Tagged: faith
On Culture
I used to think that culture was “you use chopsticks, I use silverware,” and a myriad of other inconsequential and oftentimes interesting differences. And in this thinking, the important, unifying fact was that the food still made it to the mouth.
This is not culture.
By analogy, culture is, “We made it one trillion years on this planet before seeing silverware! Don’t lecture me on Henry Ford or freedom!”
In short, if the people from two supposedly different cultures aren’t engaged in contentious pride fighting, they aren’t from two different cultures.
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Why does this matter to me? Because I get tired of people who have only engaged with other people from the same culture acting like they have any idea which way is up. These uni-culture people may prove the smartest on Earth, but that doesn’t mean they know which way is up.
Teachers Receive Stricter Judgment
Do not, many of you, become teachers, my brothers, knowing that we will receive a stricter judgment.
For all the experimentally-derived information not found in the books of the Bible, it sure does contain many easily deduced sentiments.
For my part, I have been elbow deep in Natural Science essays of late, essays whose subject matter has ranged from stars to candles, from chalk to mountains, and from monkeys to conservation of energy. Essays, I say. Maybe 20 total. About 450 pages worth. And these by the actual discoverers of the subject. I have not been reading a textbook written by some no-account hack with bought-and-paid-for letters after their name, just essays written by the men whose genius advanced material life on this planet so rapidly in the last 400+ years.
After the last two essays which covered such basic topics as the “law of periodicity” and the “law of conservation of force”, of which such simple words like “period” and “foot-pound” were defined—words which none of you (or I) could define upon request, but which we employ at our leisure—I started to get angry.
I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself—I am certain that I have now read more than most ever have or will on from the field of Natural Science. And that thrills me. Instead, I was thinking of my kids and all other kids. They are sitting in schools right now, staring at the periodic table and completely unaware why it is so-named. They are, if lucky, in an auto-tech class turning wrenches, and applying torque, without being able to define what it means that the limit for that bolt is 120 foot-pounds—or from where the expended 120 foot-pounds of energy get replenished.
Before you get all “Well, Pete, you’re forgetting that not everyone…” on me, I want to re-iterate these are kids who are in school! What else are they doing if not learning? And, keep in mind I have already suggested a mere 500 pages would advance their knowledge to within reach of the current peaks of human knowledge of natural science.
Also to be clear, I am suggesting these essays would be the course. Have a teacher lead the kids through them and then see what the kids want to do. I cannot be persuaded that they would choose to stop there. It is a sure bet that their curiosity would be piqued and each would willingly follow the most interesting path they saw available to continue down.
As it stands, “hydrogen will bond with…” inspires hardly anyone and we act little different than the uneducated nations and “emerging” cultures which leave a child to himself as we declare, “Oh look at that! He’s gonna be a football player for sure!”
Since obtaining a step-son from another culture, worlds away, I have seen nothing but the distribution of participation trophies which the adults and kids assign as symbolic displays of new expertise in subjects of which they both are ignorant and of abilities of which they are both wanting.
My step-son’s skin is dark, so this was to be expected as the whites in education are utterly brainwashed into thinking BIPOC folks are genetically inferior.
But I have unfortunately watched this occur all across the spectrum. The entire field of education is one big gold star for trying. The underlying sentiment has become, “You are too stupid to understand the hard stuff, so let’s just stay in the shallow end.” The obvious trouble with this idea is the people doing the hard stuff disagree.
Education, hear me clearly, is directly opposed to the priesthood. If you believe there is some special class of human that children cannot generally achieve, you cannot also believe in education. You might as well burn books. This is no different than how you cannot believe both in a geocentric and heliocentric model of the universe, or girls can become boys and boys can become girls.
In the end, in all my “this is wrong”, I found myself reminded of the scripture I opened with. Most Christians would limit James’ warning to spiritual matters. I disagree. Teachers will be more strictly judged. Teachers are being judged. We are all being judged by their failure.
Three Pointed Feelings On Political Violence in the USA, 2028 POTUS and Nuclear Bombs
Still riding the high of having correctly *felt* Trump was the clear winner long before election night, I want to share three more *feelings*.
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First, I have already mentioned that the next bout of political violence will be at the public funeral of a certain folk savior. Nothing new to say; I am just collecting it in one post.
Second, in the exact same manner and for the exact same reason as America loved itself for electing Obama (both shameless fantasy), in 2028, America will once again engage in a shameless fantasy act of self-love as it elects a woman to the office of President of the United States. I have long chuckled that the most bluntly misogynistic man defeated the first two legitimate female candidates. But fate can only laugh for so long. The mood is changing and the next president will be a woman.
Third, you, me, our children—everyone—needs to be ready for the news cycle to breeze past the first use of nuclear weapons. The “breaking news” will move on to “developing story” and finally be replaced by celebrity gossip or palace intrigue in precisely the same manner with which it breezes past every story. To be clear, someone is going to use a nuke. The fact will be hyped beyond belief with a fever pitch rarely able to be achieved, but there will be no actual mutually assured destruction or end of nations or shift in power balance. And, again, the proof in the pudding of my *feeling* (the way you know you heard it hear first) will be when the news cycle drops the story within the same time period as Oct 7, or the invasion of Ukraine etc. Nuclear war is here to stay and the idea that it was a “one off” or “we learned from the first use” is childish.
Knowledge Is Irresistible; It Defies Rebellion
Come close, ya stiff-necked supercargo. This one is important. This is a story about laundry. It is a story about power. It is the story of knowledge.
It may come as a surprise that pilots, especially military pilots or their veteran counterparts like me, spend many nights of each year in sleeping bags. As an Eagle Scout who knows the true value of a quality sleeping bag, I remember being very proud when I heard that our deployed commander used one instead of sheets while in Iraq. You see, I was no longer alone. To this day, I spend about 1/4 of the year’s nights in a sleeping bag—not including camping trips.
Naturally, this level of commitment leads to the need to wash a sleeping bag, and wash it with more regularity than your own sleeping bag laundering habits have ever included. In fact, you’re likely thinking this very moment, “Where is my sleeping bag?”
Washing a sleeping bag is an adventure of its own. Not just the washing, but the drying as well. For any ground-pounding, civilian pukes who never have spent a night under the stars (let’s not forget the boldly illiterate hippie camping community), there is a tag right on the bag that says, “Only dry in commercial dryers” or some similar wording that forbids the pilot from his perfect dream of living as an island.
(I have laundered my sleeping bag(s) many times at home and never had a problem. This post is not about rule-following.)
So the other day, despite both cars revealing mechanical issues almost simultaneously, I learned at night that the dryer stopped heating. (LORD? You watchin’?) It made the same noises and tumbled as surely as any other day—even longer when on the “automatic” setting; but the clothes wouldn’t dry. I tracked down that they weren’t getting warm either.
Enter YouTube.
There were two probable issues. One was that a thermal fuse on the heating element had tripped/blown. The other was the heating element itself had broken.
I tracked down an appliance parts guru in town who loved to chat on the phone and he assured me it was the fuse. But I forced him to concede it was worth ordering both just in case his foresight proved dim. During this back-and-forth, he said something like, “It’s all about airflow. The air has to blow the heat from the heating element into the dryer and then that air has to find its way past the clothes, past the lint trap, and through the vent all the way to the outside world. If any part of that path is blocked, the heat will remain and eventually blow the fuse. You may never know why the path got blocked. Could be stray article of clothes got caught in the wrong spot or maybe someone washed too big a comforter. But it’s all about the air.”
Fasten your seatbelts.
“Only dry in a commercial dryer,” the tag reads. Any warm-blooded human says, “Huh?” And we proceed to rebel and possibly damage the dryer.
But…
“It’s all about airflow. If the sleeping bag blocks the incoming heat, the fuse will blow—which is annoying. If the fuse doesn’t blow, the heating element could potentially overheat and cause a fire—lots of variables in that one,” the facts are. And any warm-blooded human says, “Okay.” And then assesses the risks and gets on with their decision.
The passive, uninformed warning fosters rebellion, and well it should. Instinct informs us to demand respect! “Don’t boss me! You have my attention. Now treat me like a man!”
But the knowledge is irresistible and fosters sound judgment and good decision making. “Hmm. Good to know. I’ve dried many things of similar size in this machine and so I’ll risk it.” Or whatever.
What is knowledge? Knowledge is irresistible. It defies rebellion.
Go get some.
PS – It was the heating element. And Speed Queen dryers are super easy to work on—should they not live up to their name.
PPS – Yes, I have gone back to the original name of my blog. I do want to use the fact that I stare down death for a living to get your attention. Whether I can keep it is the thrill.
New Conversational Vocabulary for Resisting the Next Vaccine (Approved and Inspired by Claude Bernard)
While the RFK Jr. news is provocative, I am not persuaded that the lessons the Left learned from COVID and power available during pandemics will ever be forgotten.
I got vaccinated, but not for medical reasons. Like many, I had it at least once.
I am not an “anti-vaxxer”.
Yet, it should not surprise anyone that my sympathies will always lie with people who resist acts of compulsion—notably by the government. Additionally, my own instinct instructs me to recognize that my fellow humans’ instinct which tells them to resist vaccines should be allowed to prevail. In short, “you do you”. But I can’t help but notice the resistance lacked rhetorical skill.
Given my status as exceedingly well-read and becoming more-so daily, I want to lend a hand. I wouldn’t spend so much time in the books if I didn’t believe there is practical value inherent.
In this post, then, I want to give any “instinctive” anti-vaxxer the language, the vocabulary as it were, to successfully repel any future mandates, and their inherent conversational societal pressures. In other words, I encourage you to adopt the following as your script when your own family members make outrageous claims to “trust the science”.
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Smug Relative: “Just trust the science! It’s harmless.”
You: “First, ‘No, thank you.’ First Part B, what you mean by science, and what we both agree is its prime definition, is ‘same conditions, same result—every time’. In short, science is certainty. Anything less than certainty is not science. If I may, you don’t trust the science, because one cannot trust the science, because the vaccine—unless you claim it is certain—is not science.
“To conclude, say what you mean. You’re trusting something—but it ain’t the science.”
“Second, harmless? What is the difference between harmless and failed? Because when you say harmless, you seem to be implying that no one put any effort or investment into the attempt to develop a compound that will teach my body to defend itself from the virus. But I believe people most definitely put effort and investment into developing a material that will teach my body to defend itself from the virus. (And I believe you, here again, actually agree with me.)
“Therefore until they are certain, harmless must mean “they failed.” And I am not interested in putting failure into my body from the outside; I have enough trouble keeping it from being generated in the inside.”
Smug Relative: “There is never going to be certainty in medicine.”
You: “Again, we find ourselves in agreement.”
Smug Relative: “I see. So what? You need me to explain the statistics?”
You: “Nope. I don’t require anything more of you. Thanks for hearing me out. I’m glad we chatted.”
Time To Turn Off the TV
I know you don’t agree. I know you don’t. That is the point of this post. There is no topic more detestable to humanity of all stripes than the notion of turning off the TV—and any meaningfully similar source of information.
Yes, I’m happy Trump won. But not for anything to do with politics. I’m happy because while all the republicans and conservatives were wringing their hands, I said over and over that he had it in the bag. And so when I was proved correct, I was happy.
But every moment since then, I have been questioned by friends and family and had my good name challenged because I am not happy that Trump won for the same reason as they are.
I do not believe he is some sort of savior. I do not believe we’ll see a reversion to some past life when groceries were cheap and rule of law was respected and understood. I just don’t see national politics from that kind of perspective.
But the point of this post, again, is to explore that when I share my perspective, which boils down to, “You’re all Henny Penny and if you would just turn off the TV, you’d have profound improvement in your ‘flourishing’,” folks lose their shyat on me. It’s like I’m asking them to give up—not just food but—breathing.
I actually resorted to telling my Ethiopian/African wife (you’ll-understand-this-if-viewed-from-well-known-they’re-more-spiritual-vantage-point), “You love to talk about demons as if it’s still Biblical times—well when it comes to our attachment to TV, I agree. This situation seems at the level that an exorcism may be necessary.” Perhaps unbelievably, this did get through—in its moment.
So I think I’m done. I already do not have a TV at the house. I have cut movie watching drastically back (difficult to cut completely because night work leaves a lot of zombie time during the day). But I’ve been checking news like a junkie of late. It’s time to stop that now. And why? Because, as an human without TV, I can happily report, “The sky is not a-falling.”
Watch and Wait
The only thing left to do before the results are declared is watch and wait.
Specifically, we’re watching for the dems to start crafting the inevitable “why we lost” narrative. This is no different than when watching a sports championship and the time is ticking down and the announcers become more cognizant that it is not time to keep saying, “There’s a chance!”, but instead time to say, “It’s looks like it’s gonna take more than…”
Everyone is too self-aware that the internet is forever to keep up the charade until the very end. The end was a long time back. Now we watch and wait.
“So You Wasted Your Vote”
I didn’t get to conclude my, “I wrote in a candidate, which by the way is not as simple as you may think-” before my acquaintance dismally uttered, “So you wasted your vote.”
Just like that, I found myself neutered. The man behind the knife was Puerto Rican, incidentally, and didn’t seem to be in the mood to let the joke pass without consequence (which I have to say the joke has gotten funnier with age—go watch it again if you need a pick-me-up). This means he isn’t voting for Trump either.
But I didn’t take away his manhood when I learned his position. So I count that as indicative of my winning the moral moment.
This post is ultimately about the meaninglessness of all our ballots and the meaningfulness of right action. But first I want to record, for posterity, how a write-in vote works.
- There are only specific candidates who can be inked in. These folks had to essentially apply for the opportunity and you can google your state to see the options. (I may actually run one year. Seems like a bucket list thing to me.)
- In Colorado, the law says you have to write in the last name of both the president and vice-president for the vote to count. (I believe the full names would be fine, too. But the space is limited, and since this is mostly an exercise in futility, let’s not draw it out.) So be sure to read the instructions on write-in voting in full.
- Here’s my ballot.
Okay. Back to the debate. Just about everyone on the continent tells me that I wasted my vote. I contend that I did not waste my vote in any sense different than you “wasted” yours. And I counter that it is foolish to believe that if you vote for Trump or Harris you have somehow not wasted your vote, somehow spoken in a more effective language. Or contributed to democracy or the country more than me. Or you have accomplished some civic duty, which I have not.
No, no, no. That’s wrong.
Don’t hear me suggest “fatalism”. I do not dryly believe “what’s going to happen is going to happen.” Please do hear me when I say your actions during this one, seemingly absolutely critical moment in time do not weigh more than your actions during all the other moments. I think I mean this in the biblical sense, introduced by the psalmist and highlighted by my namesake, “one day is like a thousand years, a thousand years like one day.” In short, all our votes are wasted because the notion of voting necessarily implies an incorrect perspective on life—even the life of a country.
Another way to talk about this point of mine that I here offer is to reminisce about the “How did we get here?” question that is terribly fun to debate.
I have yet to hear anyone suggest we got here because of folks’ past voting records (here being these two candidates, after the last two, after the last two, ad infinitum). Instead, the answers given are more provocative. “Education” (or lack thereof). “Immigration.” “Wars.” “Immorality.” “Russia” (meaning anywhere from the theory they have intentionally and strategically taken over the universities to the direct influence on elections). And many, many others. “Welfare.” “Military Industrial Complex.” “End times.” “Democracies only last 250 years, give or take.” Bluntly, then, I mean that if we do not cite our past votes in our answers to “how we got here?”, how could our votes ever be “how we achieve” whatever goal (political or otherwise) towards which we aim?
In the end, no, by writing in, I did not waste my vote any more than you did, you who chose one of the two candidates who possess a proper chance at winning. (Trump has it in the bag, never forget that.) So dismount your high horse, Citizen, and rest assured that in the not too distant future I will be lounging like a tree near streams of water with the knowledge that I didn’t let myself get caught up in the hype anymore than I did for Black Jesus (or Bush or Biden…).
This election is another referendum on how you (we) live your life. It should be interpreted as yet another instance of divine compassion. We’re mucking things up for sure down here. But Voting for Trump or Harris (or anyone) does not change your character. And believing that it does betrays a fundamental flaw in your understanding of life.
Vote or don’t vote, I don’t care. But I do care that you shape up. Turn off the TV. Use the newfound free time to exercise your mind, body, and spirit. The battle rages.
A Little Time Means A Lot Of Focus and Politics is Personal
As election day draws near, I cannot deny that my resolve not to vote for Trump began to waiver. Colorado is solidly blue, so a Trump vote would certainly be a wasted vote. Still, I was starting to feel like it would be fun to tell the grandkids that I was part of the unforeseen popular majority.
As I voted today, I just couldn’t do it. And with time running out, the underlying reason finally surfaced. (I don’t know why I didn’t see this happening; it always does. We veterans prefer working under pressure for the clarity it brings.)
The reason I can’t vote for Trump is because I can’t vote for Republicans. The Republicans were in power during 9/11. They had a chance to accomplish what no humans have yet accomplished, and they blew it—including wasting my time and energy by sending me to Iraq in response.
9/11 should have been used to relegate the false god Allah to the myths and legends section of libraries and bookstores. And the only way to do that is make supporting him deadly—which can be done directly or indirectly, but with intention, nonetheless. So many gods have perished. This shouldn’t be controversial. Instead, and unconscionably, the supposedly great Republican party* decided to lie and wage irrelevant (and illegal) wars under the guise of satisfying all interested players and offending no one.
So, no, I won’t buy into the same system that made that category mistake. Nations are okay, but gods are where the action is at.
Anyhow, I know my opinion is unpopular. So it’s not like I expected to find some candidate who wanted to lead and win the coming Holy War. But I also can’t vote for people who have had the opportunity to do so and dropped the ball. So I found the rules for write-in votes (you can’t just vote for anyone) and there is some random unaffiliated and normal looking citizen that satisfied the requirements for Colorado’s ballot and I voted for him. In other words, literally any average citizen is better than Trump/Harris and the major (and minor) parties. His name is Chris Garrity. Best of luck, man.
In short, with time drawing to a close, I have just now realized that, for me, politics is personal.
*To be clear, the Dems would have done no different.
The Preacher Said, “Joy Cometh in the Morning” in Today’s Service. Was It Code Today?
This morning was my last morning with the Black Baptists before the election. (I work next Sunday.) Going in, I was curious what kind of political talk we’d hear. For the past several Sundays, the gist was always “Trump bad,” but never quite “Kamala good.” And Baptist preachers wouldn’t be Baptist preachers if they didn’t say, “Vote!”
Today’s service had two political moments. The first occurred way before the sermon, during a fairly random reading of a Black History Experience. I don’t recall the exact words, but I remember smiling as the lady said something about how important this election was.
I thought, “Hype!! It’s all hype. She’s a sucker. No different than at this Super Bowl or during these playoffs ‘we are witnessing something never before seen!’ It’s all hype. Don’t fall for it.”
The second moment requires a brief reminder. There are many sayings or scriptures or proverbs which the Black Baptists all around the country utter at least once during each Sunday service. “But early, EARLY Sunday morning…” is one. Another is, “God loves…a cheerful giver.” A third is, “You can’t out-give God.” Another is, “He woke you up this morning!” Another is, “As the old saints used to say…”
The one in question, and behind this post is, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.”
Seriously. If a woman who has seen five or more decades and survived at least one round of cancer doesn’t say this into a microphone, with perfect timing and emphasis on “But Joy!!…comes in the morning,” then you weren’t at a Baptist church.
Today, however, the sermon was essentially a Stephen-esque recounting of all it took for Moses to strike the rock rather than speak to it. Then, as the capstone, she delivered the somehow never-tired, “Remember, weeping may endure for a night,” (wait for it) “But JOY comes in the morning.”
It was code. It was so clearly code. “Vote Kamala—the candidate of JOY. And stop worrying. The LORD won’t let him win.” Had she said it at any other time in the story, I wouldn’t have even noticed it. But it was delivered with an ever-so-slightly-out-of-place force, an ever-so-slight amount of “indulge me, Saints” that I am certain it was meant as a Gilead-made balm to the community.
My aforementioned Ethiopian wife didn’t see it that way.
What do you think?
Captain’s Log 