She said something like, “My family are
victims of learned helplessness.” It’s not
my fault as the finger pointed elsewhere
flailing in the wind like a windsock out of
control. And then the wind would settle down
and the finger would find its intended victim
and it would be the projection of guilt upon
the innocent. “They used that to make victims
of all others.” And the fickle finger of hate
(but not fate, thank the Lord) keeps flailing
and ultimately failing. She also said something
like, “The oddly fortunate outcome.” Did she
mean that circumstances are such with dire
challenges so great, that the primary purveyor
of learned helplessness is really revealed just to
be a windsock blowing helplessly in the wind?

During the interminably long
sermon, the parishioner’s mind
wandered off to thoughts of the
origin of the universe thirteen
billion-plus years ago and he

wondered if that seemed like
an interminably long time for
God who is the Alpha and
Omega in the whole process.
Closer to home, he considered

the geology of his continent
and just north of where he lives
along the Big Lakes — hot
boiling lava under Superior
and yet the water is almost

always too cold to swim, over
to the Grand Canyon and down
three million to sand, some
more to an inland sea, down to
semi-precious stones, slices

of creation preserved for
runners to go from the South
Rim to the North and back
again, mile after mile after
interminable mile probably

without much of a thought of
all those beautiful layers,
those tan, red, gray, black,
seemingly interminable layers
from the river to the ever

blue sky. And then he thought
about his short life and how
fast it is going. Amen. And
now the offering will be
received.

The man sits watching
a documentary on his
computer. It is on the

life of the last living
survivor of an indigen-
ous clan, all others hav-

ing been slaughtered 
in
the wave of Manifest
Destiny. The Indian was

a gentle soul with beauti-
ful brown skin. The man
looks up from his computer

screen to see the muted TV.
He sees beautiful people
with brown skin wearing

coronavirus masks, stand-
ing in a long, long line at
an unemployment office.

Later, he reads a line at
the bottom of the screen
of the still muted TV:

Virus deaths dispropor-
tionately higher for Native
Americans. And the deadly

beat of Manifest Destiny
goes on and on and on…
stopping the beat of

heart after heart after
heart…and breaking
the hearts of even more.

Put a nickel on a hernia;
put a dime on the scalpel’s line;
put a quarter on the physician’s order
and, the money’s on it, everything
will work out just fine.

I love the mission architecture,
reflecting in stucco love, mercy and grace,
and yet, the architecture
is all such a lie and disgrace.

He’s dealing with the white, silent
generation, the one just before the
famous Boomers. He’s trying to kid
and joke using irony, metaphors
and similes and what he’s getting
back is, “I need a time out,” and
“Get help!” The silent generation
doesn’t get it. They just want to
listen to the Platters sing My Prayer,
a group they probably don’t even
know were blacks from the ’50s
and that the remaining members
probably would be holding up their
fists like John Carlos and Tommie
Smith on the podium at the 1968
Olympics, and singing, “My prayer
is that Black Lives Matter.”

what a horrendous situation —
a huge, gnawing irritation,
a deadly inflammation,
a creepy, creeping sensation,
a plague upon our nation;
something zombie dead
is leading the nation
and we have more and more zombie dead
leading our nation instead
of anything we previously have known
as from our mouths, we begin to foam
and like zombies, we roam
turning the nation into a zombie zone.

When Caesar crossed the Rubicon
it was but a tiny river, a stream
but to add a metaphor, the game was on
and not all was as it would seem.
Only afterward did we know what was revealed
and what was then known —
that Rome’s fate was inevitably sealed.
The war was won but the republic soon gone
and Caesar dead beside his throne.
And so, “Has the Rubicon been crossed,” we ask,
“and what of our dear republic?”
Let us pray the die has not been cast
(to add but another)
and that our home is made of fabric tougher
that will last and last and last.

We need a hugger/lover;
we need to be smothered
by an unconditional lover;
as we recover
and we need to recover
by being smothered
by a hugger/lover;
we need a hugger/lover
who will bind up our wounds
and sing sweet lullaby tunes,
someone who kisses our tears
and chases our fears
away.
Oh, Sweet Jesus, for this we pray,
this and every single day
but until that day,
we know the caring thing to do
is simply to stay away
and save the hugs for the promised day.
Come, Sweet Jesus.

There is a new book out
in the “For Dummies” book
series: COVID—19 FOR
DUMMIES. It is three lines
and eight words long: Stay
home. Maintain social
distancing. Wear a mask.
Why have the editors of
the series published this
book? Duh.

*For those who actually
think there is such a book,
there isn’t.