Tagged: Writing

My Best Conversation Tip When You Know You Are Smarter Than Everyone In The Room

I recently moved. It’s been difficult, but it is a good thing–a great thing. I am flying again.

However, I have been struggling on the social side of life. Many of you may recall that while I wasn’t flying, I was educating myself. More than educating myself, I was learning how we know anything about anything.

When one engages in this pursuit, the pursuit of knowledge, he or she is usually surrounded by other like-minded individuals. In other words, he or she feels normal. They feel comfortable.

But when school ends, reality hits home. No one cares. People not in school simply do not care. To you all, I say, “Cool beans. Good for you.”

But the problem remains. If I walk into a church, I probably have studied biblical history, language history, and the Bible itself more than any two people present combined. If I am among a group of pilots, my military flight training sets me apart from the civilian group for sure, and my having been trained by the Air Force sets me apart from the wannabe Air Force pilots that settled for serving in a flying capacity in one of the other branches.

In short, the problem is conversations become belabored. These days I want to get in-depth on whatever subject matter is of note. I mean, I have questions, man! Soon after, though, they realize that they don’t quite carry the same fire as I do. Consequently, one of us changes the subject to avoid silence.

After much consideration, then, I have discovered the solution. Or at least the following offering is my best conversation tip when you know you are smarter than everyone in the room. (This is both for me and for some of the other smartypants I know who are noisily lurking around out there.)

Ready?

Here it is: Be quiet.

Yup. Stay silent. Keep observing and keep learning. There is no rush.

Okay. That’s all, folks!

PS: Dark Phoenix was great. I think the reason it received bad press was its elevation and commendation of the virtue of “forgiveness”.

Security, Safety, Equality

This is more for me than anyone else. It’s just a musing that I am working out. But I felt like sharing.

“Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.” – Ben Franklin

Liberty lives in the heart of veterans like me. Like me, some of my war buddies have an as of yet unaccounted for revulsion to all this talk about equality that is everywhere these days. Girls are equal to boys. Children are equal to adults. All religions are equal. All cultures are equal. All countries are equal. It’s all hogwash–at least according to me and my pals.

Why? Because we didn’t fight for equality. Men don’t fight for equality, certainly not with their flesh. Lawyers and judges and statesmen might consider their fight to be for equality. But the fighting man? The warrior? (And, no, not the metaphorical warrior, folks). No, sir. He fights for freedom. And when he is finished with his fight, then he desires it. He needs it. Why? Because if he can’t have it, then he must fight again.

I want to offer for your consideration something new. I offer the idea that equality is synonymous with security, synonymous with safety.

How would you distinguish them? I no longer see the distinction that might have once been in my mind.

Review [Spoiler] of the New Avengers Movie and Biblical Critique of Your Newfound Love of Genealogy

Sobbing! You read that right. I’m telling you that the two women laid out in the theater seats beside mine were sobbing at various parts of the latest Avengers movie. Sobbing.

A few reasons this is odd include: they were middle-aged adults or older, they were the only ones I could hear performing this sonorous swan sonnet out of the entire theater (and I’m sure others could hear them too) and this was at an eleven thirty showing–eleven thirty in the morning–on a Monday! On. A. Monday.

Dear, faithful reader: you might be wondering, “What would you have them do, Pete? It was probably sad.”

My response? It was sad. Kinda. And I would have them stop sobbing. It was maybe a single and silent tear sad, not sobbing uncontrollably sad. And if they couldn’t stop from sheer self-control, I’d suggest to these sheez that they simply utter aloud the sobriquet of the superhero who died, as in, “Black Widow just died.”

Yep. The feeling accompanying that sentence should do it.

Secondly, for tonight, I want to call to your attention the wildly un-biblical hobby that is sweeping through Christendom–most aggressively through the Black Church’s iterations–in recent times: Genealogies. Stop. Just stop. Those of you engaging in this research are suckers. Worse, you are insulting all blood-redeemed sinners who read their Bibles, and worse-est, you’re actively undoing the work of Jesus the Christ–not for our lives, but for yours.

For your consideration, answer the following questions honestly:

  1. What is your intention in your quest to learn about your family-line?
  2. What possible, and/or relevant, good can come from knowing which blood-line you carry in your flesh?
  3. Moreover, what exactly did Paul mean by the following words: “all”, “sons”, “neither”, “one”, “descendants”, and “heirs”, when he wrote, “For you are all sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus. For all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free man, there is neither male nor female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus. And if you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s descendants, heirs according to promise”?
  4. And in this passage, what did Paul mean by the following words: “brethren”, “all”, “agree”, “no”, “divisions”, and “same”, when he wrote, “Now I exhort you, brethren, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that you all agree and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be made complete in the same mind and in the same judgment”?

Perishing non-believers do not respect unfocused belief–in anything.

So, Christians: Focus. And focus on Christ.

Open Letter To the Barbarians From the Literate

Dear Barbarians,

This is very difficult for me to write, perhaps insanely so, as you seem unable or unwilling to read. I guess this letter is not so much for you as it is for those literate individuals who I’d like to see step up their game when it comes to guarding the gates.

Barbarians: the most important thing I want to say to you is that we know you’re here. We don’t think that you’re “coming”. We don’t think that you’re “approaching”. We don’t think that you’re “closing in”. We know that you’re here, among us. And yet we’re not afraid.

I also want you to know that we know you can win. You’ve won time and time again. You probably don’t know this, but it’s true.

We know this because we are the ones who recorded it in the hopes that we might learn from our mistakes.

Here’s the main point: You seem to think you are entitled to keep everything you brought with you when you came to our home. You want to keep your clothes. You want to keep your food. You want to keep your language. You want to keep your gods. You want to keep your behavior. You want to keep your government. You want to keep your attitudes. You want to keep your family name. You want to keep, keep, keep, keep.

We don’t want anything. Instead, we hope. And here’s our hope: We hope that you will see that there is something greater to be gained than merely keeping what you already possess. We believe this because we are the group that chose to give up, chose to release, chose to exchange, chose to trade, chose to adopt, chose to change. Perhaps the better way to say it is that we are the group that chose to learn. Will you join us? Will you let us teach you? Will you learn the better way? Will you learn our way?

We believe you can. And we hope you will.

But we’re not going to force you. That’s your way–it always has been and it always will be.

The Literate

On Pain, Fear, Bravery, and Time

Last post, I wrote that I believe I am an expert on defense and gave some advice on the subject due to my feeling that there is a sharp rise in falsehoods with President Trump’s election. This post is additional defense advice. Bluntly, I am going to teach you how to be brave.

Many of you know that at the end of my time at the seminary I was fortunate to purchase the full set of Britannica’s Great Books of the Western World. I have slowly but steadily been reading through the set since last summer. I am officially on book five, having skipped the two “Synopticon” volumes.

In short, I am still in the (Trojan War-centered) plays of Greek Antiquity, though through Homer and Aeschylus. One line from Sophocles’ Trachiniae furnished unto me the motivation for this post. 

(These plays are always filled with great tragedy and accordingly the line is thus:)

“Which woe shall I bewail first, which misery is the greater? Alas, ’tis hard for me to tell. One sorrow may be seen in the house; for one we wait with foreboding: and suspense hath a kinship with pain.”

“…and suspense hath a kinship with pain.” That’s the part that leapt off the page.

When H-‘s mom and I were in lamaze class, the nurse leading the class informed the mothers (and fathers) of the relationship between pain, fear, and time. Apparently, we learned, part of labor pains–and fear of labor pains–in first-time mothers is simply created by some admixture of fear of the unknown, and the fact that the moments and duration of the pain are unpredictable and do not bend to the patterns of the clock. But if the new mother knows this, then supposedly her fears will be abated and the concordant pain lessened. At least that’s the theory.

H- is about to turn nine.

Although I have a bachelors degree and three years of graduate study under my belt, it fascinates me that only now do I read something which renders modernity’s lamaze class ineffectual.

“…and suspense hath a kinship with pain.”

But this got me thinking. I’m brave. I mean, I flew planes and helicopters. I even flew helicopters into combat. How does that work? Why didn’t I fear? Why didn’t the unknown cause me to tremble? Why didn’t the suspense, the waiting, cause me to fear like the new mother?

Then, as a Christian, I also got to thinking about the bible writers’ thoughts on fear, which range from “The fear of the LORD is the beginning of knowledge” to “The LORD is my light and my salvation; Whom shall I fear? The LORD is the defense of my life; Whom shall I dread?”

Why was David able to live without fear? Why was I able to be brave? The answer is found in righteousness. The answer is found in walking according to the law of the LORD, that is, the law of Christ.

While I served in the Air Force, I had no fear because we knew we were on the side of truth. We studied long and we trained hard. We assessed our capabilities and limitations astutely and without embellishment. Then we imposed our will on evil men who slept under the false security blanket of darkness.

Now, as a Christian, I see how the LORD and his son Jesus the Christ have ordered our steps. Do you see it?

When I walk in love, I do not fear. The result is predictable and immediate: blessing.

When I walk in joy, I do not fear. The result is predictable and immediate: blessing.

When I walk in peace, I do not fear. The result is, again, predictable and immediate: blessing.

When I walk in patience, I do not fear.

And on and on. When I walk in kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control, I do not fear.

I do not fear. I am brave.

Or as David put it so long ago, “The LORD is my light and my salvation; Whom shall I fear? The LORD is the defense of my life; Whom shall I dread?”

From the ancient Greek poets down to registered nurses of our day, those with eyes to see have observed that there is a time element to fear and pain. But fearlessness isn’t bestowed in the hospitals or in the theaters. It is found in the Word of God. It is given by the LORD; it comes from walking with the Holy Spirit.

Ear Sugar

Playfully hopping around the kitchen, H- didn’t miss the opportunity to stop and look at her reflection in the back door’s glass. She then bounced, no, danced her way over to her father.

“Oh. My. Goodness,” he said, import coming from his staccato. He did not look up as he walked the butter wrapper to the trash can.

“What?” she asked, curiously.

“Can you calm down just for one minute?” he returned.

The laptop monitor had an image of James and Lars as they sat in the studio. The “making of” documentary H-‘s father had been showing her during dinner was now paused as he mixed the cookie dough.

Still attempting to solve the present energy riddle, he shook his head and mused, “It’s not even like you had any sugar.”

Her expectant eyes quietly suggested that no solution was in sight.

Looking down at her, he again noticed the screen as he returned his attention to the mixing bowl.

Proud of his ability and with a subtle cock of his head to the left, he concluded, “I guess Metallica is kind of like sugar for your ears.”

I Won’t Believe in “Narratives”

The N-word of the past had a characteristic that rendered it far more powerful than the one I call to your attention in this post. Unlike the bygone racial slur, the word-of-our-day, ‘narrative’ only finds usage among the over-educated and self-indulgent. Once the word is spoken aloud, however, the conversation usually cannot draw to a close without hearing its utterance many more times. This is the natural course of such buzzwords and catchphrases.

Not the repetitive feature, but rather the earnestness of the speaker or writer is what has drawn me out from my place of silent repose. These redundant commentators seem to believe that if they can simply make everyone see that the liberals, whether lead by AOC or Jussie Smollet, all have one narrative, and that they stick to it closer than stink to a pig, then, “POOF!” the world changes for the better.

Conversely, professed fanboy Michael Cohen’s opening statement caused me to wonder if I had fallen off the mobster-movie-watching wagon. Would his testimony have even been coherent without the resounding success of The Godfather? Put another way, does the snowflake generation even understand what a fixer is?

Will I admit that there does seem to be several different and conflicting scripts or “narratives” running through our voices currently? Sure. Will I admit that people like Ben Shapiro know more than I do from first-hand experience within meeting rooms that the media bosses have intentional “narratives” that they use to sell more advertisements than others? Yes. But I still won’t believe in “narratives” or what’s worse, try to advance my own.

Instead, I will believe in words. Check these words out. I had finished up the Bible’s book Jeremiah the other day, had felt totally unsure of how he got started, and so I decided to begin it again.  Here are some of the words I found powerful, in no particular order. Serve. Whore. Green. High. Every. You.

Yeah. Those are some powerful words.

Ordered as the Living God so willed, and spoken through Jeremiah, they go, “But you said, ‘I will not serve!’ For on every high hill and under every green tree you have bowed down like a whore.”

No “Poof!” here. More like, “uh, is this still safe for work?” Probably not. But I believe that the same thing Jeremiah called attention to way-back-when happens today. And we cannot soften it or call the guilty to account by merely suggesting that they are mouthpieces for some distant, conspiratorially-crafted narrative.

There are many words from which to choose and in which to believe.

I won’t believe in “narratives.”

The Divine Answer

I don’t know exactly where the time went, but the other day I just realized that I am thirty-seven years old. Wow.

After considering the matter, it occurred to me that I aged three years while at Seminary. (To be clear, this means I now have righteous reading skills, not major math skills.)

Additionally, I just realized that I finally have the clearest and most truthful answer to the question that has been nagging at me for some time.

The question: What did you do at Seminary?

The answer: I got older.

Boo ya.

Covering the Outside

The drawstring on my gym shorts has never retracted all the way into the band, but it seems like it may if I’m not careful as I put them on.

My forehead has a skin irritation that I do not believe I can cure with the limited amount of time and skill that I possess this morning.

The one on my upper left arm is prime for attention and now healing.

Remembering that I felt my big toenail snag on the blankets last night, I leave my anklet socks on the kitchen table as I return to the bathroom.

After clipping, the metal file is put to work.

Donning my shirt first, I then pull on my socks. Next, my glasses. One more look in the mirror to make sure that the additional light didn’t reveal any embarrassing and correctable flaws.

I’m good.

Well, my forehead still has the acute pain, but I’m good.

And I’m failing as I try not to think about the shooting, and what, if anything, it means, but I’m good.

My Hallelujah

“Why are they holding candles?” H-asked, looking at the laptop open on the kitchen table.

“To make it look pretty,” I answered.

Accompanying the recorded images of faux-candlelight, a lady’s voice sang, “But all I’ve ever learned from love/Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya.”

“What do you think she means, H-?” I asked.

“Huh?” she asked, distractedly.

I began again. “The songwriter wrote, ‘But all I’ve ever learned from love/Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya.’ I’m curious what you think that means. What did he learn?”

“Well,” she started, pausing thoughtfully, “it’s kinda hard to understand.”

I nodded to myself.

“It is, isn’t it?” I agreed. “I think he means that when someone tries to be mean even before you can be nice, the only thing that can stop them is love. But I may be wrong. That’s part of what makes it pretty like the candles.”

The voice continued, “Hallelujah, Hallelujah.”

“You know, Daddy, I was singing this in the shower,” she pointed out.

I shook my head in wonder. “I know. I heard. That’s why I put it on.”

“I only know the Hallelujah part, though. It’s in Shrek.”

“I know.”

The startling oven timer sounded to her left. She turned to look. Grabbing the oven mitt, I opened the oven. The cookies were done baking. Time for dessert.