Everybody Ought to Go to Sunday School #T

 This story was presented about three years ago.  As I was thinking about the Sunday post I read this  tale again.  It amused  me.  Again.  Here it is again.

Margot Goes to Sunday School
 
Somewhere, Indiana was a quiet not to say bucolic village of some five or six thousand souls.   And as to the tending of souls, the community was well-supplied with churches.  There were by most accounts twenty-three churches in the immediate environs of the community.  One was Roman Catholic, eleven were Baptist, and the remaining ones were protestant churches of various stripes.  These twenty-three do not include a Kingdom Hall and an LDS facility, both well outside the town proper, and outside the consideration of the citizenry with the exception of the adherents and devotees of those respective faiths.

This seems an awfully ponderous introduction to a light-hearted tale about a little girl and her Sunday School experience.  Yet it is somewhat germane in that it clearly points out that Somewhere was if not a religious place at least a place where the citizens respected or at least supported religious institutions.  And Margot's parents were considered to be heathens by the social standards thereabouts. Oh, Tad and Marsha were nice enough people, good moral people.  They were well-educated and successful in their chosen fields of endeavor.  But they cheerily and cheerfully ignored all attempts by friends or neighbors, laity or clerical, to entice them into participation in religious services.

But seven-year old Margot, while not a social butterfly, had developed a friendship with Luanne.  Lu's parents were staunch Methodists, pillars of Brookside UMC one might say.  Inevitably Luanne prevailed upon her friend Margot to attend Sunday school with her.  And Margot presented the case to her mother.  Mother was open-minded and not averse to the idea that her pride and joy be exposed to the other side of things, and gladly agreed that Margot might go to Sunday school.

Sunday morning Margot skipped down her front steps, blue dress, white bonnet with a broad blue ribbon and blue bow tied just above the brim.  Her Mary Janes were new and white stockings completed the ensemble.  The child skipped along the sidewalk and up the steps to the house next-door but one.  Presently Luanne joined Margot and the two skipped merrily along the walk, a bluebell and a jonquil bobbing along side by side to the Methodist Church a mere block away.

Mrs. Leffler was enthusiastically explaining to the children how God formed Adam from the dust of the earth,  then deciding the man should have a companion put him to sleep, removed a rib and formed a woman.  "Oh," exclaimed Margot, "that's disgusting!"

Startled, Mrs. Leffler said, "Excuse me?"

"First God made a man out of mud then he cut him open and took a bone to make a woman?  Mud and blood and bone?  That is disgusting."

"But, Honey, this is God's word.  It is completely true and this creation story reminds us that we are not all that high and mighty."

"Whatever.  My Mama says I am made of sugar and spice and everything nice!"

"That is a pretty thing for your mother to say, but we must take God at his word."
 ,
"Well, I am going with my Mama on this one."





Sunday school was over and the girls met Luanne's parents in the foyer.  Mrs. Jarrett said, "Won't you join us for the worship service, Margot?"

"Oh, no, thank you Mrs. Jarrett.  I gotta get on home now."

Up the front steps, in the front door.  Mama called, "Is that you, Muffin?"

"Yes, Mama."

"How was Sunday school?"

"It was fine, Mama."

"What did you learn?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Margot said as she closed the bathroom door behind her.

And on that issue Margot was completely right.

Word of the day: ponderous

Sticky notes, cleanup

When you were young you dressed yourself and went wherever you wished, but when you get old you’ll have to stretch out your hands while someone else dresses you and takes you where you don’t want to go.  John 21:18

2/3 of all church plants fail within the first year.  That's why we switched to plastic ones.  Don't have to water them. 

Ringwald was in fact 16 when she did sixteen candles, 17 for the breakfast club and 18 for pretty in pink.  steinfeld, on the other hand, at twenty is probably exactly right for a 2016 movie about a seventeen-year old, for after all  twenty is the new seventeen.  And so is 21, and 22, and so on.

What has darby done for us lately? Well, she got old and quit playing teen roles.

social media: where any intersection with the truth is brief and accidental.

Luke 6:22 Blessed are ye when men shall hate you, and when they shall separate you from their company, and shall reproach you, and cast out your name as evil, for the Son of man's sake.

23 Rejoice ye in that day, and leap for joy: for, behold, your reward is great in heaven: for in the like manner did their fathers unto the prophets.

Ephraim stomped his feet several times then dragged the soles of his boots, first the left, then the right, across the bootscaper embedded in the edge of the concrete slab.  He turned each foot in turn to check the result.  Satisfied, he pushed the backdoor open and stepped into the mudroom.

Ephraim shrugged out of his heavy wool-lined canvas jacket and hung it on a hook.  The red and black checked cap he whapped atop the jacket.  Wearily he sat on the wooden stool and removed his boots.

Ephraim was not a happy man.  He had worked through long night hours the barn lighted by only a single kerosene lamp trying to help Lucy, his favorite milk cow, deliver her calf.  Though he had twisted, turned, pulled and struggled the infant animal his efforts were for nought.  It never drew a breath despite Ephraim's near-frantic efforts to bring it to life.  Worse, the man was not certain that the cow would survive her ordeal though he had stayed with her until the light of dawn.

(finis-- for now)

Sticky notes, page 2

Select from a pool of 535 hammerheads a group of twelve and they will come up with a rational solution to the problem. No. You will simply have a smaller pool of hammerheads.

larned vavnik

"Audere est Facere", which translates as "to dare is to do",

"if you torture the data severely enough they will confess to anything."
Ronald Coase actually said, 
"If you torture the data enough, nature will always confess. "  nobel prize winner in economics 1991

Did you ever just feel like slapping someone?  Then you didn't.  Then you wish you had.  Yet you are really glad you didn't.  Mixed bag.

 Today's "country" is just a bunch of failed pop "artists" trying to make it in another genre.  Crap.

Maybe  old people are lonely simply because they are not fit company.

Wild turkeys sure look a lot different from tame ones.  Tames are stupid and have big breasts, like blonde women.  --BBBH

 Stupidity seems to increase in direct proportion to the increase in knowledge.

winter sit around in the house; it's too cold to do anything.
summer sit around in the house; it's too hot to do anything.
springtime and fall sit around the house, too weak from sitting around in the summer and the winter to do anything at all.

next stop, Fairview.

Envy is the art of counting the other fellow's blessings instead of your own.  --Harold Coffin

Of the seven deadly sins, only envy is no fun at all. --Joseph Epstien

 You are like a blind squirrel who brings his own nuts to the park.  --scott adams  "Dilbert"

may all your flowers
bold or shy, and veggies too
be blessed with showers

I'll have a Blue Christmas without you
I'll be so blue just thinking about you
Decorations of red on a green Christmas tree
Won't be the same dear, if you're not here with me

 

And when those blue snowflakes start fallingThat's when those blue memories start calling
You'll be doin' all right, with your Christmas of white
But I'll have a blue, blue blue blue Christmas

You'll be doin' all right, with your Christmas of white
But I'll have a blue, blue Christmas

(To be continued. . .)

Potted Meat #T

Remember that?  Potted meat, I mean, a pasty substance of indeterminate origin that came in a small can about the size of the can of tuna you just opened for lunch.  This post is going to remind you of that, or I just  did.

Every time I boot the computer a host of "sticky notes" pops up on the screen.  It is a collection of either scrambled eggs or the ruminations of a barely-hinged mind.  Or potted meat.  I am putting them here to save them in one spot, though what I saved them for in the first place eludes me at the moment.  I might want them someday.  Like the junk in the top left-hand drawer in the kitchen cabinet.

If you can't spread a little sunshine, at least don't spread manure-- unless you are a farmer.

He brings his own righteousness to church and leaves with the same thing.

Contemporary worship people, note: if you delete “when sorrows like sea billows,” from “It Is Well,” you’re left with ... a praise song. No poetry, no content.  --Aaron Belz

"There is a fine line between a joyful noise and a horrendous racket."  --Bob Warr


this little slight of mine
I'ma give it to you all the time
i'm gonna lay it on ya
doggone ya

lettuce and tomato sandwich
'cause the meat's in short supply
if you're still hungry eat a turnip
we'll all eat pie by and by.
-----(sung to the tune of "Let us have a little talk with Jesus. . .")

 He is educated way above his intelligence level and he is practicing professionally well beyond his level of competence.  Condition all too common, too frequently encountered these days.
educated beyond your intelligence.
In my reading recently I happened upon a  phrase the author used to describe a  character.  He  wrote, "Lowell was educated beyond his intelligence."

My father used a similar saying.  His comment would have been, "Lowell has more degrees than a thermometer, but not sense enough to pound sand in a rathole."

Why do I bring this up?  Simply this: there is a vast chasm between knowledge and wisdom.

It seems to me that we are living in an age of knowledge in which learning is prized above all else.  That is not entirely a bad thing, but that which we emphasize in the learning process is woefully incomplete and entirely inadequate to the building of individual character such that the society might function smoothly as an integral organism.  Witness the incivility of man to fellowman; the uncivil reactions and the mob mentality of the many who disagree with "the other side."
What we will ultimately witness is the ripping asunder of the society, chaos, anarchy, and who knows what.

(To be continued. . .)

Gospel Writers and Colts #T

The other day we were addressing some differences in the records of the Triumphal Entry and why they might have existed.  We observed that both Matthew and John specified that the animal Jesus requested for his entry into the city was the colt of a donkey.  Mark and Luke did not specify that the colt was a donkey.  Why? I asked.

Most scholars agree that Matthew was written by an anonymous author, but one who was well-versed in Jewish tradition and the Law.  Clearly he would have been familiar with the role of the donkey in the Exodus, its position in Jewish life, and of peter chamor.  He would have recognized the importance of distinguishing the colt as that of an ass.

Similarly though his life-style differed radically from that of the writer of Matthew, John, a cousin of Jesus according to tradition, would have been thoroughly familiar with the Law.  Mark and Luke, however, had much different backgrounds.  Mark was born in North Africa and though he became one of the Four Evangelists he was probably much less familiar with Jewish tradition.  Luke was born  in a Greek city and was quite possibly a gentile, though many scholars believe he was a Hellenistic Jew.  He was no doubt highly educated, a physician.  Rather than religious studies he would have focused on such scholars as Aesclepius, Hippocrates, Aristotle, and Pythagoras,  He became a traveling companion of Paul and doubtless learned most of what he knew of Christ, his life, and associated theology, from Paul.

Now we see the likelihood that Luke and Mark considered it of small import to specify that Jesus's mode of transport was a donkey, whereas Matthew and John were careful to include that detail in their account.

To us today it is a matter of scholarly interest to pursue detail and speculate on motive of persons long gone from the scene.  As a matter of importance, it would make no difference to us had he ridden into Jerusalem in a Mercedes limousine.  Well, except for the anachronism.  What matters to us is that Jesus Christ, Creator God, assumed human flesh, lived among men and died for us; that he arose from the dead and ascended to the Father where he prepares a place for us!

Conversations with Random People --27 #T

Gasoline prices down $0.46 today from the price at last fill, so wheeled into the station. Pickup truck on the other side of the island I was working and just as I got my card inserted in the correct attitude, the truck started, pulled away a few feet and CLANG! clankety-clank.  Startled, I looked up to see the filler hose dangling from the vehicle.  "HEY!" He stopped, and I immediately jumped around to see if we had a gasoline spill.  Whew! *wipes sweat from the brow* The cutoff valve worked and thus no disaster in the making.

Driver of the vehicle, skinny, rough looking male individual about six foot four leaped from the truck god-damning everything to hell and to the ends of the universe and beyond.

"Sorry," I said.  "That won't fix it.  It happens."  Well, he saw that the pump was not cascading gasoline on the tarmac, cussed a time or two more, then said, "Sorry, but I've never done anything like that before."

"Well," I repeated,  "it happens."  He jerked the nozzle from the neck of the filler pipe, replaced it in its bracket on the pump, got in his vehicle and zoomed away!  Now I, not startled, but stunned, stared in disbelief at the retreating rear-end of the truck.

I walked into the station-cum-convenience-store-cum pizza shop and told the young man, boy, actually, what had just occurred.  "When?" he asked.  "Just now," I replied. "You need to call it into headquarters."

The lad came out to the apron, looked at the damage, picked up the dangling end of the hose and said, "I wonder if I can reconnect it?"

I asked him if he was authorized to do that, and he said no.  Then, I told him, perhaps you had best call it in.  "Okay," he said, perhaps doubtfully, as though he might get blamed for the screw-up.  "Maybe I should make an "Out of Order" sign?  Sure,  why not.  Coals to Newcastle, I did not say.  He was bumfoozled quite enough without my fooling with his head.

And so it goes, here in Perfect on this perfect day.

Weekend Adventures, part 3 #T

3.  To the reunion!   #T

Saturday, minutes before noon we arrived at the park for the reunion.  The temperature could not have been measurably below 100^oF, if any at all.  But the organizers of the party foresaw this possibility-- I mean it was Southern Illinois, mid-July-- and our assemblage gathered in the reserved and nicely air conditioned meeting hall.  Understand that the party included descendants of BBBH's paternal grandparents but also descendants of the sibling of one of the in-laws, a tribe that BBBH went to great pains to convince me that she is no relation to at all.  She isn't, but what fun to tease her about some of the people connected, however distantly, to her relatives.

My approach to a houseful of strangers?  I'm here, what have I got to lose.  There were  about 75 people present, fewer than they had at the last one of these we attended, but nevertheless a rather neat cross-section of mid-America.  The attendees ranged in age from three to ninety-three, male and female, multiracial and bound to be a fun group to accost individually and require conversation of them.  So that is what I did all afternoon, except for the time I was stuffing myself with goodies from the carry-in.

One young man, I'd say 58 to 60, I found as I asked him for his excuse for attending, is single, the result of a divorce, lives in the Florida Panhandle and is a distance runner.  He was wearing his club logo and I asked if they had a website.  He assured me they did and gave me the address.  He and they run half-marathons, marathons, marathon-and-a-half, and hundred mile runs.  I don't get it-- any of it-- and frankly admitted to him that while I admire people with such passion and tenacity I cannot run two steps, never could.

One old guy actually seemed to believe he was oldest man present.  Absurd.  There were at least three other guys older than he, including yours truly.  He is 81.  He found it hard to believe that brother Glenn is 93, but when I told him I am 84 he looked at me and said, "Yeah, I believe that; you certainly look it."  I wandered off.

Visited a bit with a nicely coiffed white haired lady of a certain age.  It turns out she lives less than 25 miles from us.  She belongs to the clan to which BBBH denies relationship.

Big black man, 42 years old, six-foot three, 350 pounds (that's a guess-- could be more) was an interesting conversationalist.  The two youngest of his five children were with him, daughters 13 and 17.  He talked with pride of two of  the others, including the one who had made him a grandparent.  The fifth one, though, was the source of heartache for her father.  I tried to give him some encouragement on that front, pointing out that she is still quite young and sometimes people have to pass forty before any good sense soaks in.

This man wore a name tag that read, "William," and he told me I could call him "Fat"; everyone does.  I thanked him for including me in his circle, then told  him that if I didn't know him I sure as heck would never walk up to him and call him Fat.  Here he raised his right hand, back up, to show me the ring he wore.  Very large-- really large-- gold ring with the word "FAT" embossed in raised letters and studded with 21 diamonds.  Small diamonds it is true, but diamonds nevertheless.  Blessings, Fat, live long and prosper.

In a facebook post I told the best story of the day by the man who told  his mother-in-law, a life-long smoker and who had Alzheimer's that she did not smoke, and she believed him and never smoked again.

So the final one here, another young man, fifty-something, is a Spanish professor at a small Midwestern university.  Serious conversation for the most part, two educators hashing out the problems and outlining the prospects for education in our land.

A good day; tired and so to the hotel to kick off the shoes, BBBH and I shared our individual stories of the day.



 

Weekend Adventures, Part 2

2.  Adventures in eating, continued

We checked into our hotel and took a bit of rest before calling the elder brother of BBBH.  As usual, his son had to roust him from bed so he could take the call, but see how you do when you are 93.  We invited him to have supper with us and we agreed on a pick-up time of 7:30.  Glenn was ready when we arrived at his house.  We agreed on a location and away we went for the evening adventure!  His son drove along in his car, saying then we would not have to make the return trip to their house.

Where did we go?  We chose a very popular chain restaurant most often found hard by a major highway, you know, the one with rocking chairs on the front porch.  And two hundred thousand kitchy items for sale inside.  But again, I digress.

Following the wait in the store-- and we all know the design here: sign in, get suckered into buying stuff you don't need while you wait.  We were finally seated, orders placed.  After a w h i l e our server returned with the food.  BBBH got what she ordered.  Glenn's order looked to be essentially what he called for, but the scrambled eggs looked to be a scrambled egg.  "I said 'eggs,'" he said.  "Well, they gave you one egg."  John stated the obvious.

John got what  he ordered.  I got my turnip greens in a small bowl and my coleslaw in a small bowl and a biscuit on a full-sized dinner plate.  We started to eat, I thinking that my meal would arrive presently.  Finally after exhibiting entirely too much patience, I signaled the wait person and asked, "Where's my fish?"  "Hunh? she replied.  "I ordered fried catfish."  She turned and walked away.  I finished my green stuff, which was good, by the way, and still no fish.  I filed this complaint with a manager, young man very apologetic.  He soon had my fish delivered.  Good thing everyone else had eaten by then, for the aroma nearly sent all my dinner companions into the next room, and I was less than pleased.  I looked at the four sorry pieces of "fish" on the plate, managed to eat most of one of them and when the waitress brought the check she asked if I wanted a take-out box.  "Yes, please."
I carried the remaining three pieces out in the box, paid the bill.  The cashier, as  they are  all  instructed to do, asked, "Was everything okay!"  I said not a mumbling word as I handed her the cash.

I dumped the fish in a waste receptacle.

Friday had not been a good day for us in the comestibles department.

 The view from our hotel room.