I love that song.
Although I’m not lying in a burned-out basement. I’m sitting up in a water-damaged basement. I don’t feel like getting high, but I would like some relief from the pain of the latest kidney stone, a small fellow who decided to make his presence known this morning. Until he showed up I thought i had some serious indigestion. Well, I didn’t. But I suppose it’s nice that either the AI disorders or the stones have me so conditioned to the place where I can confuse a kidney stone with indigestion. Anyway. Enough with the whining; it does seem like all I do of late is whine. But in reality I’m not whining so much as sitting back staring bemusedly at the bits of chaos my life is splintering into and wondering at the kaleidoscopeness of it all. It’s absurd and funny and sad and real all at the same time.
Anyway. I wasn’t coming here to whine. I was coming here to ask what the bloody hell is up with folks. Earlier this week one of my Christian writer friends reported that a woman in her writing forum declared that she was only buying books by non-Christians from the Used Bookstore so that non-Christian writers wouldn’t profit from her and then spend the money on non-Christian things. (Like food, I presume.) Then this morning another Christian writer friend came to Facebook seething because when she approached an acquaintance for employment for a non-Christian friend in dire straits she was told that this man “only helps Christians.”
This little light of mine….hide it under a bushel? NO!
Maybe everyone else forgot that song. Maybe they were too busy singing “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” It seems like we’re marching as to war everywhere. That’s what this “culture war” has done. It’s turned the open arms of Christ into a sort of martial arts combat stance.
I’m reminded of this book I just finished reading, set in the Florida wetlands. The characters have a ranch which is threatened by a developer’s housing project. Much of the book centers on contretemps between the two, while the rest of the book glories in praising the old Florida of Cross Creek. The rancher was the hero, the developer the cad.
I couldn’t help wondering whose land the rancher took.
We’re acting like that, those of us who are so thrilled to be in the Jesus Club that we don’t want to taint it with the heathen. We’ve gotten our gold. Now we want everyone else out of Deadwood. We’re lying in our burned out basements, the full moon in our eyes. I guess we’ll be flying our silver spaceship to a new home in the sun one of these days. We chosen ones with the colours flying all around us, deaf to the children crying outside our perimeter of safety.
Nevermind whose land the rancher took. It’s our pasture now, I guess.