Category: life

The Darkness of the World.

The world is messed up.

If you are paying even the tiniest bit of attention to what’s going on in the world, you might just finally realize that this world is more evil than you would ever imagine, and with vastly complicit help not only from political leaders, but also from the average populace.

I’m sometimes surprised at how jaded I’ve become.  As a young idealist way back in the old days, I had all the optimistic and positive outlooks anyone could have.  That’s saying a lot.  Last year, with a new President in office, I barely delved deep into the current events.  I had it in my mind that he was the same as he was in his first term, so what was there to worry about?  This year began just as pacific for me, until February 28 with the war, and since then, well, you know how nutty everything has become.  Or has it?

My best friend mentioned to me that he noticed that this President wasn’t the same, and maybe so since last fall.  That’s when I took a better look and realized he was on to something.  Yes, he certainly is not the guy we voted for.  We were all duped.

People in general have changed, and vastly so since 2020.  It seems that people have such ease in lying right to your face.  They’re ruder.  They even seem to be lazier.  None of it is good.

The Church isn’t the Church I grew up in.  It’s now the Synodal Church.  The true Roman Catholic Church exists, but one must diligently look for it in other places.  I question the current Pope in the form of Robert Prevost, because what he teaches is, well, all over the place with little consistency for Roman Catholicism.

Nevertheless, I think, the longer a person is on this Earth and seriously pays attention to the idiocy that seems to accelerate by the hour, just about anyone could get pretty jaded.  That’s why I am working towards being in the world, but not OF this world.  It’s sometimes a struggle, because I have it in my head that I need to know what’s going on in the world now, for instance, when the bomb is going to be dropped.  Conversely, isn’t it better to not know, and just be spiritually ready for it exploding at any minute?  Yeah, probably.

The moral disorder in our world is far more profound than the everyday vapid scandals people argue about.  It extends beyond routine political dishonesty and the familiar patterns of institutional failures.  What we are now being confronted with instead are deeper, more sinister forms of corruption; systems of exploitation and abuse that flourish in secrecy and rely on the complacency of the very structures meant to safeguard the vulnerable.  These forces are not isolated or accidental; they are organized, persistent, and woven through the generations from the beginning of time.  Their influence reaches into the institutions that shape public life: government, law, media, entertainment, finance, sports, religious establishments, et al.  This is perhaps why meaningful accountability rarely materializes.  The problem is not that the system has malfunctioned; the problem is that the system, as it currently operates, protects the very darkness it should be exposing.  The world is operating exactly how it’s supposed to, with all the evil engrained in it.

Drain the swamp?  Catchy little slogan, that is.  Instead of draining, the loudest mouths just went ahead and joined the swamp.  Why not?  It’s profitable, and in so many ways, too.

It is naïve to think that the ordinary general public will rise to meet these challenges.  Sure, it’s a nice thought that people will wake up and fight for a successful end to malevolence, but in reality, most people, overwhelmed by the pace of modern life and the cozy comfort of laziness and apathy, have settled into becoming passive observers rather than active participants.  Assuredly, outrage flares briefly online with an angry post typed from behind the keyboard, a click of a shared headline, a momentary surge of indignation, but only to retreat into familiar routines.  But when the moment any public criticism touches celebrities or political figures, the reaction is even more predictable: people defend the evil and/or the evil doer or just shut down and move on to something insipid and vapid, which is usually their comfort zone.  Their attachment to public figures functions as modern idolatry, a sick and macabre loyalty that overrides discernment and sensibility.  Many people will defend entertainers, influencers, government notables, popes and televangelists, and other public personalities despite recurring scandals, unanswered questions, weird speeches from pulpits, and patterns of troubling associations.  For them to confront those realities would require them to acknowledge that their long‑held assumptions were misplaced, that trust was given too freely, and that the narratives shaping their lives were not as benevolent as they believed.  For many, that admission is too costly; therefore, comfort becomes preferable to clarity, and distraction becomes easier than responsibility.

There is also a deeper layer of wrongdoing that most people cannot bear to confront.  Beneath the surface of public life exist networks, institutions, and hidden spaces where exploitation thrives, albeit hidden.  These are not the sensationalized fantasies people dismiss, but the quieter, more pervasive forms of abuse and corruption that flourish when shielded from scrutiny.  The very idea of such concealed systems unsettles people, not only because of the moral horror they imply, but because acknowledging them would require reconsidering the trust they place in the social structure.  This is why so few bother to investigate further.  Once one begins to see the depth of institutional rot and mold, it becomes impossible to return to the comfort of ignorance; yet many people would rather stay in their pretty little cocoons and not be bothered.  Peel me another grape, Daphne.

Is the present moment an actual “awakening?”  That’s hard to say, but even if that is true, it is an uneven one.  Most people struggle to sustain attention in a world engineered for constant distraction.  A new crisis, a new headline, a new spectacle appears, and public focus instantly resets.  The duplicitous news stories change faster than the weather in Chicago.  Faster, faster Pussycat, whip up the chaos!  Whip it up good!   Chaos and confusion, to and fro.

Outrage becomes episodic rather than transformative.  The average citizen does not demand accountability, structural reform, or transparency; instead, they drift back into the familiar rhythms of daily life.  They continue to support the very systems they criticize, through consumption, through compliance, through lazy habits.  In this sense, the problem is not merely institutional corruption but a culture that has grown accustomed to passivity, comfort, and distraction, even in the face of profound moral failure.

The individuals who perpetuate profound harm are not merely “troubled;” they embody a level of moral corruption that defies explanation.  Their actions reveal a conscience that has been systematically eroded, a capacity for empathy that appears extinguished.  Yet, they move through public life with practiced ease— smiling for cameras, delivering speeches, presenting themselves as benefactors, all the while concealing the ethical void that enables their behavior.  This dissonance between public image and private reality is precisely what allows such corruption to persist.

Yet these systems endure not only because of those who exploit them, but because of the collective willingness to look away.  As long as society continues to fund, celebrate, and unquestioningly trust the institutions and figures who benefit from the status quo, little to nothing will ever change.  Evil does not thrive simply because it is powerful; it thrives because good people convince themselves it is safer not to see it.  It’s so easy to play the poor put upon ostrich and bury one’s head in the sand.  The refusal to confront uncomfortable truths becomes, in effect, a form of approval and permission.

Cognitive dissonance is real, but far more often, it’s more of the slow erosion caused by apathy, constant confusion, and the relentless flood of information, outrage, and accusation.  When every voice demands attention and every headline contradicts the last, people slip into a kind of mental fog — not because they’re incapable of thinking, but because they’re exhausted by the effort and they would rather take the easy way.  And in that dazed state, many retreat to what feels familiar.  They worship their idols.  They cling to the idols that reflect their preferred illusions, the figures who reinforce their false beliefs and offer the comfort of never having to question anything at all.

The world is very messed up.

 

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Cousin Eddie.

I once lived in a neighborhood called Arrowroot Ranch where the residents were so clique‑ish that my household and I barely knew anyone beyond a polite wave, if even that!  People kept to their own circles, and newcomers like us remained on the outside looking in.  So, it came as a surprise one morning when my best friend returned from the mailbox with a story that would become our own neighborhood legend.

My best friend said to me one cool June morning that as he stepped outside to collect the mail, he was greeted by a stranger standing in the driveway next door with an oversized coffee mug in his hand.  He was an unshaven man who wore sandals with knee socks, shorts with an elastic band (or were they swimming trunks?), and a faded red bathrobe left wide open that left nothing to the imagination.  The robe flapped in the breeze just enough to reveal a bare, hairy beer‑belly gut spilling over the waistband of his shorts.  It was, to put it mildly, an unexpected sight before lunch.

We eventually learned that this man was the new owner of the house next door.  We nicknamed him “Cousin Eddie,” partly because he reminded us of the madcap trailer-living cousin in those Hollywood “Vacation” movies and partly because the name suited him in a way we couldn’t quite explain.  It was affectionate nomenclature, in its own odd and funny way.

Cousin Eddie had an ever‑changing cast of characters living with him, and they were most likely renters.  Two of them we came to know by nickname alone: “Turban” and “Lady Godiva.”  Turban earned her name honestly; she used to wear a turban every day while sitting on a lawn chair in the driveway, talking loudly on her cell phone as though the entire neighborhood needed to hear her side of the conversation.  Lady Godiva, on the other hand, was waiting for her new house to be built, and she was seen popping in and out of her car she parked at the curb.  Why we called her Lady Godiva is lost to memory, though it probably had something to do with her long hair and her tendency to dress… scantily.

Cousin Eddie himself was a snowbird.  From October to April, he lived next door, and from May through September he returned to the forested backwoods of northern Wisconsin.  Each year he hauled his Harley in the bed of his pickup truck, making the long trek north like a migrating bird with chrome handlebars.

When he was in residence at Arrowroot Ranch, we always knew it.  Almost every morning, he fired up the Harley and roared off, returning only when the sun was low.  If he wasn’t riding, he was making noise of another kind; running a jigsaw, grinding rust off his patio furniture, or operating some screeching electrical tool that echoed down the street to the next cul-de-sac.  I had heard that inside his house, he kept several mounted animal heads, deer, elk, and who knows what else, along with a full‑sized pool table planted right in the middle of his living room.

Turban and Lady Godiva added their own flavor to the daily soundtrack.  Turban’s phone calls could be heard from three houses away, and Lady Godiva drifted in and out like a character from a half‑remembered dream, always on her way to somewhere else and constantly talking to someone if they were within earshot.

Yet when Cousin Eddie packed up and headed back to Wisconsin each spring, the neighborhood changed.  The tools went silent, the Harley’s rumble faded.  Yet, for a while, everything felt calmer— almost too calm, as if the street itself were holding its breath.  Turban’s driveway monologues continued more loudly into the warm air.  One winter Lady Godiva was gone.  Another renter showed up, this time it was a man, and we never really saw him, except when an ambulance was called one morning and he was laying half covered on the gurney.

Every now and then, just after dusk, we’d catch something odd: the faint smell of gasoline drifting from next door through the clump of cacti, or the distant whine of a jigsaw even though no one was outside.  Once, my best friend swore he saw a bathrobe flutter past the mailbox, though no one was outside in the wild stormy wind that heralded an approaching rare thunderstorm.  We told ourselves it was imagination, the leftover noise from a noisy neighbor.

But sometimes, on those quiet nights at Arrowroot Ranch when the crickets paused and the streetlamps flickered on, it felt as though Cousin Eddie hadn’t really left— that he only stepped sideways into some unseen corner of the neighborhood, waiting for October to roll around so he could wander back into view like he’d never been gone at all, where he’d shuffle back into view with his faded bathrobe flapping open and his sandals slapping the pavement like he’d never left.. Even now, years later, there are evenings when the air shifts strangely, and for a split second the street feels off‑kilter, the purple mountains standing sentry in the background, as if waiting for someone to step back into it.  In those moments, I think that I hear the faint slap of sandals on pavement, coming from nowhere in particular, as though Cousin Eddie is still wandering around, looking for a mailbox that isn’t his anymore.

 

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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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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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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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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.

 

 

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