Money and the Shape of Life.

Lately I’ve been returning to and thinking about topics I hadn’t examined in a while, and one of them is money, how it shaped my choices, how it ordered my days, and how quietly it became a measure of my worth without my ever intending it.

There was a long stretch when money and job position sat at the center of my work life.  I was always looking toward the next promotion, the next pay step increase, the bonus, the next annual bump in my grade level, the next cost‑of‑living increase.  Each milestone felt like progress, like proof that I was moving forward and being successful (whatever that was).  And overtime?  I never turned it down.  It was money in my pocket, yes, but it was also work experience to add another line on the résumé, another rung on the ladder of upward mobility in middle management.

And then came the question of retirement.  The more I earned and the higher I climbed, the more secure my future seemed.  I’ve always belonged to the “Waste Not, Want Not” tribe, careful, frugal, planning.  I was planning my retirement since my first full-time job after graduating from school.  It felt responsible to think about the long game, to build a cushion, to prepare for the day when work would no longer be on my daily schedule.

By most measures, I did well in the career jungle.  I worked hard, advanced steadily, and positioned myself for a sensible retirement.  But to what end, really?  Some of what I gained came at the cost of things I didn’t even realize I was losing.  I missed moments that could have enriched my life in ways no paycheck ever could.  My eyes were fixed on the horizon with an early retirement, a new chapter, a better future, while the present quietly slipped by.

Money is necessary, of course, since it keeps the lights on and the pantry stocked.  But it was never meant to be the focus; it sort of turned out that way without me paying close attention.  You see, when it becomes the center, even subtly, it distorts the way we see our days and the way we measure our worth.  Looking back, I can see how easily the pursuit of “enough” becomes the pursuit of “more, more, more!” and how quietly that pursuit can crowd out the very things that make a life well lived.

Would a very fat bank account make my life easier?  I’m sure it would, but to what extent?  Yet in the reality of life, I have just what I need to live.  Much more, and it would be living an unnecessarily extravagant and artificial life.

In the end, money can support a life and our Earthly needs, but it cannot give one satisfactory meaning.  What endures is the virtue we cultivate, the charity we extend, the relationships we tend, and the gratitude we carry for the gifts already placed in our hands.  When we let money take up more space than it deserves, the spiritual cost is subtle but real: our attention drifts, our desires narrow, and our hearts grow less free.  But when we return to gratitude and right order, we remember that a well‑lived life is measured not by how much money we have in the bank, but by what we become.

When we allow money to become our quiet master, the emotional cost is real: our hearts grow divided, we become conceited, our freedom narrows, and we begin to measure ourselves by standards that have nothing to do with building positive relationships or redemption.  Yet when we push away secularism and return to true gratitude, humility, and order, we remember that a life well lived is judged not by earnings or advancement, but by a fidelity to what matters for all of eternity.

 

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Smoke, Scrape, Yell, Repeat.

After writing “The Sheriff of Decibels,” regarding the whole “your TV is too loud” saga with the neighbor who may be had been hearing phantom sounds, I thought I had earned a brief intermission in the neighborhood drama, but then it reminded me of one of the downstairs neighbors I had once, and those thoughts led to me think of a whole different angle.  Life in a condominium is basically a rotating cast of social challenges, and the next act began downstairs.

I lived in a condominium where one of my downstairs neighbors used her balcony like it was her personal broadcasting studio.  Whenever she had company, the visitors were always on the sidewalk below.  Their conversations rose straight up.  I didn’t even have to try to overhear; the dialogue arrived fully formed, projected upward with the confidence of someone who believed the entire building was her audience.  If she ever decided to start a podcast, she wouldn’t need equipment.  She already had the lungs for it.

Another neighbor was forever loud on her cell phone.  One afternoon, I heard her give out her bank account number, a passcode, and the balance.  Wow.

Then there’s the patio furniture.  There is a neighbor who, every time she shifts a chair on her balcony, it sounds like she’s dragging a cast-iron park bench across a stone floor.  I’ve heard less noise from actual construction sites.

There was the cigarette smoke from a cheap brand yet another neighbor probably bought by the truckload.  It drifted upward in slow, dramatic spirals, and somehow it slipped into my condo like it had a key.  One moment I’m enjoying fresh air; the next, my living room and kitchen smelled like a casino buffet circa 1960.  It wasn’t ideal, but I learned to adapt since the odor didn’t last more than a half hour or so.

But here’s the important part: I didn’t complain.  Not ever.  Not a text, not a note, not even a pointed throat-clear over the balcony railing.  Why?  Because this was life in a building full of people.  They talked loudly.  They scraped furniture.  They smoked.  They lived.  And unless someone was hosting a demolition derby in their living room, I tolerated the occasional disturbances.

Besides, after the Sheriff of Decibels dealings, I’ve developed a new appreciation for not becoming That Neighbor.  If I ever feel tempted to pick up the phone and lodge a complaint, I remember how it feels to be scolded for noises that may or may not exist.  It’s an excellent deterrent.

So, I let the balcony monologues rise, let the furniture screech across the concrete, let the cigarette smoke drift out and upward like a weather pattern.  I breathed, I adjusted, I moved on.  Because in the grand, chaotic symphony of condo living, sometimes the most intelligent thing you can do is simply not add your own instrument to the noise.

I just laughed it all off.

 

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The Age of Adonis (Part 3).

Part 3 of 3:  The Middle Distance.

There is a peculiar vantage point one gains simply by living in close proximity to other human beings.  Not close enough to know their secrets, but close enough to witness their habits; their triumphs, their peculiarities, their kindness, their small vanities, their authenticity, and quieter graces.  It is the view from the middle distance, where comedy and clarity often arrive hand‑in‑hand.

From this vantage point, I have watched our neighborhood Adonis swell into his mythic proportions, strutting through the hallways and on the neighborhood sidewalks like a man auditioning for a protein‑powder commercial.  His life is lived in bold, glossy strokes of sweat, swagger, and spectacle.  He found the easy way in life to make a dollar, becoming a grifter front and center on the unholy stage of a community fellowship group, sermonizing under the guise of praises and blessings peppered within his readings of scripture verses found in a distorted Bible.  He is the sort of person who seems to believe that if he flexes hard enough – whether it is flexing by quoting scripture or flexing muscles – the world will mistake it for virtue.  At the same time, he soaks in the adulation and attention as one would with water from the River Jordan.

And then, from the same vantage point, I have watched the quiet ones; the door‑holders, the plant‑waterers, the hallway‑softeners moving through the building with a gentleness that neither asks nor demands anything in return.  Their lives are lived in gentle lowercase letters, steady and unadorned.  They are not trying to be noticed, which is precisely why they are.

Modern life, for all its noise, has a way of revealing character in the smallest of moments.  The man who performs goodness loudly often performs it only for the applause and attention.  The man who waters the begonias when no one is looking is not performing at all.  He is simply and unobtrusively being who he is.

Discernment, I’ve learned, is not about judging people harshly.  It’s about seeing clearly and recognizing the difference between shine and substance, between the man who builds his body like an Old Testament golden monument and the neighbor who quietly builds a life of decency.  Humility, too, is not a grand gesture.  It is the quiet refusal to make oneself the center of every hallway and fellowship stage.  To learn what not to become is one of the great lessons of life.

And what about the comedy of modernity?  It’s everywhere.  It’s in the man who cannot lower his arms because his torso has become a personal billboard.  It’s in the fluorescent lights catching a thousand sequins on Cowgirl Betty’s jacket in the middle of a sunny day.  It’s in the way we all, at one point or another, take ourselves far too seriously.

But the deeper comedy is the one that makes you smile long after the moment has passed.  It is this: the people who most want to be admired rarely are, and the people who never think about admiration often end up holding the whole place together.

In the middle distance, the truth becomes clear.  Strength is not measured in inches of bicep or the girth of one’s chest.  Beauty is not measured in lumens of sparkle.  Virtue, the real kind, is almost always quiet enough to miss if you’re not paying attention.

But once you see it, you start noticing it everywhere.

This is the final chapter of three parts.

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The Age of Adonis (Part 2)

Part 2 of 3:  The Quiet Virtues

Not long after watching the rise of our neighborhood Adonis — the sweat, the swagger, the ever‑expanding circumference of his upper body — I began noticing something else in the building.  Something smaller, quieter, and far easier to overlook.

It started with the older gentleman on the fifth floor, the one who always carries a canvas tote bag and walks with a slight shuffle.  I once saw him pause in the lobby to hold the door for a mother wrangling a stroller and two grocery bags.  He didn’t say much. He just nodded, smiled, and waited until she was safely inside.  No flexing.  No performance.  Just a simple act of courtesy that didn’t require an audience.

Then there’s the woman down the hall who leaves small seasonal decorations on her door.  They aren’t elaborate, just a tiny flowery wreath or a quilted, hanging pumpkin door decoration.  She never announces them, never tries to impress anyone.  But somehow those little touches soften the whole hallway, as if she’s quietly reminding the rest of us that beauty doesn’t have to shout.

And of course, there’s the retired engineer who waters the courtyard plants when no one else remembers.  He doesn’t make speeches about community or stewardship.  He simply notices what needs doing and does it, his hands moving with the calm competence of someone who has spent a lifetime tending to things that grow slowly.

None of these people would ever call themselves virtuous.  They would laugh at the idea.  They are simply living their lives with a kind of unselfconscious decency that doesn’t demand or look for applause.

It struck me one afternoon, watching the engineer mist the begonias while Adonis strutted past, that quiet virtues are the ones that actually hold a place together.  Not the loud displays of strength or the curated personas, but the small, steady acts that ask for nothing in return.

The world has always had its Adonises; men who sculpt themselves into monuments and then wonder why no one bows.  But the world has also always had its quiet souls, the ones who keep the doors open, the plants alive, the hallways gentle.

And if I’m honest, it’s the quiet ones who make a neighborhood livable.  They are the ballast, the steadying weight, the reminder that goodness doesn’t need to be dramatic nor a showboat to be real.

In a culture obsessed with spectacle, the quiet virtues are almost radical these days.  They whisper instead of shout.  They build instead of pose.  They endure long after the muscles deflate and the spotlight moves on.

And perhaps that is the real miracle: that in a world full of noise, the softest lives are often the ones that speak the truth most clearly.

Part 3 will be published on April 18, 2026.

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The Age of Adonis (Part 1)

Part 1 of 3:  Reflections on Vanity, Virtue, and the Modern Parade

He was the sort of man who made a living preaching The Word while somehow managing to sidestep most of its demands.  You could see it in the way he carried himself; earnest on the surface, but with a hollowness underneath, like a sermon missing its last page.

When I first met him, he was almost aggressively unremarkable: small, soft around the middle, a crew cut that looked like it had been administered by someone in a hurry, and some type of cologne that would gag a maggot.  He told me he had left the Church and was now preaching at a non‑denominational fellowship down the road.  He quoted Scripture with the enthusiasm of someone who had just discovered the footnotes and wanted everyone to know and be impressed.  Truthfully, it felt less like devotion and more like a performance of mental gymnastics meant to impress.  They didn’t.

In our brief conversations, he mentioned he was a former drug user, now clean, and that he was “still learning” and had “a long way to go” in understanding The Word.  That part, at least, I believed.

But then something shifted.

Slowly, his upper body began to expand.  It was first subtly, then alarmingly.  I would see him at the neighborhood gym, or returning from it, sweat pouring off him in rivulets that perfumed the condominium hallways with a scent that could only be described as fusty.  Other days, I’d spot him leaving Atomic Health Club in town, towels slung over his shoulder, his wet T‑shirt clinging to him like a second skin.  He would leap into his sports car with the flourish of a man starring in his own music video and drive off like a bolt out of the blue.

By summer, the transformation seemed complete.  One afternoon, he and his family walked down the hallway on their way to the swimming pool. “Walked” is generous—he lumbered, unable to lower his arms fully because his torso had grown to mythic proportions.  He wore only baggy shorts (I cannot call them trunks), his thick thighs rubbing together and his calves looking like chicken legs.  It looked like it hurt him to move his legs, and for that moment I felt sorry for him.  His pre‑tween daughter wore a bikini so revealing it made me blink twice in embarrassment.  His wife and son, ironically, were dressed modestly befitting a church picnic.

His upper body had become enormous, his thighs still pronounced, his calves still comically thin.  He reminded me of a Greek statue carved by an artist who ran out of marble halfway through.  It was unsettling, the kind of physique that makes you instinctively step aside in case it topples or explodes.

He strutted through the building with the air of a man fishing for admiration, or perhaps for something more.  Someone once told me that people who leave one addiction often find another to replace the high.  Maybe this was that; maybe it wasn’t.  I’m not his confessor; I can only pray for him.

What I do know is this: the greater his muscles grew, the quieter his preaching rang.  There was a disconnect between the man he proclaimed himself to be and the man he was becoming, between the humility of the Gospel and the vanity of the mirror.

And perhaps that is the real caution of the Age of Adonis: when the body becomes the altar, the soul is left without a place to kneel and worship the one true God.

Part 2 will be published on April 16, 2026.

 

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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.

 

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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!

 

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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?

 

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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.

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