to perish?
Admit it to one and accusers disarm
And make amends where it does no harm.
If accusers are long deceased,
conjure their spirits and ask
forgiveness to find sweet peace.
Either grace is sufficient for all
Or all each night re-experience the fall.
It is not so. Many sleep serene.
Salvation now is such a sweet thing.