Death of a Christian

From Execution Eve, by William F. Buckley, Jr.

Charles Pinckney Luckey of the Middlebury, Conn., Congregational Church was making his usual ministerial rounds, as usual on his motorcycle. Suddenly, rounding a corner, he lost his balance and fell.

He arrived home that mid-October day in 1974, a little bedraggled. But this didn't matter much-- he was always a conspicuously informal dresser, though never affectedly so. In fact, there was no trace of affection in him, which is one reason he was so greatly, and quietly, popular with his congregation.

What vexed Luckey was that he-- a perfect physical specimen at 50, tall and rangy and handsome, with the face of a 30-year-old and the physique of a long-distance runner-- should have lost his balance. So he went to a doctor, suspecting that he had something wrong with his ear canal. The doctor examined him, couldn't find anything, and everyone hoped that whatever it was would go away.

It didn't. Luckey began to lose his vision and, in a few weeks, was losing the motor control on his left side. By December, he was blind. A legion of specialists surveyed his wilting frame, and a name was spoken which squirts ice water among even hardened doctors. It was diagnosed as Jakob-Creutzfeldt disease, and there are few recorded cases of it. Something about a galloping degeneration of the nerve cells. The prognosis for him: up to six months. Cause? Nobody knows.

They took Charles Luckey to Columbia-Presbyterian Medical Center in New York to "confirm" the diagnosis. It was only there that he yielded to depression, when they poked about and asked him questions, to measure, scientifically, the physical and intellectual deterioration. Before and after the poking, he was obstinately cheerful and affectionate, dictating to his secretary farewell letters to his friends, letters exalted by a curious dignity that had attached to him even as a teen-ager. Then, on the Sunday before Christmas, propped up at the lectern by his 17-year-old son, he preached his last sermon to a congregation racked with pain and admiration.

The crisis came shortly after. He called his secretary and dictated a letter which he sent to a few friends, and which was pronounced by the retired, aged chaplain of Yale University "the most moving credo of the Christian faith written in my lifetime."

"What"-- Charlie dictated-- "does the Christian do when he stands over the abyss of his own death and the doctors have told him that disease is ravaging his brain and that his whole personality may be warped, twisted, changed? Then does the Christian have any right to self-destruction, especially when he knows that the changed personality may bring out some horrible beast in himself? Well, after 48 hours of self-searching and study, it comes to me that ultimately and finally the Christian has to always view lifer as a gift from God, and every precious moment of life was not earned but was given by grace, lovingly bestowed upon him by his Creator, and it is not his to pick up and smash."

And so I find the position of suicide untenable, not because I lack the courage to blow out my brains, but rather because of my deep, abiding faith in the Creator who put the brains there in the first place. And now the result is that I lie here blind on my bed and trust in the sustaining, loving power of that great Creator who knew and loved me before I was fashioned in my mother's womb. But I do not think it is wrong to pray for an early release from this diseased, ravaged carcass.

"Lovingly given," he closed the statement, diffidently, "to my congregation and to my friends if it seems in good taste."

It seems to me in very good taste, and I pass it along, with the word that at least that final prayer was answered. The coma began two weeks later, and on January 20, 1975, he died. There had been no personality change. That, all the dreadful powers of Jakob-Creutzfeldt couldn't do to Charles P. Luckey.

Happy Mother's Day

For some of us, it won't be an easy Mother's Day, with my mother's memory now almost completely faded and her ability to commicate in any way almost completely gone.

A Christian View of Death

John Donne writes

Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so
One short sleep past, we wake eternaly,
And death shall be no more, Death thou shalt die.

For the Christian physical death isn't a dread enemy. The death that Christians hold in dread is not the death of the body but the death of the soul.

I came across a letter my parents wrote in 1980. "In our last prayer letter, mention was made f the fact that Harold's sister Elsie and sister-in-law Irene were both in critical health condition. We must now report with sadness that Irene passed away January 1st and Elsie on January 4th. We are reminded that the Lord gives to each of us our appointed time and tasks and that while life is short and fleeting for all it is yet long enough to be significant, especially when lived out in the will of God."

Airline pilots have a catch-phrase where weather conditions are optimum- CUVU-- ceiling unlimited, visibility unlimited-- and that is the hope that God gives us. "Even there shall thy hand lead," says Psalms 139:10. Discovery of God's steadying hand begets quiteness and confidence for the road ahead. In the economy of God, we are needed. We can lend our strength to "whatever things are true. . . honorable . . . lovely . . . gracious . . . excellent. There is pain in the loss of those we have loved, but such persons we honor not by retiring from life but by carrying on with courage, faith, and hope.

Remind me, God, when I am lonely and perhaps I feel despair
Let not my ailing heart forget that you hear every prayer
Remind me that no matter what I do or fail to do
There is still hope for me as long as I have faith in You
Let not my eyes be blinded by some folly I commit
But help me to regret my wrongs
Inspire me to put my fears upon a hidden shelf
And in the future never to be sorry for myself
Give me the restful sleep I need before another dawn
And bless me in the morning with the courage to go on.

CUVU

Ceiling Unlimited Visibility Unlimited.

On the Beach

I watched the liesurely but horrific 1959 film On the Beach last night. The movie, starring Gregory Peck, Fred Astair, and Ava Gardner, has the last remaining survivors of a global nuclear holocaust awaiting their certain deaths in Australia as radiation creeps towards them. The government issues everyone in Melbourne poison tablets to kill themselves rather then enduring radiation sickness. Peck as a submarine capitain heads back to the United States with his crew to die as the movie fades to black. It wasn't exactly a feel good movie. However, it seemed to resonate with a certain dignity, with no one rioting or hoarding, and everyone performing their duties as well as they could under the circumstances. In the movie, Fred Astaire as the scientist Julian Osborne says "Who would ever have believed that human beings would be stupid enough to blow themselves off the face of the Earth?" The horror of the movie lies in the knowledge that humans can indeed be that stupid.

The Wicked Witch of the West Exits

Stage left.

And there is no chance that she will be Obama's vice president. Dealing with the psychodrama that is Bill and Hill would try the patience of anyone. It's a burden President Obama can do without.

Mom: A Story

From Dandelion Wine, by Ray Bradbury.

She was a woman with a broom or a dustpan or a washrag or a mixing spoon in her hand. You saw her cutting pie crust in the morning, humming to it, or you saw her setting out the baked pies at noon or taking them in, cool, at dusk. She glided through the halls as steadily as a vacuum machine, seeking, finding, and setting to rights. She made mirrors of every window, to catch the sun. She strolled but twice through any garden, trowel in hand, and the flowers raised their quivering fires upon the warm air in her wake. She touched people like pictures, to set their frames straight.

But, now? . . .

“Grandma,” said everyone. “Great-grandma.”

Now it was as if a huge sum in arithmetic were finally drawing to an end. She had stuffed turkeys, chickens, squabs, gentlemen, and boys. She had washed ceilings, walls, invalids, and children. She had laid linoleum, repaired bicycles and stoked furnaces. Her hands had flown all around about and down, gentling this, holding that, throwing baseballs, swinging bright croquet mallets, seeding black earth, or fixing covers or dumplings, ragouts, and children wildly strewn by slumber. She had pulled down shades, pinched out candles, turned switches, and—grown old. Looking back on 30 billions of things started, carried, finished, and done, it all summed up, totaled out; the last decimal was placed, the final zero swung slowly into line. Now, chalk in hand, she stood back from life a silent hour before reaching for the eraser.

“Let me see now,” said Great-grandma. “Let me see . . .”

With no fuss or further ado, she traveled the house in an ever-circling inventory, reached the stairs at last, and took herself up three flights to her room where, silently, she laid herself out under the snowing-cool sheets of her bed and began to die.

Again the voices: “Grandma! Great-grandma!”

The family surrounded her bed.

“Just let me lie,” she whispered.

Her ailment could not be seen in any microscope; it was a mild but ever-deepening tiredness, a dim weighing of her sparrow body; sleepy, sleepier, sleepiest.

“Great-grandma, now listen—what you’re doing is no better than breaking a lease. This house will fall down without you. You must give us at least a year’s notice!”

Great-grandma opened one eye. Ninety years gazed calmly out at her physicians like a dust ghost from a high cupola window in a fast-emptying house. “Tom? . . .”

The boy was sent, alone, to her whispering bed.

“Tom,” she said, faintly, far away, “in the Southern Seas there’s a day in each man’s life when he knows it’s time to shake hands with all his friends and say good-by and sail away, and he does, and it’s natural—it’s just his time. That’s how it is today. I’m so like you sometimes, sitting through Saturday matinees until nine at night when we send you dad to bring you home. Tom, when the time comes that the same cowboys are shooting the same Indians on the same mountaintop, then it’s best to fold back the seat and head for the door, with no regrets and no walking backward up the aisle. So, I’m leaving while I’m happy and still entertained.”

Douglas was summoned next to her side.

“Grandma, who’ll shingle the roof next spring?”

Every April, as far back as there were calendars, you thought you heard woodpeckers tapping the housetop. But no, it was Great-grandma singing, pounding nails, replacing shingles, high in the sky!
“Douglas,” she whispered, “don’t ever let anyone do the shingles unless it’s fun for them. Look around come April, and say, “Who’d like to fix the roof?’ And whichever face lights up is the face you want, Douglas. Because up there on the roof you can see the whole town going toward the country going toward the edge of the earth and the river shining.”

Her voice sank to a soft flutter.

Douglas was crying.

She roused herself again. “Now, why are you doing that?”

“Because,” he said, “you won’t be here tomorrow.”

She turned a small hand mirror from herself to the boy. He looked at her face and himself in the mirror, and then again at her face as she said, “Tomorrow morning I’ll get up at seven and wash behind my ears; I’ll run to church with Charlie Woodman; I’ll picnic at Electric Park; I’ll swim, run barefoot, fall out of trees, chew spearmint gum . . .Douglas, Douglas, for shame! You cut your fingernails, don’t you?”

“Yes’m.”

“Well, consider then, boy. Any man saves fingernail clippings is a fool. You ever see a snake bother to keep his peeled skin? That’s about all you got here today in this bed is fingernails and snakeskin. One good breath would send me up in flakes. Important thing is not the me that’s lying here, but the me that’s sitting on the edge of the bed looking back at me, and the me that’s downstairs cooking supper, or out in the garage under the car, or in the library reading. All the new parts, they count.”
“I’m not really dying today. No person ever died that had a family. I’ll be around a long time. A thousand years from now a whole township of my offspring will be biting sour apples in the gumwood shade. That’s my answer to anyone asks big questions! Quick now, send me the rest!”
The entire family approached, like people seeing someone off at the rail station.

“Well,” said Great-grandma, “there I am. I’m not humble, so it’s nice seeing you standing by my bed. Now next week there’s late gardening and closet cleaning and clothes buying for the children to do. And since that part of me which is called, for convenience, Great-grandma, won’t be here to step it along, those other parts of me called Uncle Bert and Leo and Tom and Douglas, and all the other names, will have to take over.”

“Yes, Grandma.”

“I don’t want anyone saying any thing sweet about me tomorrow; I said it all in my time and my pride. I’ve tasted every victual and danced every dance; now there’s one last tart I haven’t bit on, one tune I haven’t whistled. But I’m not afraid. I’m truly curious. So don’t you worry about me. Now, all of you go, and let me find my sleep . . .”

Somewhere a door closed quietly.

“That’s better.” Alone, she snuggled down through the warm snowbank of linen and wool, sheet and cover; and the colors of the patchwood quilt were bright as the circus banners of old time.

A long time back, she thought, I dreamed a dream, and was enjoying it so much when someone waked me and that was the day when I was born. And now? Now, let me see . . .

She cast her mind back. Where was I? Ninety years . . . how to take up the thread and the pattern of that lost dream again? She put out a small hand. There . . . yes, that was it.

She smiled. Deeper in the warm snow hill she turned her head upon her pillow. That was better. Now, yes, now she saw it shaping in her mind quietly, and with a serenity like a sea moving along an endless and self-refreshing shore. Now she let the old dream touch and lift her from the snow and drift her above the scarce-remembered bed.

Downstairs, she thought, they are polishing the silver, and rummaging through the cellar, and dusting in the halls. She could hear them living all through the house.

“It’s all right,” whispered Great-grandma, as the dream floated her. “Like everything else in life, it’s fitting.”

And the sea moved her back down the shore.

Dairy Queen's Stupid New Commercial

Usually, commercials fly by without registering on my consciousness. But the new ad from Dairy Queen was so despicable, I had to replay it to make sure I saw what I saw.

The gist is that a girl, perhaps ten years old (Darcy from The Young and the Restless soap) goes to Dairy Queen with her mother to get hot fudge sundaes. The little girl knowingly tells her mom to get just one. The little boy buys one for her. And then she tells her mom, "Like shooting fish in a barrel." It reminds me of that old country and western song: "There are women, and girls, and ladies/They start learning when they are babies."

What is digusting and disturbing is the sexist and sexualized undertone of the commercial, with the jaded nymphet reeling in the oblivious boy. Instead of selling ice cream, Dairy Queen is selling a seedy and somewhat perverse bar scene.

It's not cute. It's crude.

Speaking for myself, I'm giving Dairy Queen a pass next time I want a shake.

Meow

Mom

I believe that mom is in irreversible decline. But, in the meantime, she needs to be comforted and be kept comfortable. Since she cannot feed herself and since it is not the job of the staff there to feed her, it looks like family members will need to feed her. It is a cruel death indeed to die by thirst or starvation. It brought a wave of indescribable sadness to see mom lie in a wet mattress, shivering because she was too cold, and barely able to sip water from a straw.

I think we also need to recognize that people work through grief in different ways. Grief has many masks and some people express grief through laughter or numbness, by maintaining their routines, by emotional disengagement, or by spiritualizing. This is a difficult time, and we need to be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving each other, just as God in Christ has forgiven us. We also need to recognize that we have our own limits and priorities, and we need to protect ourselves from taking on more than we can or should handle, sometimes by saying no and sometimes by asking for help.

Finally, we need to come to terms with mom's imminent death. It may be days or weeks or months, but it may be that we're seeing mom's final battle. And the great gift that God has given us is time to reconcile us to her death. It's hard to do so, but for our own sake and the sake of our families we must do so. As she said to me "I know where I am going" and we need to be happy for that.

Anne has asked on more than one occasion the eternal why-- why this good woman of faith spent the last half decade in such pain. I think of C.S. Lewis who aggressively promoted the classic Christian answer to evil and suffering in The Problem of Pain. You may remember the movie “Shadowlands”, played by Anthony Hopkins as Lewis, in which he had a crisis of faith when he watched his young bride die of cancer. At the end of the day, there are no satisfactory answers—only the consolation of faith in the One who also suffered-- and our friends and family. In one of the last scenes in “Shadowlands,” we see the professor hugging his young step-son after his wife had just died-- both in tears. Perhaps that is the only real answer in the face of the silence and distance of God.

Faith is not all green pastures and still waters. The comforters in the Book of Job put forth their rational arguments, and at the end Job—without an explanation but with the real experience of God—turns from questioning to wondering silence: “I will lay mine hand upon my mouth.” In this fragment of time on this planet, we are in this together and we must help each other out. Suffering is inextricably part of the human condition, and if there is one thing we must believe in, it is that we can make a difference. To live is to suffer. To suffer is to find meaning. And, if there is purpose in life, there must be purpose in suffering and death. The Psalmist said that “My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.” It did not say, “My tragedy comes from the Lord.” The bad that happens in our life has no meaning. But we can redeem it by giving it meaning. When I have felt sad, I have taken solace in the familiar prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi: “O Divine master, grant that we may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand, to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.”

My Mom

My mother is currently at

Dresher Hill Health & Rehabilitation
1390 Camp Hill Rd.
Dresher, PA 19034

The office number is (215) 643-0600. She is in room 233, bed 1.

Mom is currently unable to sit up and is weak. She has difficulty speaking and wouldn't be able to respond to a telephone conversation. Mom cannot read nor write and she has lost much of her memory. Mom does recognize faces and takes pleasure in visitors, although she tires easily. I think she would appreciate cards and of course your prayers and best wishes. Mom's future is in God's hands, but I believe that mom may be fighting her last battle.

Last week, I flew out to visit mom and I just returned home last night. The train arrived at the Roslyn station at about 10:30 pm and Tim picked me up moments later. Dad greeted me when we got home but Mom was slumbering. The next morning, I awoke and Mom was in the kitchen. I was immediately struck by the fact that she was almost completely doubled over, with a height perhaps now no more than half mine. Nevertheless, she pealed an orange with a knife and turned on the gas stove for a breakfast of shredded wheat with steaming water. Mom was grateful for Nancy's stained glass Serenity Prayer, and later that day I hung it in the kitchen window where it can catch the light.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change
courage to change the things I can
and wisdom to know the difference.

The sentiment is much like Mom's favorite Bible verse from Proverbs 3.

Trust in the LORD with all your heartand lean not on your own understanding;
in all your ways acknowledge him,and he will direct your paths.

Dad and Mom both had bad colds, so it was somewhat unfair to assess Mom's mental state. However, we did talk and I treasure that those moments at the kitchen table.

At sometime after eight, I heard mom call me from the bathroom. She was lying prone with her head on the bathtub about two inches from the floor, having tripped on the floor mats. Mom had a golf-ball-sized bump on the back of her head and, although I didn't know it at the time, her right arm was badly bruised. At about nine, Sherry, the physical therapist, arrived. She was adamant that Mom should be taken to the emergency room because of her being on Coumadin (a blood thinner), and Mom was equally adamant that she wanted to stay home-- fighting like a tiger to not go to a place that has brought her so much pain. About two hours later, Dad finally had me call 911, perhaps when he saw that Mom could no longer sit up. Anne arrived, and at about midday, we went to Abington Memorial's emergency room. Her physical and mental state has waxed and waned.

There are times when she is incoherent-- thinking that the year is 1918 or 1998 or that she needs to now help make the dinner for Dad as she pulls at the wires from her sparrow body. At other times, flashes of wit emerged, as for when Anne asked Mom if she was a tree climber. "Of course," mom said. "The higher the better."

But it was sad to see someone who was once so sharp and capable now hooked up to the same kind of machines that are used to monitor new born infants and also experiencing all the institutional smells, sounds, and sights that comes with that. Mom said of her experience in the ER that "I have been humiliated to the nth degree," and I think as a family we need to do what we can to honor mom's sense of propriety. It is out of that sense of propriety that she has asked for a closed casket funeral and that I suggest that during this time we forgo photos or videos of Mom while she is the way she is now. I know Mom would want us to honor her in that way.

What are the facts at present? Because of ongoing arterial fibrillation-- heart flutters-- her pulse has on occasion exceeded 150. But it is normal now with medication. Yesterday, she wasn't eating. Today, she is eating. Yesterday, she was paralyzed, unable to even sip water. Today, she is sitting up with assistance and eating food. She doesn't appear to be in pain. Mom does recognize faces and can give yes/no/of course answers or short answers. But I'm not sure that the words we're hearing are always associated with cognition.

The doctors reported today that she had another stroke on Sunday-- a TIA-- and is experiencing post-concussion syndrome. My view is that we are seeing a decline with ebbs and flows of mental and physical acuity. The plan is to be in rehab perhaps for two weeks. However, if she does go home, there needs to be a tough-minded review of the house from her point of view-- basically our vision on our knees. I've removed all the throw rugs, but Dad and Tim need to be sure that water is toweled up in the bathroom. There needs to be non-slip mats in the bathtub, better lighting, grab bars in the bathroom, removal of clutter, the habit of using the walker and wearing non-slip shoes, attention to vision and medications that can cause dizziness, and perhaps even sealing the door that goes to the basement. All of this seems like common sense, but the house is filled with stubborn people who for nine decades of their lives have in many matters leaned to their own understanding.

I was planning to visit my parents closer to my mother's birthday in October. However, the circumstances of the stroke and some of the decisions that were made at the time prompted me to come in earlier. I didn't anticipate mom's accident, of course, but I got a much more accurate sense of where things are now. While my parents are still living, I need to forgo other activities such as reunions and what Tim calls junkets, no matter how pleasurable they may be. I am at peace with this and I ask for understanding if I cannot spend more time doing things we have done in the past for fun. The remaining hours I have with my parents are precious. I have lived with mom and dad for no more than ten years. And, the last 25 years, I have spent the equivalent of a half year of my life with them, but spaced out over a quarter century. So the effect is like watching a stop action movie of a flowering and dying plant-- flourishing for a great length of time and then suddenly collapsing.

I would like to especially recognize the Birch family for their hospitality over the last week. Jennie and David are amazing children, bright, loving, and capable, and they can look forward to wonderful futures, and they owe much to their parents. I appreciate Anne's steadfast, tireless love for mom and medical erudition as well. It was a benediction to the soul for Anne and me to be on either side of Mom while we read from the Psalms and sometimes cried. I couldn't have asked for a better sister, and Mom could not have asked for a better daughter. So for Anne and Wayne, a heart felt thank you.

Some of the time we spent with Mom was sad-- sad that a woman who was fluent in several languages, who was triple certified in nursing, who traveled the globe and had friends throughout the continents is reduced to such paralysis and dependency. But Mom was never sad and on many occasions she was happy-- positively lighting up when she saw her nephew Frank White from Australia. What a kind man he was to remind us from Job that "I know my redeemer liveth" and mom's days are in God's hands.

The last hour I spent with mom-- possibly the last hour I will have with mom in this life-- was a time of smiles and hugs. Her voice was feathery and fluttery as she said "Philip, ever since you were a baby, I have loved you." I said "I will always love you." "Ditto," My Mom said. "You will always be with me." In 1981, Mom was by the side of her own mother as she died. Shortly after, she wrote this poem "in loving memory of my mother." It's the way I want to remember Mom, not the way I see her now, but in her vital and beautiful prime.

O Lord, Thank you for today and
for the happy memories of yesterday.
Help me to understand the mysteries of old age
and to rejoice in your countless favors.
I am keenly ware of my limitations
and dependence upon others, but do give me
a kind word and smile
for any who may come my way.
Save me from the critical fault finding habits
into which many old people fall.
As my mind takes pleasure in walking through
the corridors of the past, only let me go
loving, forgiving, and forgetting
any who have hurt or caused me pain
Help me to be wise, serene, patient, helpful, and unafraid
lest self-pity and anger take away
the peace of heart and joy of companionship
with you my God.

Thank you Lord Jesus.

Sharing as I do Mom's love for literature, perhaps it is appropriate that I close with Prospero’s loving praise of Miranda in Shakespeare’s The Tempest, because it applies perfectly to My Mom: “She will outstrip all praise and make it halt behind her.”

Flying to Philly

I leave today to the City of Brotherly Love mainly to visit with my aging parents and siblings and their family but also for business. I

Hillary's Faith

Said Hillary: "I grew up in a church-going family, a family that believed in the importance of living out and expressing our faith."

How Hillary Lives Out Her Faith.

Vulgar Candidates

Some blame the Viet Cong for McCain's short fuse.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fpsDIjoI1pY

Hillary also isn't so high toned.

http://www.worldnetdaily.com/news/article.asp?ARTICLE_ID=39329

A Bitter Pill

Said Obama: "It's not surprising, then, they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren't like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations."

Because of the stakes, I think anything is fair to test the character of next president including Obama's misfired words. But I think there is a whisper-in-the-wind quality is this statement and also in the Reverand Wright statements that distort the susbtance of the comments. The implication from Clinton and McCain is that Obama doesn't like the folkways of Main Street America with their belief in guns and God.

As far as the Reverand Wright statements are concerned, there isn't very much that is different from what many evangelicals have said, although using milder language. A common thread in countless sermons is that the 9/11 attack occurred not so much because of who we are-- a multi-religious, multi-racial people who believe in the rule of law and principles of the constitution-- or what we did-- specific policies that have promoted Israeli or oil company interests for example-- but the collective sins of the American people. Thus, the moralizers say, God allowed the towers to fall because of what lesbians in San Francisco and abortionists in Dallas were doing. I think this makes no sense, but I have heard people of faith make that claim.

Finally, I think it is ironic that McCain and Clinton are using statements like that to suggest that Obama is arrogant and aloof. McCain comes from old money and Clinton comes from new money and the wealth of both McCain and Clinton exceeds Obama by many orders of magnitude. I thusly question the pretense that they are in touch with most Americans whereas Obama is not.

Ageism, Sexism, Racism

Three potential US presidents have opponents representing sexism, ageism, and racism.

In the US, which bias is most prevalent and which is least prevelant, generally?

My opinion is the ranking of bigotry in the US from the greatest to the least is ageism, sexism, and racism.

I think this has to do with the ageing population in combination with our youth-oriented culture and, on the other extreme, the acceptance of different races throughout all segments of our culture.

What do you think and why?

Responses

Saturday at the Phoenix Zoo

Collard peccary (javilina) are hiding in the brush. In the background is the grave site of George W. P. Hunt's pyramid tomb.


Bald eagle. We also liked the scarlet ibis, capybara, lions, watusi cattle, and orangantan baby.


Ben (with the Cub's hat) feeding shrimp to a stingray.

Hillary's Wealth

Hillary Clinton, the champion of the blue collar class, earned $109 million dollars over the last eight years. Shall we celebrate this as yet one more rags to riches of American family ascending to astonishing wealth through their own effort and the magic of capitalism? Maybe. However, the release of Clinton's tax returns and especially their public financial disclosure report reveals relationships to power brokers and foreign entities that raises questions about Hillary's reformist claims-- that she is the handmaiden not just of corporate interests but also possibly criminal interests. The sheer volume of the money involved suggests to me bets made by power brokers itching to exploit Hillary's enthronement in January, 2008.

In the coming days, journalists and political opponents will start data mining through the tax returns and reports, and they will raise questions on self-benefiting chairtable donantions, offshore shelters, and ties to shadowy and possibly criminal figures.

Hillary and Bill Clinton tax returns: 2001 2002 2003 2004 2005 2006

The questions lie in the minutia. Hillary's 42 page Public Financial Disclosure Report, signed on June 13, 2007, lists the sources of capital to her net worth. Here are some details that jumed out at me.

Citibank Account 5,000,001-25,000,000

Bill Clinton Honorariums. I assume these refer to speeches. They ranged in value of between $100,000 and $300,000, with most being in the $250,000 range. From February, 2006 to June, 2007, there were 91 "honorium" events.

The Clinton's hold large positions in a variety of stocks. Their largest holdings include the following.

Between 250,001 - 500,000

Anadarko Pete
Cisco Systems
General Electric
Home Depot
Johnson & Johnson
Merrill Lynch
Microsoft
Quellos Alpha Engine Cash Receivable
Texas Instruments
Time Warner
Walt Disney

Hillary does report one liability-- a credit card debt of between 10,001 and 15,000 to Citigroup.

She also describes herself as the secretary/treasurer of The Clinton Family Foundation in Chappaqua, New York, the same foundation that received the charitable donations that show up on her tax returns as write offs.

What is Meaning?

Meaning is an understanding that can be shared.

I chose the word meaning rather than equally elusive concepts such as God, evil, beauty, and truth because it opens entire classes of semantical and philosophical questions, relating to linquistics, semiotics, ontology, epistomology, and values.

I disagree that that either understanding or the sharing of understanding are necessary requirements of meaning. For example, a solipsist finds meaning in his solipsism, perhaps merely imaging that he has understanding or that he shares that understanding with equally imaginery others.

Questions that could be raised are as follows:

1. Is meaning an imputed quality or an intrinsic quality? I would say it can be either.
Thus, we might say "Life is sacred" and by so doing we are imputing a value onto something that is objectively real but appears to emperically lack that quality. On the other hand, we might say"The meaning of my cat's life is to sleep and eat." This would be an intrinsic quality, that is to say, sleeping and eating are components of the ontology of Kitty's existence.

2. Is the symbolic representation of reality real? I would say no. The presence or the absence of language of any kind including logic and mathematics neither voids nor advances truth per se. However, as instruments of our comprehension of reality, they are indespensable to discerning truth.

More broadly, meaning ties into the question of the meaning of personal human existence. The question as to whether there is meaning in life isn’t meaningless. A cigarette jingle when such jingles were legal hymned “To a golfer, it’s a hole in one… to a smoker, it’s a Kent.” The meaning of life is what animates our consciousness. The meaning of life for a tiger is to devour small game. Every individual is animated by metaphors—flags under which we march because we believe those flags have transcending value. These metaphors might be called God, materialism, science, politics, race, or art. From these metaphors, we find community and satisfaction. Some people however find meaning in seeking isolation and pain. According to Kant, practical reason allows the mind to accept things even if it cannot prove things. The claim that “life is pointless” is like the statement “life is sacred.” The same must be said for such statements as: “the God of the Bible is”, “reason is”, and “tradition is.” These are statements of meaning—a prioris—rather than statements of fact. The meaning of life is not an object—something that exists in time and space—but ourselves as we encounter time and space. "Ultimately, man should not ask what the meaning of his life is, but rather must recognize that it is he who is asked,” Viktor Frankl writes in Man’s Search for Meaning. “In a word, each man is questioned by life; and he can only answer to life by answering for his own life; to life he can only respond by being responsible." Meaning in life, therefore, is in my view the set of those conscious or unconscious presuppositions from which we deal with our life.

Karl Rove is the Nutty Professor

I watched C-SPAN's coverage of a speech given by Deputy Chief of Staff and Senior Advisor to President Bush Karl Rove at George Washington University, where at two points students heckled him.

http://www.citizensugar.com/1513121

Just as the fantasy and horror of H. P. Lovecraft can make for entertaining reading, so too can the fantasy and horror of Rove make for entertaining listening. It's the kind of discourse that can cause fact checkers to throw their hands up in despair for Rove was in his usual mode of spinning like a top on all subjects great and small.

There was one curious topic that he raised and also expanded on in response to a question from a student. And this was Rove's role in fomenting a smear campaign against McCain in 2000. Particularly despicable was the push polling about McCain's daughter Bridget, who was adopted from Mother Theresa's orphanage in Bangladesh, suggesting rather that McCain had fathered a child from a black prostitute. Voters were asked "Would you be more or less likely to vote for John McCain...if you knew he had fathered an illegitimate black child?" In the C-SPAN speach, Rove naturally denied any responsibility for these dirty tricks and said that a "nutty professor" from Bob Jones University had spread miscegenation rumors in church-distributed flyers and using whisper campaigns. According to the New York Times, "Richard Hand, a professor at Bob Jones University, sent an e-mail message to “fellow South Carolinians” telling recipients that Mr. McCain had “chosen to sire children without marriage.” Other smears include these gems: that McCain was gay and was a traitor and that his wife was drug-addicted.

All of this was just a prelude to the shameless swift-boating of Senator John Kerry during the general election. Perhaps this accounts for why McCain showed tepid excitement at Bush's endorsement and is making no secret of distancing himself from the albatross that is our president.

I Went To a Party

I went to a party,
And remembered what you said.
You told me not to drink, Mom,
so I had a sprite instead.

I felt proud of myself,
The way you said I would,
that I didn't drink and drive,
though some friends said I should.

I made a healthy choice,
And your advice to me was right.
The party finally ended,
and the kids drove out of sight.

I got into my car,
Sure to get home in one piece.
I never knew what was coming, Mom,
something I expected least.

Now I'm lying on the pavement,
And I hear the policeman say,
the kid that caused this wreck was drunk,Mom
his voice seems far away.

My own blood's all around me,
As I try hard not to cry.
I can hear the paramedic say,
this girl is going to die.

I'm sure the guy had no idea,
While he was flying high.
Because he chose to drink and drive,
now I would have to die.

So why do people do it, Mom
Knowing that it ruins lives?
And now the pain is cutting me,
like a hundred stabbing knives.

Tell sister not to be afraid, Mom
Tell daddy to be brave.
And when I go to heaven,
put ' Mommy's Girl' on my grave.

Someone should have taught him,
That it's wrong to drink and drive.
Maybe if his parents had,
I'd still be alive

My breath is getting shorter,Mom
I'm getting really scared
These are my final moments,
and I'm so unprepared.

I wish that you could hold me Mom,
As I lie here and die.
I wish that I could say, 'I love you, Mom!'
So I love you and good-bye.

MADD
P.O. Box 54168 8
Dallas , TX 75354-1688
1-800-GET-MADD (1-800-438-6233)

Poisoned Bottles

It’s so hard to understand how the subprime mortgage crisis has triggered a financial crisis of global proportions.

If you have 10 bottles of water, and one bottle had poison in it, and you didn’t know which one, you probably wouldn’t drink out of any of the 10 bottles; that’s basically what we’ve got there.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/30/magazine/30wwln-Q4-t.html?ex=1364616000&en=4a90532dc796992e&ei=5088&partner=rssnyt&emc=rss

My Adventurous Life

My sixth grader wrote the following.

Sprinting. Sprinting as fast as possible. Towards the light, the glorious light at the end of the tunnel. The gigantic boulder is gaining up on me, but I think I can escape in time… That was the plot of a thrilling, adventurous dream I once had. Although the dream was quite stimulating, it doesn’t even compare to some of the real-life adventures I’ve had. Two examples of daring adventures I have experienced are the time I crawled through a drainage pipe at Mountain View Park and when I went swimming under a waterfall in Hawaii.

I experienced one superb adventure of mine when I was about seven years old. My friends and I were at the park and were bored to our wit’s end. One of my friends suggested crawling through the drainage pipes that went under each bridge that lead to the park. We took a flashlight, a skateboard, and a rope, and took turns dragging each other through the repulsive tunnel. Each tunnel was about 50 feet long and about 3 feet in diameter. The inside of the passageways were like something out of a horror movie. The distinct feeling of spiders on your hands and knees sent chills down my spine. The whole pipe was knotted with cobwebs. Worst of all, there was the most revolting smell in the world that resembled a deadly mixture of rotting cheese and banana peels. Despite all of those dreadful aspects, we wanted more than anything to get to the other side. Sadly, after about 10 attempts, we finally gave up. To this day, I still feel the urge to crawl through that ghastly tunnel…. Or not!

Another prominent adventure of mine happened on our recent trip to Hawaii (which was a great adventure in itself.) Near the village of Hana, there is a pair of waterfalls called the Twin Falls. The walk there from the parking area is about 20 minutes long and it leads to two gorgeous waterfalls and a rope swing. Though the walk made my feet very sore, it contained some of the loveliest foliage I have ever seen. The sweet, gentile aroma from the hibiscus flowers complimented the beauty of the bamboo and palm trees. There was also a view of the foamy, sapphire blue ocean crashing against the jagged, obsidian rocks. At the waterfalls, it suddenly became dimmer. The walls were laced with moss and tree roots. The waterfalls flowed from the top of an overhanging cliff. There was a sliver of light coming in at the top, but not enough to make the whole area light. I braced myself as I grabbed onto the rope from the back of the cave and held on for dear life. When I hit the waterfall, I felt a very strange sensation; it was as if half of my body was nice and warm, and the other was freezing cold. I rapidly scurried out of the water to do it a couple times more. Later, I dried off and walked with my family back to the car. That will be a day that I won’t soon forget.

I’m almost at the exit to the tunnel! I can smell the fresh, crisp air of the jungle on the outside. I feel like I am going Mach speed, but somehow, the boulder is going faster. The boulder resembles a vicious mongoose chasing after a fat, meaty cobra. Just as the boulder begins to graze my back, I’m out of the tunnel. I fall on the ground panting, but as I hit the ground, I wake up. That arousing, action-packed dream was certainly one to remember, but some real-life experiences you will never forget. I know I’ll never forget when I went crawling through a drainage pipe or when I swam under a waterfall.

Judge Not

"Judge not, that you be not judged. For with the judgment that you pronounce you will be judged, and the measure you give will be the measure you get. Why do you see the speck that is in your brother's eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? Or how can you say to your brother, "Let me take the speck out of your eye," when there is the log in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother's eye." (Matthew 7:1-5)

These verses have puzzled me in the context of the verses that follow.

"Do not give what is holy to dogs, and do not throw your pearls before swine" (Matthew 7:6)

"Beware of false prophets...You will know them by their fruits" (Matthew 7:15,16,20).

Thus, this principle isn't a statement of moral relativity or tolerance of evil or a recognition of human falliability, so far as I can tell. To the contrary, my reading of the full context is that we must judge and indeed much of ethics is nothing more than judgment-- discernment of moral truth from falsehood. Thus, I would paraphase the phrase as "Judge not falsely, that you be not judged falsely."

What say you?

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My Life As An Alien

"Recently, at 48 years of age, I was diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome. For most of my life, I knew that I was "other," not quite like everyone else. I searched for years for answers and found none, until an assignment at work required me to research autism. During that research, I found in the lives of other people with Asperger's threads of similarity that led to the diagnosis. Although having the diagnosis has been cathartic, it does not change the "otherness." It only confirms it."

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Red Skelton's Pledge of Allegiance

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kfz2XDXaeqc

When Does Life Begin?

If you are pro-abortion, when does life begin, and explain why you chose this moment.

There is only one correct answer. Life doesn't begin at any point in time. It is merely passed from life to life.

Reality for the Demon Posessed

"It does not require many words to speak the truth."

Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce

Is Obama the Messiah?

"...a light will shine through that window, a beam of light will come down upon you, you will experience an epiphany...and you will suddenly realize that you must go to the polls and vote for Obama." Barack Obama - Lebanon, New Hampshire - January 7, 2008

http://obamamessiah.blogspot.com/

You will never hear me saying that Obama is the hope of the world. That said, we need to reflect on our own hero worship of the false prophet George Bush. There are parents who trusted Bush so much that they allowed their president to lay down the life of their kids on foreign soil to no ultimate good. But Bush is a man for all seasons, a man of faith who knew all verses to "Amazing Grace" and a hale-fellow-well-met NASCAR Rotarian who cracked his jokes around the Saturday evening barbeque.

During World War II, Americans called the Soviet Dictator Joseph Stalin Uncle Joe, because like Bush he was a regular Joe with twinkly eyes. But Bush like Stalin were frauds and what you saw then and see now is terribly false and utterly evil. Just as Stalin invoked God for political reasons, so to does Bush, although Bush's motivation also combines a 12-step effort to battle his forty year addiction to alcohol. What ever influence the Reverand Wright had on Obama, it pales in comparison to the influence that the atheist Rove had on Bush, and Americans will realize that a vote for McCain is a vote for a third term of Bush. And those who don't realize that are either blind or evil or both blind and evil.

Bush's serial lies on matters great and small culminating in the massive loss of treasure and life of our fellow countrymen will mean only one thing: President Obama nominating for a life-time appointment Hillary Clinton to the Supreme Court. And when that happens, the only people who will despise Bush more than the liberals and the Democrats will be the conservatives and the Republicans.

Mom Has a Stroke

... and is back in the hospital. The nurse confirmed that she suffered a stroke, which "has affected the left side of her body- (speech & strength) because her Coumadin that she takes for her atrial fibrillation was not in the therapeutic range that it should have been in, Thar was what caused her stroke, along with her high blood pressure."

Stroke is the third leading killer in the United States. Preventive screen involves a carotid vascular test with ultrasound technology that visualizes the buildup of fatty plaque in the carotid arteries that may black the flow of blood to the brain and lead to stroke.

My eighty-nine year old mom has been fighting ulcers and cellulitis for several years now and was in the hospital many times last year and more times in previous years. But her systemic illnesses hasn't diminished her good cheer, curiosity, and love for people, life, and God.

Heather Mills Goes First Class

HIGH-LIVING Heather Mills was exposed as a hypocrite last night — for failing to buy first-class flights for daughter Beatrice.

Mucca slammed ex Sir Paul McCartney on Monday for forcing the four-year-old to travel “B Class” after their bitter divorce — while he flew “A Class”.

She haughtily vowed to pay for Beatrice’s first-class travel herself.

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Dear Heather,

Now that you squeezed Paul McCartney for every possible penny you could get, could you please just go away and disappear, so that we do not have to look at your pitiful-gold-digging-face any more? We would all appreciate it!

Sincerely,

Everyone that I know

I knew from the beginning that this would end in a disaster of epic proportions, that it was always about greed, that it would cost vast sums of money as it dragged on and on and on, and eventually the public would see it for the horrible decision it was. Oh, wait a second. This item isn't about Bush's invasion of Iraq? Never mind.

Blog Digest

I'm starting a new feature called Blog Digest. This will consist of a link to a news story followed by the best of reader commentary in italics. It's not unusual for stories to attract hundreds of such comments. I'll post a few of the more striking or witty comments on my blog. Often, these comments are more interesting and illuminating than the original story.