I listened to "Pastor Steve" deliver his sermon yesterday on "A War in a Manger." The content of his sermon and my perusal of the Bible as I listened raised a few questions in my mind. The first was: "Wouldn't it be cool if you could interupt the pastor and argue with him?" Of course, it wouldn't be, because most of the interuptions would be for idiotic reason. Not brilliant and incisive reasons like I'm sure everyone would consider mine to be.
The real first question was what the sermon was all about. War. The war fought by God for us. He started off pointing out with examples how neat it is when your big brother, big sister, father, or someone else comes to your assistance, fights for you, and gets you out of a jam. Heather, by the way, I am still waiting for your lease. Anyway, he refered to Revelations 12 in which John dreams of a war in heaven and describes Satan as an emormous red dragon with seven heads and ten horns. He then discussed how Jesus birth was a part of God's battle for our souls.
What battle?
God is all-powerful, right? God created everything. God created the good things, god created the bad things. If Satan exists, he exists at God's discretion. If God wanted there to be no evil in the world, all he would have to do is tell his angels, like Picard tells Number One: "Make it so." And it would be so. Of course, because good is dependent upon the existence of evil, he would wipe out good in the process, but that is beside the point. Or is it. The point is, things are the way they are because this is the way God wants them. He does not have to fight, battle or go to war with anyone to keep it this way. God is not fighting for us. God put us here and gave us free will. We can fight for him, but he does not have to fight for us.
Within the previous paragraph is another question. Satan. It is not all that difficult to prove, through logic and deduction, that God exists. It is not possible to prove Satan exists. Not as an entity similar to God that is capable of doing battle with him. Satan is more of a representation of the evil that has to exists so that we might enjoy the good.
Here's a beauty. I posed this question to Sue just as a rhetorical question. Those drive her crazy. I was really just teasing her. It turned out to be a question that has plagued biblical scholars since the Gospels were first published.
Why was Jesus baptized by John?
An innocent sounding question until you consider what baptism represents.
Baptism is about repentence: Matthew 3:11, Acts 19:4. Baptism brings the gift of the Spirit and signifies our becoming a child of God. Jesus had no sin. Jesus is part of the Trinity, he did not need the gift of the Holy Spirit. He was already the son of God.
John the Baptist recognized this when Jesus asked to be Baptized. He protested that he couldn't baptize Jesus, Jesus should be baptizing him. Matthew 3:14.
"If we have not worried about Jesus’ baptism, been disturbed by its occurrence, puzzled over its implications, then we have not thought enough about baptism." http://abbyorr.home.att.net/1Epiphany05.htm
Don't read any further for the answer to the question. It isn't here. There are some other articles on the Internet and I'm sure lots of literature elsewhere that attempt to provide an answer. There is a suggestion that Jesus needed to be baptized to become a High Priest. But if that were the case, why would there be such a fuss over the question?
To me, the answer is not important, if there is an answer. It's only if you accept the Bible as infallible that it is a problem. To me it can be classified with the other 700 or so inconsistencies in the Bible that can't be explained. So what. I would be more disturbed if there were no inconsistencies.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Monday, August 3, 2009
SSP
I had the opportunity to spend a couple days in Greenville, California, this past week and came away with some thoughts that I want to share with you. First of all, Indian Valley is a beautiful place, although it was quite different from the IVy league I was at before. Secondly, I was disappointed to discover that Heather and her friends had such a low regard of my alma mater and her sister schools.
Most importantly I learned some things about my daughter.
While Heather and Nathaniel were growing up I found some guidance in my parenting in the teachings of Kahlil Gibran in The Prophet:
"Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.
While Nathaniel and Heather were in my home, I saw them every day and became accustomed to how they behaved in that environment. They have always been incredible children in my eyes and I have felt blessed since the day they were born. It has been difficult to let go of them as they have grown, but it has been satisfying to see them able to stand on their own.
They are both now young adults and, although my role as their parent is not finished, it is diminished. They, as arrows, have been released from this bow and are now flying toward their own destinies.
Once our children head off on their own, our ability to keep track of who they are and what they are doing is diminished. These couple days in Indian Valley gave me the rare opportunity to watch my daughter in flight. The experience has been astounding. I have had the opportunity to witness a girl tuned into a woman, and one with remarkable composure, dedication, spirituality and self-confidence: traits I had observed as they were developing, but had not seen in full blossom.
In retrospect, I had observed the same development and the same traits in Nathaniel, but was not as struck by them, perhaps because he is the older son and his development began earlier and was therefore more gradual. I am no less proud of Nathaniel than I am of Heather. But Heather is my baby girl and, in a way, she always will be. However, that view of her blinded me to her development into an adult.
I wish I could take credit for who my children are. If God gave points for how well one’s children turned out, JoAnne and I could coast the rest of the way to heaven. However, I’m afraid they are who they have become in spite of me instead of because of me. I know I made a lot of mistakes. I cringe in embarrassment when I remember some of them. Fortunately, they had their mother who worried about their spiritual growth and brought them to church, while I worried about how fast they could run a 1500, and brought them to the track. Also, it is fortunate that they found friends who were interested in healthy fun instead of drugs or other destructive behavior.
More recently, it is fortunate that they found the Sierra Service Project. Over the course of the past several years, I have had the opportunity to visit Nathaniel in Arizona, Round Valley and Los Angeles, and Heather in Indian Valley. Nathaniel has been involved as a camper, construction coordinator, supply coordinator and site director. Heather has been a camper, construction coordinator and now spiritual director. It is an outstanding program, staffed by remarkable people, that has given both of my children, and my daughter-in-law, the opportunity to undertake challenging jobs, meet and associate with an incredible network of similarly spiritual and dedicated young people, expand their awareness of the plight of the less fortunate in our society, achieve success, and realize that they can make a difference in the lives of others. They have certainly made a difference in mine.
I am proud, not only of my three children, but of everyone who is associated with S.S.P.
Most importantly I learned some things about my daughter.
While Heather and Nathaniel were growing up I found some guidance in my parenting in the teachings of Kahlil Gibran in The Prophet:
"Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.
While Nathaniel and Heather were in my home, I saw them every day and became accustomed to how they behaved in that environment. They have always been incredible children in my eyes and I have felt blessed since the day they were born. It has been difficult to let go of them as they have grown, but it has been satisfying to see them able to stand on their own.
They are both now young adults and, although my role as their parent is not finished, it is diminished. They, as arrows, have been released from this bow and are now flying toward their own destinies.
Once our children head off on their own, our ability to keep track of who they are and what they are doing is diminished. These couple days in Indian Valley gave me the rare opportunity to watch my daughter in flight. The experience has been astounding. I have had the opportunity to witness a girl tuned into a woman, and one with remarkable composure, dedication, spirituality and self-confidence: traits I had observed as they were developing, but had not seen in full blossom.
In retrospect, I had observed the same development and the same traits in Nathaniel, but was not as struck by them, perhaps because he is the older son and his development began earlier and was therefore more gradual. I am no less proud of Nathaniel than I am of Heather. But Heather is my baby girl and, in a way, she always will be. However, that view of her blinded me to her development into an adult.
I wish I could take credit for who my children are. If God gave points for how well one’s children turned out, JoAnne and I could coast the rest of the way to heaven. However, I’m afraid they are who they have become in spite of me instead of because of me. I know I made a lot of mistakes. I cringe in embarrassment when I remember some of them. Fortunately, they had their mother who worried about their spiritual growth and brought them to church, while I worried about how fast they could run a 1500, and brought them to the track. Also, it is fortunate that they found friends who were interested in healthy fun instead of drugs or other destructive behavior.
More recently, it is fortunate that they found the Sierra Service Project. Over the course of the past several years, I have had the opportunity to visit Nathaniel in Arizona, Round Valley and Los Angeles, and Heather in Indian Valley. Nathaniel has been involved as a camper, construction coordinator, supply coordinator and site director. Heather has been a camper, construction coordinator and now spiritual director. It is an outstanding program, staffed by remarkable people, that has given both of my children, and my daughter-in-law, the opportunity to undertake challenging jobs, meet and associate with an incredible network of similarly spiritual and dedicated young people, expand their awareness of the plight of the less fortunate in our society, achieve success, and realize that they can make a difference in the lives of others. They have certainly made a difference in mine.
I am proud, not only of my three children, but of everyone who is associated with S.S.P.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Close call
Sue and I were driving from Eugene to Susanville, California today. At one point we stopped at a rest area. When we left, I took the wheel. As I pulled out there was some crazy traffic with vehicles merging from several different directions. I was cautiously merging back into traffic when Sue suddenly screamed: "Oh my God."
My grip on the steering wheel tightened as I prepared to take evasive action. I took my foot off the accellerator and held it up in preparation to either slam on the brakes or accellerate away from trouble. I checked every direction and every mirror looking for the source of the impending collision.
I saw nothing.
Still on hyper-alert, I yelled back at Sue: " What! What is it!"
She excitedly responded: "Two white horses! On my side. That's 200 points!"
I gradually extricated my fingernails from the steering wheel and used one free hand to pound on my chest to get my heart restarted.
After I was able to regain my composure, I was really angry at Sue for the first time since I met her. It was totally unfair of her to wait to start the game until she saw those two horses. Totally.
My grip on the steering wheel tightened as I prepared to take evasive action. I took my foot off the accellerator and held it up in preparation to either slam on the brakes or accellerate away from trouble. I checked every direction and every mirror looking for the source of the impending collision.
I saw nothing.
Still on hyper-alert, I yelled back at Sue: " What! What is it!"
She excitedly responded: "Two white horses! On my side. That's 200 points!"
I gradually extricated my fingernails from the steering wheel and used one free hand to pound on my chest to get my heart restarted.
After I was able to regain my composure, I was really angry at Sue for the first time since I met her. It was totally unfair of her to wait to start the game until she saw those two horses. Totally.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Jesus H. Christ
Have you ever wondered what the H stands for? Bored minds sometimes dwell on non-issues, but in the age of the Internet the answers to even stupid questions are at our fingertips. It turns out there are several schools of thought on the origin of the H.
My favorite is that it comes from the Lord's Prayer: "Our father, who art in heaven, Harold be thy name." The espousers of this theory obviously were as bored as I am today.
There is also a serious explanation: The Greek monogram for "Jesus, the savior of men" is variously presented as IHS, IHC, HHS, and JHC. The JHC was taken for his initials by some.
Another interesting thought, at least to me. Christ means annointed, so Jesus Christ means: Jesus, the annointed one. That would be like calling someone, Ed the crazy one. But the interesting thing is that Christ was not his last name, but a title put on him. What was his last name then?
In Jesus time they did not use last names like we do today. Our last names developed from descriptions of us, such as where we were from, what our occupation was, or who our parents were. That's why we have a lot of names ending in son: Johnson, Clarkson, Edson, Williamson, Josephson, Stephenson, etc, and in 'ton': Clinton, Ralston, Fenton, beginning with Mc or Mac or O' which all mean "son of" or "grandson of." In Jesus day the used the word bar for son of. So Jesus might have been called Jesus bar Joseph or Jesus of Nazareth. So, as names have evolved, his name today would be Jesus H. Josephson. Or perhaps, Jesus Godson, Jesus McGod, or Jesus O'God.
Food for thought.
My favorite is that it comes from the Lord's Prayer: "Our father, who art in heaven, Harold be thy name." The espousers of this theory obviously were as bored as I am today.
There is also a serious explanation: The Greek monogram for "Jesus, the savior of men" is variously presented as IHS, IHC, HHS, and JHC. The JHC was taken for his initials by some.
Another interesting thought, at least to me. Christ means annointed, so Jesus Christ means: Jesus, the annointed one. That would be like calling someone, Ed the crazy one. But the interesting thing is that Christ was not his last name, but a title put on him. What was his last name then?
In Jesus time they did not use last names like we do today. Our last names developed from descriptions of us, such as where we were from, what our occupation was, or who our parents were. That's why we have a lot of names ending in son: Johnson, Clarkson, Edson, Williamson, Josephson, Stephenson, etc, and in 'ton': Clinton, Ralston, Fenton, beginning with Mc or Mac or O' which all mean "son of" or "grandson of." In Jesus day the used the word bar for son of. So Jesus might have been called Jesus bar Joseph or Jesus of Nazareth. So, as names have evolved, his name today would be Jesus H. Josephson. Or perhaps, Jesus Godson, Jesus McGod, or Jesus O'God.
Food for thought.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
BIGGEST LOSER
I haven't been running much these days. My weight has BALLOONED up to 157. Nathaniel wants to lose weight. Heather set a goal to lose weight this summer. So here's the deal. $100 to whoever loses the most weight (by percentage of current weight) between now and September 1st. Post your current weight to be eligible. No cheating!
Starting weights as of 8/18/09
Nathaniel: 185
Dad: 152
Heather: 130
Starting weights as of 8/18/09
Nathaniel: 185
Dad: 152
Heather: 130
Monday, June 8, 2009
Hospitals
I was born in a hospital. I went to a hospital when I was in second grade to have my tonsils removed. I almost cut my finger off in 1978 and had to spend the night in a hospital. There have been a few emergency room visits for stitches. Just 3 that I can remember: the circular saw through the knee stunt, the broken glass in the bottom of the garbage bag trick and the attempt to cut frozen chicken with a double edged knife fiasco. The scars on my hands suggest there may have been others that I don't remember. Oh yeah, and surgery on my knee. And maybe a few x-rays or other tests.
Other than those few times, I have only been to the hospital because of someone else's illness or injury. There are no pleasant memories. My sister's best friend got in a bad car accident in high school. She survived but was in traction. There were weights hanging from the end of the bed. I played with them and inquired what they were. The girls screams of pain led me to follow the cable from the weights through a bunch of pulleys, to the pin inserted in her knee. Oops! My bad! I haven't learned. I still have to touch all of the equipment when the nurse leaves the room.
Not such a bad experience. She wasn't family. She recovered. She's okay.
1984 marked the beginning of 25 years of bad memories. Some of you might recognize the coincidence of the beginning of my bad experiences with hospitals and the birthdate of my favorite son. It is not a coincidence. The emotional trauma of almost having my son die in my arms, leaving my wife behind to die on the bed of a stranger, having to make the choice of who would die without me, "Eddie's Choice," has left wounds that reopen upon the slightest provocation, such as writing about it in a blog.
Unfortunately, that event was not in a hospital, but we ended up there. The nurse wanted, no, needed, to take this unnamed child away from me. I would not let go. Not without a lot of gentle coaxing. After standing beside him for 10 hours in the neonatal intensive care unit, changing his first diaper through holes in the side of the isolette, and being near collapse after 60 hours with no sleep, I was pursuaded to go have dinner and some sleep at Margo and Jeff's house. After a couple of hours laying there staring at the ceiling, I got up and went back to the hospital and stayed there until Nathaniel could leave with me.
A couple years (ish) later, back in the hospital again. Nathaniel is sick. He's got another fever, he's vomiting again. Typical childhood stuff, right? No. Dr. Roe notices a funny rash and needs some spinal fluid. "Dad, I need you to hold your son down so he can't move while I stick this huge needle in his back to get some fluid out." The result, meningococemia. Fatal in 15% of people who catch it. Back to the hospital.
1987. Another beautiful child. Another horrible trip to the hospital. Miles and miles of walking up and down the halls to have gravity help the process. Pitocin injection, blood curdling screams of pain heard, I'm sure, throughout the hospital. If they keep records, I'm sure JoAnne made the top 10 in decibel rating.
There was the swingset to the eye that got Heather a few stitches in her face. There was my Dad coming out for a visit and getting an infection in his elbow. Then came soccer. I should have got a season pass to the hospital. Concussions, torn menisci, bone bruise to the tibia. If it wasn't my kids it was one of the ones who were good friends.
Then the worst trip. I heard the news that one of my good friends had been in an automobile accident with her husband and three kids. One of the children was dead. I went to the hospital. I don't know why. I was newly divorced and very vulnerable. I don't know why, I just had to go. I met the mom at the door before I went in. She was physically okay. I asked how her other daughter was. The news report was wrong. Both 8 year old girls were dead. Her husband's back was hurt, he was staying in the hospital. She drove away. I sat down outside the hospital door and cried. I later went up to see Jim. His back was messed up. He had been a logger. He wouldn't be any more. I couldn't say anything. I just stood there and held his hand and cried some more.
Lately, there has been Heather. Although I would not let her go to the hospital without me, I get knots in my stomach at the prospect. There is never anything simple. If Dr. House was real, Heather could be several of his cases. I guess it all started with the elbow to the ribs. The resulting chest pain could not be diagnosed by specialists in at least a half dozen fields. Then the foot pain. It, too, was a mystery for a long time before the surgeries for the neuromas. Then the headaches. Then the adbominal pain. Now the headaches again. The chest and foot injuries were not life threatening, they were dream threatening. I don't want to see my baby lose her dreams. The first round of headaches was more serious. There were many tests, some scary results. One doesn't even want to utter the words of what it could have been. Then the abdominal pain. Once again, possible life threatening in the worst case. Also possibly motherhood threatening. Finally the new headache. Getting reminded that previous tests had shown abnormalities that needed to be checked occasionally. The old worries resurface.
I try to wear a brave face. I try to say the right things that will calm and encourage. I play with the equipment to keep my mind off of my worry. But my gut is churning. I can't lose my baby. I don't even want to think about losing her. I hate hospitals. And government agencies.
Other than those few times, I have only been to the hospital because of someone else's illness or injury. There are no pleasant memories. My sister's best friend got in a bad car accident in high school. She survived but was in traction. There were weights hanging from the end of the bed. I played with them and inquired what they were. The girls screams of pain led me to follow the cable from the weights through a bunch of pulleys, to the pin inserted in her knee. Oops! My bad! I haven't learned. I still have to touch all of the equipment when the nurse leaves the room.
Not such a bad experience. She wasn't family. She recovered. She's okay.
1984 marked the beginning of 25 years of bad memories. Some of you might recognize the coincidence of the beginning of my bad experiences with hospitals and the birthdate of my favorite son. It is not a coincidence. The emotional trauma of almost having my son die in my arms, leaving my wife behind to die on the bed of a stranger, having to make the choice of who would die without me, "Eddie's Choice," has left wounds that reopen upon the slightest provocation, such as writing about it in a blog.
Unfortunately, that event was not in a hospital, but we ended up there. The nurse wanted, no, needed, to take this unnamed child away from me. I would not let go. Not without a lot of gentle coaxing. After standing beside him for 10 hours in the neonatal intensive care unit, changing his first diaper through holes in the side of the isolette, and being near collapse after 60 hours with no sleep, I was pursuaded to go have dinner and some sleep at Margo and Jeff's house. After a couple of hours laying there staring at the ceiling, I got up and went back to the hospital and stayed there until Nathaniel could leave with me.
A couple years (ish) later, back in the hospital again. Nathaniel is sick. He's got another fever, he's vomiting again. Typical childhood stuff, right? No. Dr. Roe notices a funny rash and needs some spinal fluid. "Dad, I need you to hold your son down so he can't move while I stick this huge needle in his back to get some fluid out." The result, meningococemia. Fatal in 15% of people who catch it. Back to the hospital.
1987. Another beautiful child. Another horrible trip to the hospital. Miles and miles of walking up and down the halls to have gravity help the process. Pitocin injection, blood curdling screams of pain heard, I'm sure, throughout the hospital. If they keep records, I'm sure JoAnne made the top 10 in decibel rating.
There was the swingset to the eye that got Heather a few stitches in her face. There was my Dad coming out for a visit and getting an infection in his elbow. Then came soccer. I should have got a season pass to the hospital. Concussions, torn menisci, bone bruise to the tibia. If it wasn't my kids it was one of the ones who were good friends.
Then the worst trip. I heard the news that one of my good friends had been in an automobile accident with her husband and three kids. One of the children was dead. I went to the hospital. I don't know why. I was newly divorced and very vulnerable. I don't know why, I just had to go. I met the mom at the door before I went in. She was physically okay. I asked how her other daughter was. The news report was wrong. Both 8 year old girls were dead. Her husband's back was hurt, he was staying in the hospital. She drove away. I sat down outside the hospital door and cried. I later went up to see Jim. His back was messed up. He had been a logger. He wouldn't be any more. I couldn't say anything. I just stood there and held his hand and cried some more.
Lately, there has been Heather. Although I would not let her go to the hospital without me, I get knots in my stomach at the prospect. There is never anything simple. If Dr. House was real, Heather could be several of his cases. I guess it all started with the elbow to the ribs. The resulting chest pain could not be diagnosed by specialists in at least a half dozen fields. Then the foot pain. It, too, was a mystery for a long time before the surgeries for the neuromas. Then the headaches. Then the adbominal pain. Now the headaches again. The chest and foot injuries were not life threatening, they were dream threatening. I don't want to see my baby lose her dreams. The first round of headaches was more serious. There were many tests, some scary results. One doesn't even want to utter the words of what it could have been. Then the abdominal pain. Once again, possible life threatening in the worst case. Also possibly motherhood threatening. Finally the new headache. Getting reminded that previous tests had shown abnormalities that needed to be checked occasionally. The old worries resurface.
I try to wear a brave face. I try to say the right things that will calm and encourage. I play with the equipment to keep my mind off of my worry. But my gut is churning. I can't lose my baby. I don't even want to think about losing her. I hate hospitals. And government agencies.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Immigration
I have a little sticky note beside my computer with an "eac" number on it. Every morning, first thing, I click on the "immigration" icon on my favorites bar (only because there is no "least favorite" bar) and then type in the eac with the 10 digits that follow. I know longer need to refer to the sticky note. The number is imbedded in my brain. Every day, the computer pops up the same screen
"Current Status: The fee was collected at one location, and the case is now pending at our processing site."
Last night I read an argument that the existence of "objective good" proves the existence of God. If there is no God, the argument goes, then there is nothing with which to compare our own subjective view of what "good" is. Is it bad to eat cows? In our Christian culture it is perfectly acceptable. In other cultures it is bad. Is it bad to subjugate women, treating them as second class citizens who cannot even reveal their faces in public? To us that is bad, to others it is part of their culture. Is there an "objective good" apart from our societal norms that determine whether these things are actually good or bad? The Latin terms for this distinction is "malum in se" (bad in and of itself) and "malum prohibitum" (bad only because society has declared that it is bad and therefore has prihibited it).
I have decided that Immigration and Naturalization services is "objectively bad." There is absolutely no reason in this world, or in any world, that they should take this long to do the job that has been delegated to them. Almost two years for God's sake! Do they just enjoy playing games with people's lives? Are they all 5th grade dropouts that need 6 months to read a two page petition? Are they sadists? Are these the same people who did such a great job at Abu Ghraib and have now been reassigned to torture other people?
Something needs to be done. I think I will write to my Congressman. No wait, I already did that. Apparently this stuff goes on all the time and the government thinks they are doing a perfectly fine job. Mexicans, including ne'er-do-wells, are streaming across the Rio Grande. The ones that are already here have jobs (some as housekeepers for government officials), get arrested and released, and send their children to our schools. I am not suggesting that is such a big deal. Mexico is an impoverished nation and most of the immigrants from that country, legal and illegal, contribute beneficially to our communities and economy, and help out the folks back home. But try to do it right: ask nicely, submit a ton of paperwork, submit to the bureaucracy; and they jack you around. No wonder the illegals don't bother to try to do it the right way.
As Howard Beale said on "Network:" "I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore." No, wait again. Yes, I am. I have to. Dammit Cartman.
"Current Status: The fee was collected at one location, and the case is now pending at our processing site."
Last night I read an argument that the existence of "objective good" proves the existence of God. If there is no God, the argument goes, then there is nothing with which to compare our own subjective view of what "good" is. Is it bad to eat cows? In our Christian culture it is perfectly acceptable. In other cultures it is bad. Is it bad to subjugate women, treating them as second class citizens who cannot even reveal their faces in public? To us that is bad, to others it is part of their culture. Is there an "objective good" apart from our societal norms that determine whether these things are actually good or bad? The Latin terms for this distinction is "malum in se" (bad in and of itself) and "malum prohibitum" (bad only because society has declared that it is bad and therefore has prihibited it).
I have decided that Immigration and Naturalization services is "objectively bad." There is absolutely no reason in this world, or in any world, that they should take this long to do the job that has been delegated to them. Almost two years for God's sake! Do they just enjoy playing games with people's lives? Are they all 5th grade dropouts that need 6 months to read a two page petition? Are they sadists? Are these the same people who did such a great job at Abu Ghraib and have now been reassigned to torture other people?
Something needs to be done. I think I will write to my Congressman. No wait, I already did that. Apparently this stuff goes on all the time and the government thinks they are doing a perfectly fine job. Mexicans, including ne'er-do-wells, are streaming across the Rio Grande. The ones that are already here have jobs (some as housekeepers for government officials), get arrested and released, and send their children to our schools. I am not suggesting that is such a big deal. Mexico is an impoverished nation and most of the immigrants from that country, legal and illegal, contribute beneficially to our communities and economy, and help out the folks back home. But try to do it right: ask nicely, submit a ton of paperwork, submit to the bureaucracy; and they jack you around. No wonder the illegals don't bother to try to do it the right way.
As Howard Beale said on "Network:" "I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore." No, wait again. Yes, I am. I have to. Dammit Cartman.
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