Illusion and Theater.

I try, as a matter of personal discipline, not to immerse myself in the daily torrent of headlines.  The modern news cycle is a relentless machine—loud, urgent, and yet, it’s strangely empty.  Nevertheless, every so often, despite my best intentions, a headline catches my eye, and I allow myself to get sucked in.  It pulls me in, not because I trust it, but because I’m curious about what new Oscar-worthy performance is unfolding on the world’s stage.

What I notice, repeatedly, is that what passes for “news” rarely resembles anything real.  It feels crafted, curated, sculpted, and arranged with theatrical precision.  The stories are presented as truth, but the tone is too polished, the timing too convenient, the narrative too tidy.  It’s as though we’re being handed a script rather than a window into reality.

And beneath that obvious script lies a deeper question: What is actually happening behind the scenes?

To explore that question, we must look at the four forces shaping our perception: illusion, distraction, power, and the quiet, stubborn search for truth.

I. Illusion is the first layer—the iridescent surface that makes everything appear coherent and trustworthy. We grow up believing that the world is presented to us honestly. School textbooks, official statements, historical accounts— they all arrive with the authority of certitude.  We memorize dates, names, and events as though they are fixed points in time and that’s all that matters.

But the passing of years and paying close attention has a way of peeling back the veneer.  The more we learn, the more we realize how much of our education was simplified, sanitized, or strategically framed.  History is not a neutral record; it is a purposely fashioned narrative.  Once you recognize that, the illusion begins to crack.

The news, too, operates on illusion.  It offers the appearance of transparency while carefully shaping what we see and how we interpret it.  The lighting is perfect, the talking points rehearsed, the outrage calibrated just so.  It is a performance designed to feel spontaneous and honest.

Illusion is powerful because it is comforting.  It gives us the sense that the world is orderly, that someone is in control, that events follow a predictable script.  But comfort is not the same as truth.

II. Distraction is the orchestra, if illusion is the stagecraft. The modern world is engineered for distraction. Headlines flash, notifications ping, commentary multiplies.  Every story is framed as urgent, every disagreement amplified, every trivial event inflated into a crisis.  We, as the audience, are encouraged to react, not reflect.  Distraction keeps us busy.  It keeps us emotional.  It keeps us from asking deeper questions.  It’s not that the stories are always false; it’s that they are strategically incomplete.  They direct our attention toward the sensational and away from the structural.  They keep us fixated on personalities instead of systems, scandals instead of patterns, noise instead of meaning.

Distraction is not accidental.  It is a tool of control.  A distracted public is a manageable public—too overwhelmed to notice what truly matters.

III. Behind illusion and distraction lies the engine that drives them: power.  Power prefers the shadows.  It prefers complexity, secrecy, and silence.  It prefers a public that is too divided, too exhausted, or too entertained to scrutinize its actions.

The real story of any era is not the headlines; it is the decisions made quietly, behind closed doors, by people whose names we rarely hear.  The world is shaped not by the performances we watch, but by the negotiations, alliances, and calculations that happen backstage.

We were taught in our schools that power is straightforward: governments govern, leaders lead, institutions protect the public good.  But the older we get, the more we see how naïve it was believing those views.  Power is rarely transparent.  It is rarely benevolent.  And it is almost never accountable unless it’s forced to be.

Subsequently, we are left with the unsettling question: What are the kings doing—and what are they hiding?  The answer is not handed to us, so we must seek it ourselves.

IV. Truth becomes a personal responsibility in a world of illusion, distraction, and hidden power.  Truth must be pursued.  It requires discernment, patience, and a willingness to question the narratives we were raised to accept.  It requires stepping back from the clamor long enough to see the patterns beneath it.  It requires humility; the recognition that certainty is often a trap.

But the search for truth is also liberating.  When illusion cracks, clarity emerges.  When distraction loses its grip, attention sharpens.  When power is questioned, accountability becomes possible.  And perhaps this is the quiet rebellion available to each of us: to stop being extras in someone else’s production and instead become vocal observers; aware and unwilling to be fooled.

All the world is a stage… but we do not have to play the part we are assigned.

 

Sequins at Noon – Cowgirl Betty and Cap’n America.

There are times when you go to the grocery store simply to buy milk and lettuce, and instead you are confronted with something so visually arresting that you abandon all thoughts of produce and stand there wondering about the human condition.  This happened to us last month.

We were rolling our cart down the main aisle, minding our own business, when we both spotted a couple ahead of us, although “spotted” is too mild a word.  They were impossible to miss.

He was a large man wearing an equally large T‑shirt, the entirety of it was an American flag from collar to hem.  A full‑scale, Fourth‑of‑July‑parade, fireworks-at-dusk-kind-of-flag; the kind of shirt that announces itself before the wearer even turns the corner.

She, by contrast, was petite, but her outfit more than made up the difference.  She wore bright white ankle‑high cowgirl boots, a white mini‑skirt, and a white-and-silver sequined fringed jacket that shimmered like a disco ball on a pilgrimage.  To complete the ensemble, she had a small white cowboy hat perched on her bottle blonde head, as if she were on her way to a rhinestone‑themed rodeo or perhaps starring in a country‑western musical set inside a snow globe.

I might have missed the details if it weren’t for the millions of silver sequins on her jacket, each one catching the store’s fluorescent lights and sending them ricocheting across the checkout lane.  It was less an outfit and more a celestial event.

We kept on walking, passing by them and taking a moment to appreciate the cartoonish artistry.  There is something admirable about people who dress as if the grocery store is their stage and the aisles their runway.

As we continued walking towards the dairy section, I found myself wondering where they were headed next.  A line dancing competition?  A patriotic photo shoot?  A themed anniversary dinner?  Or perhaps this was simply their Tuesday attire, because why shouldn’t one buy canned tomatoes while dressed like a country star and her personal flag-waving display?

The world is full of mysteries, but few shine quite so brightly under fluorescent lighting.  This was fun to have experienced!

 

Live Well and Worthily.

Life is short, and it is meant to be lived well.  Wouldn’t you rather pour your energy into living it with virtue, steadiness, and joy than spend your days wrestling with every distraction that tries to muddle it?

Life is much too short to . . .

. . . waste time.

. . . not read the Bible.

. . . read tasteless books/magazines.

. . . be subjected to vulgar language.

. . . be exposed to disparaging gossip.

. . . argue with strangers on the Internet.

. . . be around people with no sense of humor.

. . . be around combative and negative people.

. . . watch a program that turns out to be vapid.

. . . listen to the “news” when there isn’t any news.

. . . not crack open a book written by or about a saint.

. . . be entertained by raunchy “entertainers” and “artists.”

. . . put up with the rat-a-tat-tat of unimportant intrusions.

Life— wouldn’t you rather live it well and virtuous than fight what’s interfering with it?

 

He is Risen, Alleluia!

Matthew 28 (Douay-Rheims Bible)

28:1. And in the end of the sabbath, when it began to dawn towards the first day of the week, came Mary Magdalen and the other Mary, to see the sepulchre.

28:2. And behold there was a great earthquake. For an angel of the Lord descended from heaven and coming rolled back the stone and sat upon it.

28:3. And his countenance was as lightning and his raiment as snow.

28:4. And for fear of him, the guards were struck with terror and became as dead men.

28:5. And the angel answering, said to the women: Fear not you: for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified.

28:6. He is not here. For he is risen, as he said. Come, and see the place where the Lord was laid.

28:7. And going quickly, tell ye his disciples that he is risen. And behold he will go before you into Galilee. There you shall see him. Lo, I have foretold it to you.

28:8. And they went out quickly from the sepulchre with fear and great joy, running to tell his disciples.

28:9. And behold, Jesus met them, saying: All hail. But they came up and took hold of his feet and adored him.

28:10. Then Jesus said to them: Fear not. Go, tell my brethren that they go into Galilee. There they shall see me.

28:11. Who when they were departed, behold, some of the guards came into the city and told the chief priests all things that had been done.

28:12. And they being assembled together with the ancients, taking counsel, gave a great sum of money to the soldiers,

28:13. Saying: Say you, His disciples came by night and stole him away when we were asleep.

28:14. And if the governor shall hear of this, we will persuade him and secure you.

28:15. So they taking the money, did as they were taught: and this word was spread abroad among the Jews even unto this day.

28:16. And the eleven disciples went into Galilee, unto the mountain where Jesus had appointed them.

28:17. And seeing him they adored: but some doubted.

28:18. And Jesus coming, spoke to them, saying: All power is given to me in heaven and in earth.

Morning at The Kalamata.

Saturdays bring a delight to our weekends, especially when we change our routine.  For something a little different, last Saturday, mid-morning, we headed out to The Kalamata Kafé.  We weren’t disappointed.

The simple brunch was nothing short of pleasant; it was one of those simple meals that somehow feels like a small private celebration.  Soft violin music emanated from the ceiling speakers.  The waitresses were modestly dressed in pure white short togas tied at the waist with gold belts.  My companion ordered a knish—a strangely sweetened roll made from a dough similar to pillowy Hawaiian‑style bread.  It was filled with soy chorizo and melted queso chihuahua (an imported cheese), a combination that gave it a savory kick and a five-fingered punch beneath the sweetness.  I took a small bite and so did my companion; it was unlike anything either of us tried before, unexpected in the best way, and definitely memorable.  I ordered an almond croissant sprinkled with sugar and sliced toasted almonds, still warm from the oven, its flaky layers giving way to a soft, fragrant center touched with just enough sugary depth.  A cup of weak lemongrass tea sweetened with mesquite honey for the two of us gave the oomph our light brunch needed.

Afterward, we strolled up the bay, the morning light glinting off the water, then we looped back along the main road where the breeze carried the scent of salt and sun-warmed sand.  The walk stirred up memories for both of us—those long rides we used to take on the Indian Chieftain, chasing the horizon with nothing but vast open road ahead.  Only this time, the adventure came with greater comfort, steadier footing, and a quiet sense of security that felt like its own kind of freedom.  We eventually found our car, hopped in, and headed back home.  Later that day, the soy chorizo-queso chihuahua knish thing didn’t agree with my companion and we spent the late afternoon paying for it dearly.

We’ll go back to The Kalamata, but with a different menu ordering plan.

 

A Ministry of Mayhem.

Parents who do not teach their children to respect and obey actually prepare them for a life out of step with God’s Word and in step with the devils.

You might assume that a man styling himself a pastor would have a household that at least vaguely exhibits the teachings of Jesus.  You know, the kind of pastor who should be an example to society, a spiritual guide, a moral compass, and a weekly dispenser of authentic wisdom on the stage of his Fellowship Congregation.  You might even imagine that he’d model basic manners and modesty.

A long time ago, when I lived in a certain condominium, one such person paraded bare-chested in the condominium hallways and public sidewalks.  You’d probably would think that this “pastor” would’ve covered himself up and not parade around in public bare-chested.  By doing that, he was teaching his son well to do the same, which eventually happened, too.  As time when on, his pre-teen daughter was wearing low cut tops and belly-button-showing jeans and beachwear.

This particular family let their children throw out the family garbage, not through the garbage chute, but leave it hidden in the janitor’s closet until the odors compelled other residents to investigate.  The kids squirted soda or some sort of drink on the carpet in the elevator (I saw them do that just as the elevator door opened.)  If the parents double-checked their kids’ chores and where they were, they could’ve corrected them and set them on the right path.  Maybe.

Their children, old enough to know better, ran through the halls at all hours: dawn, mid‑afternoon, nearly midnight.  The thundering footsteps were so intense I occasionally wondered if the building had been repurposed as a training facility for buffalo stampedes.

And again, these were not toddlers.  These were pre‑teens, fully capable of understanding rules, boundaries, and the concept of “other people exist,” so be thoughtful!

The “pastor’s” wife, too, contributed to her own public ministry: it was an evangelization of scent so potent it could’ve knocked a person out.  It was so strong and long-lasting, it made the neighbors think she most likely applied the body lotions and colognes uncontrollably from head to toe.  Her cologne didn’t merely enter the hallways or elevator; it conquered, planted a flag, and dared anyone to challenge its sovereignty.  Her neighborliness went as far as waving at you with her arm behind her head, but never turning to face you and say, “hello.”

Maybe I’m all wet here; however, my thoughts always were that when a husband/father is a pastor of some wort, he guides his family on the path of holiness according to Jesus’ teachings and they all become a positive example to the neighborhood and to the world.  Yet, in that case I wrote about, they weren’t all that friendly, the kids were wild, and they sure solidified the neighbors’ opinions that a “pastor’s” family can be a shining example of what not to do.

In the end, it’s sad: a “pastor” who cannot shepherd his own household, a family whose public displays consists of hallway chaos, elevator dirtying, public undress, and overall disrespect towards neighbors.

But beneath all that sits a quieter truth.  When parents refuse to teach respect, discipline, and consideration, the world instead becomes their children’s classroom, and the lessons are rarely kind.  A household without order doesn’t just scandalize and inconvenience its neighbors; it forms a generation unprepared for the responsibilities, reverence, and self‑control that a faithful and respectable life requires.

 

 

Shhh… in a Modest Trattoria.

It was a genuine treat to go out for lunch recently, mostly because eating out is not a daily, nor even a weekly, occurrence for us.  I enjoy cooking at home, but every now and then it’s nice to let someone else do the sautéing while I simply sit there and enjoy the novelty of it all.

We chose a little local Italian place, the kind where the fat breadsticks arrive in generous baskets and the garlic in the air is present but polite.  We settled into our booth, ordered our meals, and chatted about this and that.

Somewhere between topics, a waitress passed by and began checking on the tables in her section.  I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but her voice carried just enough for me to catch her asking a couple nearby, “Pash‑ta Fa‑shool for you” and “Mini-shrone soup for you.”

I paused.  I blinked.  I nearly choked on my ice water with lemon slice.

I have heard many pronunciations of Italian dishes in my life, but this one was new— an unexpected hybrid of culinary enthusiasm and what sounded like an anchovy lodged squarely between her incisors, forcing every “s” into a prolonged “shhhh.”

“Pash‑ta Fa‑shool,” she repeated, as if auditioning for a role in a whispering contest.

I smiled into my linen napkin.  It was the kind of small, harmless moment that makes dining out worth the trouble: good food, good company, and the occasional linguistic adventure courtesy of a well‑meaning waitress and a menu she was determined to conquer—one shhh at a time.

 

A Lesson in the Checkout Line.

A couple of weeks ago, we were in the checkout line at the grocery store, the kind of slow‑moving line that gives you time to observe more than you intended.  In front of us stood an elderly woman with a cart full of groceries and a look of growing concern.  Something was clearly wrong, though I couldn’t hear the details—because the man behind us had just answered his cell phone and immediately launched into a booming, play‑by‑play commentary of the situation.

He was delighted to narrate.  Absolutely delighted.  According to him, the woman had “decided not to pay for everything,” and the cashier was now forced to “re‑ring the whole cart,” and on and on he went, blah, blah, blah, embellishing freely, as if auditioning for the role of Town Crier of Checkout Line Four.

Meanwhile, the elderly woman stood quietly at the register, her shoulders slightly hunched, her hands folded around her wallet.  She wasn’t dramatic, nor causing a scene.  She was simply trying to sort out whatever the problem was.

It wasn’t until later, after we’d checked out and were walking to the car, that my best friend, who had actually heard the real exchange, told me what had happened.  The woman’s EBT card hadn’t covered all her items, and she had tried to pay the remainder with a personal check, but the cashier couldn’t accept it for some unknown reason.  That was the entire “scandal.”  No theatrics.  No attempted grocery heist.  Just a woman trying to buy food and running into the quiet humiliations that come with limited means.

The man behind us, however, had been proudly broadcasting a story about her of his own invention, complete with moral judgments and imaginary plot twists.  He had turned her sad difficulty into laughable entertainment.

I thought about that on my ride home; the ease with which some people narrate other people’s struggles, the confidence with which they fill in the blanks, the laughs, the casual cruelty of assuming the worst when the truth is usually simpler, quieter, and far more human.

A checkout line can reveal more about character than we expect. Sometimes it’s not the person in trouble who tells the story; it’s the person who can’t resist telling the wrong one and laugh at a person’s misfortune.

 

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