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Doing The Right Thing

My junior year in high school at Montgomery Bell Academy in Nashville, as a social service project, my fraternity provided a turkey to a poor family in Nashville for Thanksgiving. I volunteered to deliver the turkey and all the trimmings. The family was white—a mother, and five or six kids, who were running wild in a run-down house with a junk-filled front yard. I took the turkey into the living room of the house where the only furniture was a card table with six folding chairs and a worn couch in the corner. The mother was probably in her early 40s but looked like she was in her 70s. She explained that her husband was serving time in prison and that is why she was having a hard time getting by. She apologized for the state of her house and seemed embarrassed. Then she thanked me again and again as her kids joyously jumped up and down.

As I returned home, I should have felt self-satisfied for helping a needy family on Thanksgiving. Instead I felt terribly depressed, wondering what they would be eating the rest of the time. How could a family be living like that? What is wrong with our world that they can’t have a decent life? These are the questions that went through my mind, knowing that the next day for my family’s Thanksgiving, we would be joined by loving relatives and enjoy a huge feast.

What should be the proper response to those experiencing hardship and pain? Does delivering a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner get those of us who are well-off off the hook?  Does working in a soup kitchen or putting a quarter into the cup of a beggar exonerate you or give you the right to boast of “doing your part”? What about contributing to a worthy cause or non-profit organization?

I came of age in the South during the 1960s when our national conscience finally conceded that giving a dime here or quarter there did not address the injustices of  Jim Crow and legal segregation, giving rise to the Civil Rights Movement. Embry and I both participated in that movement, which I have written about in Civil Rights Journey. It was a pivotal moment in our lives for which we are both grateful. The idea was to change the system through new laws and by creating a more level playing field. In some ways our country has made great progress. But there is still a long way to go. Is the answer structural, systemic change? Is it social revolution?

Embry and I have also done a lot of traveling around the world and worked in (Embry) or visited many developing countries where shantytowns and slums are prolific, and distraught people besiege you with their hands out, pleading for help. How are we supposed to respond as fellow human beings?

These questions are just as real today as they were when I delivered the turkey to the destitute, white family in Nashville in 1958.

Embry and I are both fortunate to have been able to pursue careers which allowed us to work in fields that tried to address some of the structural barriers resulting in hardship and suffering for many. Embry has done—and continues to do—research on health policy issues, and I have helped develop affordable housing and seniors housing. Is this enough? Does this get us off the hook?

The answer is a resounding “no.” Of course it is not enough. It is never enough. Just ask anyone who has worked in the Peace Corps or worked in US AID projects or on any kind of social initiative. Ask our daughter, Jessica, who has taught elementary school in one of PG County’s most troubled schools. Ask our daughter-in-law, Karen, who is a public defender in Newark. They will not tell you how righteous they feel for “doing good.” They will tell you how hard it is to make a difference and how you do your job as best as you can though you often fail, knowing that your work is never enough.

The world is troubled and fragile. The issues facing the generations behind my own “Silent Generation” are in many ways more ominous and challenging with two doomsday scenarios staring us in the face: the ongoing threat of nuclear war and now climate change. The list of unfinished business is long: income disparities, ethnic and racial inequality, unequal access to affordable health care, domestic and world poverty, increasing polarization, and ominous threats to the democratic process in the Era of Trump, to name a few.

The answer, I think, to the question of what can we do to make a small difference is not an either/or– between trying to change or reform the system versus simply providing a helping hand when we can. It is a both/and. I believe that we should start on the personal level. We should treat all people fairly and respectfully and try to live a life of integrity and kindness. Then there are many additional options and possibilities for making a difference. We can give money to good causes, and we can volunteer to work in those causes and to provide hands-on help to those in need. If we are really lucky as Embry and I have been, we can work in jobs that at least try to be part of the solution rather than the problem. And we can address the social and structural issues by voting for candidates who will vote for laws to level the playing field and provide help to those who are struggling. We can get involved politically  and speak out for candidates we believe in. We also can–and should– stand up for the causes we believe in and for justice.

But in the end, you will realize, as I do, that the world and the universe are much bigger than we are. All we can do is to play our bit part as best as we can, be grateful for the short time allotted to us on his marvelous, lonely, blue planet, and thank God for giving us the opportunity to make a difference.

 

 

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The Geraldo Story

In the last blog posting, Gary Green has written a compelling defense of what I would call orthodox Christian faith, for which I am very grateful. While I may qualify as one of those secularists Gary writes about (actually more of a Universalist masquerading as an Episcopalian), I understand his arguments and actually am not as far removed from orthodoxy as you might think.

What really resonated with me was the Geraldo story. If he even had a funeral, it is doubtful that anyone eulogized Geraldo. He did not live a long and productive life, spending a large part of his life in prison and dying in his early 50s. His conversion to Christianity gave him purpose and hope—not only for getting by from day to day but for something much greater: hope that his life on Earth was not futile or his suffering in vain, but that in the mystery of death he would  pass to the Other Side.

One of the troubling questions I have asked myself from time to time is this: if there is no afterlife, if there is no union with the Divine, then what are we to make of the pain and suffering so many people go through during their short lives? The marathon metaphor that I used in “Passings” might make some sense for people who like me were dealt a good hand, but what about those who were dealt the bad hands–people with severe mental or physical illnesses, those who live in inescapable poverty, who have been sexually abused, who are victims of racism or violence, who are not able to establish loving relationships, who tragically lost loved ones, who suffer from addiction or are homeless, or who are just not able to find their way in life for any number of reasons. The list could go on. Are their lives in vain?

I also like to use the metaphor that the value of our lives is determined by how we play the hand we have been dealt. But what about those people who do play their hand as well as they can but suffer nonetheless? Is there no justice?

This is where secular humanism pretty much hits a dead end: Ok, so life sucks. Get over it.

This is where religion, especially Christianity, offers hope: Yes, life may suck, but this is not all. There is more. In the big picture, it will be ok.

But, some might ask, that is what you might hope and believe, but are you just deceiving yourself? Is this just wishful thinking?

These are the questions we humans find ourselves asking as we try to make sense out of our experience and the world around us. As we try to find meaning and purpose, and belief that in the end it all makes sense. As Gary suggests in his posting, there are no hard and fast answers: the pathway leading us through despair is called faith.

The fact that human pain and suffering are real for many people came home to me during that eventful summer of 1965 when I was a chaplain at Boston City Hospital. Almost all the people I visited and befriended were poor, and many were in desperate shape. One recent immigrant from Puerto Rico was so despondent that he had jumped off a bridge to commit suicide only to fall on two elderly pedestrians killing them both. He only broke a leg, and was handcuffed to his bed, awaiting trial for manslaughter. A 23-year-old woman died on my watch from cancer. Her working class family asked me to preside at her funeral, which happened in their small living room in a dilapidated row house in South Boston. Fewer than a dozen people were present. Several others in the hospital had terminal illnesses and as far as I could tell had no visitors except for me.

Embry and I had not married yet, and she was working with kids at an inner city church in Boston, when one evening we went to see “The Pawnbroker,” a film starring Rod Steiger about a calloused and hardened, white, pawnbroker in Harlem, who was taking advantage of poor, struggling African Americans. At first my response was to hate this guy, who was cruel and uncaring; but as the film progressed, through flashbacks it became apparent that he had been a Holocaust victim. His life was only marginally better than the lives of his Harlem customers. I believe there was some sort of redemption at the end, but it did not register with me. As I got behind the wheel of the car, I completely fell apart, sobbing for what must have been at least ten minutes. Embry must have thought I was completely unstable, and she would have not been that far off. It was the closest I have ever come to a nervous breakdown. I could not deal with the suffering that I was seeing all around me at Boston City Hospital, triggered by the suffering portrayed in that extraordinary film. Eventually I got over it and realized I had to move on. I had no choice but to accept that this is just the way the world is.   

The world, of course, is a lot more—a mixture of pain and hope, despair and joy– and at age 76 as I look back on my own life, I feel that I have been truly blessed. I am deeply grateful.

But still. For many this is not the case. There are no guaranteed happy endings, no guaranteed justice or fairness—at least not in the life we live on this planet. And that is why Gary’s telling of the story of Geraldo is compelling and hopeful.

 

 

 

 

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From Old Friend, Gary Green: An Answer To Joe

Gary Green was my roommate at Union Seminary in the fall of 1965, just before my marriage to Embry. After graduating from Union, he received a PhD from Yale in religious studies and joined the faculty at Connecticut College where he taught in the religion department until his retirement a few years ago. Since retiring he has spent a great deal of time and energy in the Prison Movement, working with inmates. He is a noted scholar and theologian and without question the smartest guy I knew at Union or practically anywhere else for that matter. We have stayed in touch over the years since he and his wife, Pricilla, regularly visit DC to see their two adult children and grandchildren, who live in the Baltimore/ Washington region.

Dear Joe,

I want to thank you,  first of all for taking the time and effort to share your honest and heartfelt response to your recent confrontation with our common mortality. In doing so you have also presented me with a difficult challenge, for a testimony like yours is not to be ignored or taken lightly. Like you, I’m slogging through my seventies, living through the funerals of friends and facing the inevitability of death with ever-increasing urgency. Since I’m also a committed Christian and a theologian by training and vocation, your letter challenges me to respond, even though it’s a task that part of me would like to avoid. So lest I be seen, by myself and others, as a hypocrite or a coward, I will heed the apostle’s advice to be “always prepared to make a defense to anyone who asks you for a reason for the hope that is in you” (1 Pet. 3:15).

If the resurrection of the dead were a minor issue for followers of Jesus—one of the adiaphora, those matters that the Protestant Reformers regarded as optional but not essential to faith—things would be different. But clearly it is not. It’s right there in the creeds we recite and in virtually every writing of the New Testament; but most important, it confronts us repeatedly and centrally in the life and teachings of Jesus himself. (There are some who would like to strip this teaching from Jesus while continuing to honor him as a great spiritual teacher, but this move simply turns Jesus into someone else with the same name.)

As you say quite rightly, death is a mystery. But what kind of mystery? In a secular culture like the one we live in, mystery is just a word for something we don’t understand and probably never will.

For Christian believers, however, life beyond death is a mystery, but one we affirm nevertheless. That affirmation is called faith, and it differs radically from the kind of worldly matters that we can simply know and take to be factually true. If we approach the question of eternal life as though it were a “normal” question, something we can answer by careful reasoning or common sense, of course it sounds implausible. So for secularists, the matter is settled: we can’t know for sure, but we suspect that it’s very unlikely that anything “comes next.” Most of the people I know who aren’t practicing Christians—and some who are—are de facto secularists; that is, they don’t really think much about ultimate questions (because it seems a futile effort) but they live and think as though there were no reality beyond the world of immediate experience, the world we understand through the empirical sciences or not at all. Those of us in our seventies grew up in a quite different culture, one in which you could be a Christian more or less by default. A few people still cling to that world, the world of the once-“mainline” churches, which continue to lose members. I am happy that for me that’s no longer a possibility, even though it’s hard to live in a culture (as a pastor friend of mine likes to say) that is “in the process of giving itself permission to persecute Christians.” Kierkegaard, who was one of the first to identify, and reject, modern Christianity-by-default, believed that there are only two possible responses to the message of Jesus: faith or offense. That’s becoming clearer to me every day now.

So what does it mean to affirm by faith the mysteries of God, including the resurrection of the dead and life everlasting? I love your analogy of life to running a marathon—not least because, as you know, I too ran (literal) marathons until my knees gave out. As a student of the Bible, you know that the apostle Paul used the same analogy: “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith” (1 Tim. 4:7). But it is also Paul who wrote, “If in Christ we have hope in this life only, we are of all people most to be pitied” (1 Cor. 15:19).

The key word here is hope. As I was reading your testimony, some words popped into my head from a prayer that is said at a Christian burial (“while earth is cast upon the coffin”): “In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God ourbrother N. . . .” (BCP, p. 501). What a puzzling phrase: “sure and certain hope”! Isn’t hope a term we use when are not certain? The Bible itself tells us that “hope that is seen is not hope” (Rom. 8:24). So how can our hope in the resurrection be “sure and certain”? I believe the explanation is that our hope is grounded in faith—defined as believing the promises of God. So the certainty comes not from ourselves but from God who has given us the promise of resurrection: “Jesus Christ . . . was not Yes and No, but in him it is always Yes. For all the promises of God find their Yes in him” (2 Cor. 1:19). But that means Christians may not treat the certainty of resurrection as though it were some established fact that only they are privy to. Our creed affirms that “we look for the resurrection of the dead.” This is not the language of people who “have all the answers” but of people confessing a sure and certain hope in God’s promise.

For secularists faith can only be the holding of beliefs without sufficient evidence. But the apostle anticipated that reaction as well: “For Jews demand signs and Greeks seek wisdom, but we preach Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and folly to Gentiles, but to those who are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men” (1 Cor. 1:22-25). That means that if I confess my faith in the gospel I’d better be prepared for people to see me as a fool.

You begin your testimony with accounts of the recent funerals of two friends, both of whom, you say, lived rich and productive lives. I want to tell you about my own recent experience of the death of a Christian friend. I met Geraldo five years ago at the prison where I serve as a Christian volunteer. He was an inmate and I was his pre-release mentor. He told me at our first meeting that he was the second youngest of seven brothers, two of whom had died in the past year. One of those older brothers had sexually abused him when he was eight years old and never acknowledged the abuse but just wanted to “move on.” This was Geraldo’s fifth incarceration. All were for larceny or burglary, motivated by alcohol and drug addiction. Once he had been shot and survived. Another time, while cornered inside a room, he had almost fired his shotgun through the door but hesitated at the last minute. He was later haunted by the thought that he had almost killed a man. But now he was a Christian, he told me, and was optimistic about not returning to prison again. For the next eight months we met, talked, and prayed together weekly. He was a quiet and gentle man (yes!) who spoke in a soft voice and suffered most in the prison environment from having to live in a dormitory with over a hundred other men, surrounded by constant noise and chaos. But he worked in the prison laundry, where inmates brought him their bags of laundry, and while the washing machines ran, he would counsel some of them and pray with them.

After he was transferred to another correctional facility at the other end of the state, I visited him once, the last time I saw him face to face. But he continued to write to me intermittently, even after his release. He was a gifted artist and drew greeting cards while in prison, from which he earned a bit of money. The photo shows me holding a gift he sent to me that I had framed; it now hangs on the wall of my study. He painted it on a handkerchief, using paints that he made by crushing colored pencils purchased from the prison commissary.

There was a lengthy gap in our correspondence: I learned later that he had served another term in prison. But he got back in touch with me after his release, and we texted periodically and talked a few times on the phone. My last text from him, just last July, was about a worrisome message he had received from his doctor. Then nothing more for several weeks. Earlier this month I received a phone call from his son-in-law, who had found my number in Geraldo’s phone. He told me that Geraldo had died after a brief but severe decline while awaiting a liver transplant. He was fifty-three years old. Had the son-in-law not called, I would never have known what happened to my friend.

Clearly, his was not a long, rich, and full life. If the life of this man is to have meaning, if it is to be redeemed, it will have to come from another source than his life on this earth. So, yes, when I learned of his death, I saw him—through eyes of faith—seated at that heavenly banquet table with the Lord Jesus. And I know, through a sure and certain hope, that all his tears have been washed away (see Rev. 21:4).

So Joe, my old roommate and friend, I can’t think of anything more to tell you. Like death and eternal life, our faith, too, is a mystery. I don’t know anyone who acquired it by study or reasoning or argument, because it can only come as a gift—as the free gift of God’s grace. I hope you will not take it amiss when I say that I look forward to joining you at that banquet table. If I get there first, I’ll save you a place, and I hope you will do the same for me.

Yours in faith, hope, and love, Gary

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Passings

Two funerals this weekend of old and dear friends, word yesterday of a college fraternity brother’s death, learning a few weeks ago about the tragic death of a good friend’s wife, the stunning, televised, funeral of John McCain, and several close friends with terminal illnesses. When you are in your mid 70s, it is hard to miss the writing on the wall: we aren’t going to live forever.

So what are we to make of this? Is death the moment of our passing into eternal life when we will be reunited with our loved ones who have died before and the moment we will be with God forever? Do you believe this? I don’t, and neither did the friend of mine whose funeral was this weekend. Yet that is what one of the eulogists said about him—that my friend knew that when he died my friend was certain he would go straight to heaven, be reunited with his loved ones, and sit next to Jesus.  Even though he was a loyal and regular churchgoer, I know he didn’t believe this because the two of us had a conversation about it the week before he died. He was in hospice, very weak, and knew the end was near.

“You know, Joe,” he said, “I am a deeply spiritual person and believe in God. I believe that there is a purpose to life and a purpose to the universe. I feel truly blessed and grateful for my life. But do I believe my cremated ashes will be magically reassembled and suddenly I will find myself at a banquet table seated next to Jesus Christ? Please! Death remains a mystery. And what happens next? Who knows? I know some Christians who say, probably nothing. When we die, it is over. And I say that is ok to believe that. What happens next is not what is really important. What is really important is how we live our life on Earth. That is what counts.”

The funeral service for him was  packed. By his standard he scored high.  He lived a rich and full life and was loved by many.

The other funeral Embry and I attended was also in an Episcopal Church. This friend was a former neighbor, a distinguished member of the  foreign service, a former ambassador, and a pillar of his church. His memorial service was also standing room only and recognition of a long and productive life, lived to the fullest. The liturgy was mostly from the Gospel of John with its assurance of  eternal life—but only for those who have committed themselves to Christ and are true believers. My neighbor lived and worked all over the world and knew people of many faiths. He was progressive politically and theologically. I could not help wondering what he would have thought of these passages.

As some of you may know, I studied to become an Episcopal priest and have a  Masters of Divinity degree. I was not ordained into the priesthood but have been an active churchman almost all of my adult life, serving in virtually every lay capacity that you can. Embry has done the same and currently sings in the choir and serves on the vestry at our neighborhood Episcopal Church. We have paid our dues. But does this mean that we have all the answers or that we have certainty that we are going to live in eternity after we die? And how important is having the assurance of eternal life in making sense out of our own, all-too-short, lives on this small, blue planet in a vast universe of billions and billions of galaxies, each with its billions and billions of stars, many with their own planets?

The short answer, in my view, is not very. My friend was right. While no one knows for certain what happens after we die, what we all know is that we do die and have a very short period of time to make the most out of the life we have been given.

I have struggled with the mystery of death and what happens next for a long time. During my years in seminary I spent one summer in Boston as a chaplain at Boston City Hospital where I also participated in a program called “clinical training.” Part  of this involved daily, group therapy sessions led by a trained counselor designed to help seminarians better understand themselves and do better relating to and providing pastoral care to their flock. Toward the end of the program we all had to write an essay about death. I struggled with this and then poured out my heart on paper, trying to make some sense of what death means. When I got the paper back, I received a D with the inscription by one of the program leaders that I would have gotten an F but for the fact that it would have meant that I would have failed the entire clinical training program and also that my essay was well written and thoughtful. My mistake: no mention of the guarantee of an eternal afterlife for Christians and no mention of being united with Jesus Christ forever.

When I asked him about it later, he replied earnestly, “Joe, this is the most fundamental part of the Christian faith. If you are not a believer in going to heaven where you will be with God and Jesus, many in the church believe you are going to hell. How could you leave something like this out?”

Short answer: because I do not believe it. I did not believe it then, and I do not believe it now. So after all some 55 years have passed, I am no closer today than I was then to “knowing the truth.”

 The main role of religion in the human drama, I believe, is giving us some guideposts and affirming universal values, which are remarkably similar across most major religions: values like love, fairness, generosity, justice, honesty, kindness, integrity, selflessness, helping others, humility, and reverence for the Divine.

Now you know why I was deemed unfit for the Episcopal priesthood.

So in my mid 70s when this weekend I attended funerals of two good friends, one about five years younger and the other five years older, I couldn’t help acknowledging that the end of the road is getting closer for my generation and for me. That is just the way it is for us humans, in fact, for all living things. And the odd thing is that the idea of approaching the end of the road scared me a lot more as a young man than it does now. But I suppose this is natural. As a young person you have a whole life in front of you. The fear is that you will not get your chance. As an old man, you have had your chance. You have given life your best shot.

I was a runner for most of my adult life until my knees gave out, and think that running a marathon is a good metaphor for our journey through life. Running a marathon—or any long race—is really, really hard. You struggle to keep going and finally when you stumble across the finish line, you collapse in fatigue and joy. Hey, you did it! You finished the race! No, you didn’t win, but you were never supposed to. You ran at your own pace. And you finished.

And I think that is the way life is. And for that I thank God, who goes by different names in many languages and in many religions. I acknowledge the Divine mystery that we humans can’t explain but which gives meaning to the race we run and in the end, gives us reason to believe that on some deeper level, it all makes sense.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Is This The Beginning of the End?

Sometimes a life means more in the context of history when it ends.  Need I mention one such example that occurred over 2,000 years ago? In no way do I mean to suggest that John McCain was  like Jesus of Nazareth, but there was something about that historic funeral yesterday that seemed to me something more than words can express and possibly a turning point in the nightmare we call Trump. The moment came during his daughter’s emotional speech when she talked about America  “always being great” and was interrupted by a thunderous applause that seemed to last for minutes.  This kind of response to a sermon or eulogy never happens in the Washington National Cathedral.

We were watching on national television a direct, though subtle, verbal assault on a sitting president in a packed cathedral of both Republican and Democrats, the leaders of our nation. What was this all about? What were these flawed leaders trying to tell us by applauding spontaneously—these people from both parties who have on the whole failed our country by not standing up to a wannabe tyrant and dictator and not addressing our nation’s fundamental problems, by pulling us apart rather than bringing us together? Were they trying to tell us that they get it?

Lieberman, George W. and Obama all came next and added their two cents worth reminding the mourners of the traditional American values that John McCain stood for—inclusiveness, country over party, equal opportunity, civil discourse, and fairness. All the speakers pointed out that in the past, most of the time, the big fights in Congress were not over basic American values but rather the best way to achieve them.  Sure, there were big exceptions like slavery and the Civil War, and  the civil rights movement, but still we Americans are for the most part grounded in universal values that most of us accept and aspire to. But certainly not all of us and seemingly  not today.

Trump was asked not to attend the  funeral. He used the free time to tweet nasty comments about Canada, Mueller, Hillary, and Sessions before heading out to his usual Saturday golf game. But Jared and Ivanka were there and so were a handful from his Cabinet. Will they get the message? Were they applauding? Will that moment in Meghan’s eulogy  last in the minds of leaders on both sides of the aisle? Will this mean  that they realize it is now time for things to change?  Did the message from a weeping, 33 year-old, bereaved daughter get through to them? Did they see this, as I did, as a watershed moment?

Shortly after the service when driving out to Mt. Rainier, Maryland, to out daughter’s house, a perfect rainbow  appeared in the distance right in front of our car. All the colors were there, and the arc seemed to reach from one side of the earth all the way to the other. The most amazing thing  about this rainbow was that that it suddenly  appeared with blue sky all around it. What was that all about?

Could this mark the beginning of the end, or perhaps better said, the beginning of a new beginning?

I know. Don’t hold my breath. I won’t, but I can still hope.

 

 

 

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From The Editor of Faux News: Is the Trump Nightmare About to Enter a New Chapter?

I am not sure exactly what got to me this morning. I have heard Trump  talk about the fake press before and how reporters are “the enemy of the people.” I have heard him send up trial balloons about censoring  “fake news” and how only the word of the President can be trusted. He has talked before about violence from the Left and how the Democrats will try to destroy the Christian faith if they get control of the House, and about how if this happens, it will be the end of the Republic. He does  not miss an opportunity to denounce Mueller and Sessions or to deny any collusion with Russia even while denying that Russia had anything to do with our elections. He continues to blame immigrants and look for scapegoats. His supporters still scream at the top of their lungs, “Lock her up!” None of this is new.

I think what bothered me today was his anger, which has always been present but with his enthusiastic base at the Indiana rally last night seemed to go up  a decibel or two.  He seems to be bordering on panic. Something in the air makes it feel like the end of this chapter is nearing. The Mueller investigation is getting close to winding down. Trump’s cronies who have been convicted or copped pleas are now all talking. Something big seems to be just around the corner.

But what will that be? What will the next chapter in this sordid drama look like? The Trump presidency has captivated our nation like nothing I have seen before. I do not see how his behavior can continue for a whole lot longer without bringing down the country with him.

 Will we as a nation come through this, asserting our values of equal opportunity for all, fairness and justice, the rule of law, and a level playing field? Or will be go the way of many countries in the past that have retreated to authoritarianism? How strong is our democracy? Will new leaders who are more like John McCain than Trump emerge to stand up for country over party or we will descend to more tribal warfare and instability? These unanswered questions are chilling. This could be our moment of victory like when we as a nation confronted Joe McCarthy and Richard Nixon and stood firm that they had stepped over the line.  Like when we passed the civil rights bills, outlawed Jim Crow and legal segregation. Or this could be our moment of  doom and disgrace. It was never guaranteed that these decisive historical moments would be victories. They happened because brave leaders confronted difficult issues head on and stood up to power and fought for what was right.

That is where we are right now. Regardless how the Mueller investigation turns out, it is time for leaders in both parties to put our country first and their parties second. The values of freedom of the press, free speech, fairness, civil discourse, equal opportunity, equal protection. and the rule of law must overcome what I call the forces of darkness.

It is also time for each and everyone of us who believes in these fundamental American values to do our part—by voting, speaking out, organizing, and standing up to Trump and the horrific values he has brought with him into the White House.

 

 

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Faux News Returns: Will This Trump Speech Alter The Course of History?

 

Here is Trump’s speech,  delivered, prime time, from the Oval Office on all television networks, at 9:00 PM EST  one day following the Supreme Court’s decision regarding indictments of presidents while in office and the granting of presidential pardons:

Good evening, my fellow Americans.

I am addressing the American people and the world this evening from the Oval Office about a new direction that the United States of America will be taking and about decisions that I have made that will affect the lives of each and every one of you watching.

First of all, I would l would like to thank Justice Kavanaugh for casting the deciding vote on two important Supreme Court cases. Now it has been decided once and for all that no president of the United States can be indicted for any crime while still in office. It has also been decided that I can pardon anyone I want to, any time I want to, and for any reason I want to, and I can pardon who I want in advance. Thank you, Justice Kavanaugh. I knew you were the right man for the job.

Now let’s get down to the basics. I am sick and tired of this Mueller investigation, which is a sham, witch hunt and based on fake news. The American people know that Russia was not meddling in our election; and if they were, there was no collusion.  So I have fired Mueller and his team, but I have done more than that. At exactly 2:00 PM today, I entered his office, armed with a gold-plated, AK 47 given to me as an appreciation gift by the NRA; and since I now am entitled to do this by law,  I blasted away. Unfortunately Mr. Mueller, the no good Democrat sympathizer and witch hunter, was out to lunch as was his entire staff. Some kind of retirement lunch or something. Lucky for him and those flunkies who work for the slimy, low life, scheming cheat and liar. His life was spared, but his office was not. I shot up everything I could and left a note telling him he and everyone else who worked for him  that they were now history and that all the evidence was now destroyed. This sordid chapter of American history is now behind us, and we can move on.

Accompanied by my worthy vice president, who carried a large ammunition case of silver bullets given to me by my good friend, Vladimir Putin, I immediately went over to the office of the no good Attorney General, Jeff Sessions, who I never should have appointed in the first place, the dumb, ignorant idiot, and fired away. He too was absent, and no one was there to take their medicine, but his office is now in shambles and decorated with bullet holes. I left a pink slip on his desk.  I have a long list of people I intend to visit in the days and weeks ahead.

Now some of you may think that this behavior is out of character for someone who is President of the United States. Well it used to be, but not anymore. The Supreme Court has made that crystal clear. We presidents can kill anyone we want, anytime we want, and there is not a thing anyone can do about it until we are no longer president–except you can impeach us, but that is not going to happen in my case. My base loves me more and more every day. There is not a single Republican left who does not worship me now that the low-lifes, Flake, Corker and McCain are out of the picture. The votes are not there and will not be there to kick me out. America loves a strong man. America has been longing for one for years. And America, now you have got one!

And there are many ways to drain the swamp. One of them is with bullets. This is the one that works best.

But there is only so much one person can do, even if that person has the Vice President of the United States by his side carrying ammo and cheering with every shot. That is why today I have authorized the creation of a special police force, which I am calling “The Swamp Drainers.”  Eventually they will replace the incompetent, biased, and irresponsible FBI. I am inviting all Americans to apply to be part of this new army, which I believe will change the course of American history. Actually, world history. If you get accepted, you will be issued your own AK 47 with my autograph on it, and you  will be given a Swamp Drainer uniform including a green or red beret and an arm band with the Swamp Drainer logo showing an alligator with a knife through his throat and a big letter “T.” I designed it myself.  There will be two classes of Swamp Drainers. One will be for full time professionals, who will earn good money, well above the minimum wage, though I do not think there should be any minimum wage, plus special health benefits, which are not Obamacare but something better. Obamacare is terrible and a disgrace, and if it weren’t for McCain, it would be dead. You people get the green berets. The second class will be for volunteers, but you get to keep the  autographed AK 47 and your uniforms for as long as you like. You will provide the backup for the professionals. You people get the red berets. I am not sure how many Swamp Drainers we will need, but there will be an incredible number. Unbelievable, really.

But here is the thing. You Swamp Drainers will report directly to me. I am your boss, and you will do what I say, and here is where the second Supreme Court decision comes in: once you are accepted and become a Swamp Drainer, I will grant you in advance, a pardon for any act you do which I direct you to do. So even if you commit what fake news organizations might call a crime, as long as you are doing it for me, no worries. Home free. That is what the Supreme Court just decided. I would like to thank Justice Kavanaugh for that.

Speaking of fake news organizations–like the Washington Post, New York Times, CNN and MSNBC– you will be taken care of by the Swamp Drainers. You should all close down and get out of town—get out of the country—now while you still have time.

Some people who are liberal, bleeding hearts, Hillary supporters and namby-pambys are going to start crying like Chicken Little, “The sky is falling.”  Others are going to try the impeachment route. Do not even  think about it. It will get you nowhere. Keep in mind the power of the president and now the pardons granted to the Swamp Drainers, who will be doing the heavy lifting to restore order and move along the Trump agenda. You do not stand a chance.  I am a fighter and I win. I win on my terms and I always will. Some like all the Evangelicals who love me and  think that I am the second coming of Jesus Christ will understand why I am taking these decisive actions and why I am the salvation for this country.. While I admit that I rarely attend church and have not read any of the bible, I trust my Evangelical supporters. They know. They know who I am and why I am doing this.

There are some who still believe that in six years I will be forced out because I can’t run again and then they can indict me. Think again. Do you believe that for one moment I would let something like that happen? Consider me president for life. No jail time for me or any of the Swamp Drainers. Congress will have no choice but to go along even if that means throwing out the Constitution. I have made America great again! I will go down in history as the greatest man to ever live.

Which brings me to my final point. America has changed. I have changed America. This is no longer the tired, worn out country it used to be like when Obama was president–and he was not even legal since he was not born in the U.S. It is time for a fresh, new look and a fresh, new name. I have asked our marketing department to come up with a catchy new name that really captures who we are now and they have come up with “TrumpNation.” I like it. I am submitting legislation this week to make the name change a reality; and if the Congress balks, they will have the Swamp Drainers to deal with.

So this is where we are headed. A new time and a new era and a change in world history.

You  people who are watching on TV or listening on the radio are lucky to be Americans—no, make that TrumpNationals.

Good night, and may God bless TrumpNation!

 

Does the editor of Faux News really think that something like this could ever happen in the U.S.? Not a chance. But then again that is what the intellectuals and progressives were saying in Germany in the 1920s when a guy named Adolph Hitler was beginning to flex his muscles.

 

 

 

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In Search Of A New Eye 4 (and final)

So while one could wonder why in our health care system today a treatment, device or procedure would be withheld because of lack of or insufficient insurance, that did not stop Akhtar and me from moving forward to the next step: getting an optometrist to place an order for a prescription written by a doctor from the world’s greatest eye clinic. How hard could that be?

Turns out the answer is, very.

I started with my own neighborhood optometrist.  He is friendly, engaged with his patients, and I knew that he would be helpful. After studying the prescription and making a couple of calls, he scratched his head and suggested that it would really be easier to get the lens from Wilmer. He doubted it was commercially available anywhere else.  Or I could also search the internet, though he did not know exactly how I might do that.

On to the next optometrist, then the next, then another. I admit I did not do this scientifically since I was randomly dropping by various stores that I happened across. The same result happened each time. Initially they were cordial and volunteered to help me out; but after trying to figure out the exact prescription, concluded that I really needed to see an eye expert. Two suggested the Wilmer Eye Clinic. After a couple of weeks of this, I was about to give up.

Then  Embry observed that I really was not going to the right places. I was haphazardly visiting optometrists who probably were small, mom and pop outfits. What I needed to do was visit one of the big boys, who were really tied into the health care system and had their own experts. She suggested a company called Voorthuis, which had numerous locations around Washington, and which she had heard good things about. If they could not get the lens, she admitted we were probably doomed, but it was surely worth a try. I immediately looked up the closest  Voorthuis location and headed out the next morning on the Metro to arrive at the opening time of ten o’clock.

The store was located in one of Washington’s fanciest retail malls and surely looked impressive. A middle age man with a kind expression had just opened the doors and I burst in, threw myself at his feet and begged for mercy, weeping as I told my sad story. Okay, this is a bit of an exaggeration, but I did go into some detail and concluded my remarks with something like, you are my last hope.

He gave me the once over with a slightly amused look on his face and said three things:

“Look, you can relax. There is no prescription that we can’t fill. We will get you the lens that your refugee from Afghanistan needs.”

When he said this, my jaw dropped in disbelief, and it was all I could do to keep from hugging him.

“Second. My former associate happens to be from Afghanistan. We help refugees and immigrants all the time. And third, these specialty lenses can be pretty pricy. For your refugee we will sell it to you at factory cost with no markup.”

I stood there for a brief moment, muttering under my breath, “Thank you, Jesus!”

Gaining my composure, I smiled and replied, “Well, it looks like I am in the right place.”

The rest was easy and routine. The lens arrived in two weeks. The price to me  was $70, a substantial discount from what it normally would have been. The kind manager grumbled that the actual cost of producing one contact lens was something like $1.60. I thanked him profusely and once back on the sidewalk outside the mall raised my arms the way a referee does when a touchdown is scored.  Today Embry is hand delivering the lens to the Akhtar family on her routine visit to take the kids to the library and the local pool.

Happy ending.

But the refugee saga will continue. As a matter of default, we and our daughter’s family are really the only support system they have, and life is hard and full of daily surprises. It has now been just over a year, and hardly a week goes by without some kind of crisis, most but not all, minor. To say that the Akhtar family is grateful for our role in their lives is an understatement. After every doctor’s visit, Akhtar would repeat over and over, “Thank you, Baba Joe. Thank you, Baba Joe.” We rarely escape from his wife feeding us a delicious mid day feast when we visit. Life goes on. But, as our granddaughter pointed out when we first met them, “they are a handful!” More refugee stories will probably follow….

 

 

 

 

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