When Faith Falters, Then What?

An Easter Message

“Simon Peter said unto them, I go fishing.” John 21:3

Easter opens the door for spring. It elevates our spirits in a renewal of the earth’s grandeur. For Christians it’s also a time of quiet reflection and a vicarious reliving of the events surrounding the final days of Jesus’ life.

For those in the Biblical account, the Feast of the Passover was a time of high religious enthusiasm. Perhaps a spectacle resembling a religious Mardi Gras. We can only speculate.

In re-reading the Biblical accounts, I’m struck by the cast of characters in the scene. What were they thinking? I wondered about their faith, its foundation. So, I de-constructed the scene to see what would appear.

The short list of the cast gives some clues:

The multitudes mingled
Jesus prayed
Disciples slept

Judas betrayed
Peter denied
Pilate plotted

The soldiers tortured
A thief repented
The disciples hid

Spectators mocked
Women wailed
Jesus crucified

Imagine if we had been there. What role would we play?

Emotional fervor intensified during Passover. The multitudes expected miracles. Euphoria energized them. But wait, Jesus rides in on a donkey? What’s this, the Redeemer of Israel riding on a lowly animal? They’re perplexed, confused. Is this a hoax? Their faith falters.

Emotional faith lacks solid foundations. It’s based on the secretions of the adrenal gland. It’s centered in the limbic system of the brain, the central processing area for feelings, moods and emotions. Its zeal is a raindrop. It evaporates instantly in the desert dust. It’s a faith that leans on a weak reed. It has the hand-grip strength of a newborn baby.

We’re defined daily by our responses to life’s events:

When life kicks down the door
And assails us like a beast,
When its teeth rip our flesh
And tears drip down our cheeks,
When all of life seems hopeless,

Then where do we go for faith? Jesus found this life waiting for him in Jerusalem. Where did he go? To the Garden of Gethsemane. What did he do? He prayed.

When caught in the vortex of tragedies, our faith seems to abandon us. How do we endure the fallout from unmitigated disasters? How do we summons up something as ephemeral as faith? Much less trust or depend on it.

Oh, yes, our faith is strong when the storms of life hit other shores, when we’re healthy, prosperous, satisfied, trouble free. But let life’s crises claim us, then see where faith goes. It seems to flee, to leave us forsaken. We’re not alone. Scripture says all forsook Jesus and fled. Even on the cross Jesus cried out, “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?" (My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?)

The chain of events in the Easter story exposes us to:

The humiliation,
The torture,
The brutality of human cruelty.

Crucifixion is barbarism on display, revealing the wild innate nature of man. The world of mankind at its core drips with blood, tooth and nail. Can any faith withstand this?

We’re vicarious spectators when Jesus is betrayed, arrested, arraigned, condemned, beaten, crucified, dead and buried. We’re cowards with the disciples quaking behind closed doors. We’re with the women at the empty tomb. We meet the risen Christ. We’re on the road to Emmaus when Jesus walks with us. Like the others, we’re often confused, conflicted, perplexed. Where do we go from here? Where’s our faith now?

I can relate to Peter, who said, “I go fishing.” His faith faltered, even as mine does. Others joined him. They returned to what they knew, to the place where Jesus first found them. And Jesus found them again, just as before. I’m certain the subject of “fishers of men” came up.

Even though our faith often flags, God will find us again, whispering His promise, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.” That’s where real faith is found…in God’s promises!

Soon the Easter egg hunts will end, the Easter bunny will return to his burrow and the Easter lilies will wither. We will be left to ourselves again. Where will we go to renew our faith? Will God find us again? I ask myself these questions. What about you?

May our risen Savior find us again, renew our faith, strengthen us in all good works, and fill us with His Holy Spirit for greater service to Him and our neighbors.

Bud Hearn
March 28, 2013

The State of Things to Come

America is in turmoil. It’s ungovernable. Order is fugitive. Dysfunction reigns. The solution? Create more states.

But how? Annex Mexico? It’s too late. Done. Over. We’re talking mental states. Democracy for the mental demographic. Aggregate, collate, dominate. Divide and conquer. Perfect integrations, ideal for election campaign strategies. Easier for politicians to isolate, pimp and pander.

With technology it’s quick and easy. An online E-Meter assessment and registration process will assign citizens to virtual “states” coinciding with their particular mental proclivity. A seamless process, egalitarian, brilliant. Migration unnecessary.

It begins with the State of Confusion. It’s a wild, lawless state resembling an asylum. All rooms are padded. Lawn labyrinths are filled with disoriented lunatics who run helter-skelter in circles, looking for an exit. All citizens eventually pass through this state.

Then there’s the State of Illusion. It’s a vast landscape filled with strobe lights, magnifying mirrors, carnival masks and monopoly money. Aged Hollywood has-beens, down on their luck, advertise Reverse Mortgages on TV. Washed-up bankers and defrocked evangelists detox here.

There’s the state of Obfuscation. It resembles a cavernous library filled with legal codes and tax dictates. Lawyers and lobbyists live here. Legerdemain is practiced for proficiency from mahogany podiums positioned beside massive Corinthian columns. A certain green sleaze oozes from the walls.

The State of Manipulation is a lovely garden greenhouse where fruit from the Tree of Unbridled Ambition is not forbidden. Politicians, stockbrokers and all journalists enjoy a congenial atmosphere. A Masters Degree of Fabrication is available to further elevate earnings and prominence prior to moving to the State of Reinvention.

The State of Reinvention is an anomaly unique to America. It resembles a penal colony open to the public. It’s a colossal clothing, cosmetic and costume emporium. It distributes born-again tracts. Transients receive new identities after clinical psychiatrists administer shock treatments to cleanse their minds, eliminate empathy and blot out remembrance of all things past.

The State of Delusion resembles a derelict Sunday morning fraternity house. Mindless old men stagger in catatonic stupors, waiting for their financial ship to arrive, convinced that all women find them attractive. Tarnished trophies of former exploits feed the fantasy, affirming a life that once was.

Then there’s the State of Presumption, or the State of Perpetual Youth, where Medicare pays for all things cosmetic and artificial. Doctors skilled in the use of silicone, Botox and joint replacements proliferate. Beauty contests are held daily.

The State of Acquisition includes insecure young women looking for purses, and rich old men looking for nurses. The men are recent transferees from the State of Delusion. It resembles a giant mall. Cash registers chi-ching incessantly like the tolling of church bells. China subsidizes this state.

Ah, the State of Passion. Attar of roses and wisteria blossoms float on gentle breezes. The air is pregnant with amour fou…obsessive passion. Nighttime rules. Moon and stars set the scene. Lovers recoil in horror at daylight. It reveals reality. It extinguishes the fires of blind passion into rubbles of cold ashes. Loudspeakers blast, ad nauseam, Love me tender, love me true. At intervals screams of rejected lovers pierce the air like wailing hyenas when daylight dawns and infatuation flags.

The State of Unassuaged Dissatisfaction is the domain of sports addicts, including bridge players and golfers. They gnash over the state of scorecards. Never satisfied. They torment others with lamentations of their obsessions. Who cares? They’re the apotheosis of boredom. The scarlet letter, “A,” is tattooed on their foreheads.

Yes, there’s the State of Redistribution. No one works here. Residents are fat and happy, happy. They shake hands like politicians and teenagers: palms up. They’re related to the Biblical genus “Horseleech” whose two daughters cry daily, “Give, give.” They watch Duck Dynasty.

There’s the State of Seclusion. It’s run by nuns, Our Ladies of Perpetual Humiliation. It’s a desolate landscape of rocky escarpments, pockmarked by dark caves. Want a roommate? Ok, try an ascetic monk. Clothed in sackcloth and ashes, the minutes creep slowly by. The air is thick with repentance. Residents renunciate all carnality and mutilate themselves with stones. Yogic oms and failed nirvanas reverberate from the canyon walls and die silently into the barren desert sands. It’s a solemn hell. Stays are short.

The last state is the State of Conclusion, or State of Eternal Bliss. It’s decorated with colorful silk flowers. Humans pass this way horizontally, lying “in state,” so to speak. They have stitched-on smiles that simulate relief. Organ music serenades with Nearer My God to Thee.

Moving? No problem. An Electropsychometer consultant will switch your ankle bracelet transponder and off you go. But where? Check out the State of Resignation…plenty of company there.

OK, just an idea. You have a better one? America…what a state we’re in!

Bud Hearn
March 20, 2013

Doping Dumbs Down

Nothing’s fun anymore. Competition is vicious. Doping’s gone viral. Steroids are scourges. Winners get wealthy. Losers are stoned. Competitive violence must be crushed, sanity restored.

Lance Armstrong stirred it all up with the ‘pee’ heard ‘round the world. The fallout from his fraud has found its way into all things competitive, from team sports to Tai Chi. He’s being stripped naked and publically flogged for causing the scrutiny of harmless pursuits. Like ice fishing.

You bet, a fishing tournament on a frozen lake in Wisconsin has raised hackles. The participants were internationals, hopeful to elevate the sport to Olympic status. The rules are simple: drill holes in the ice, catch all the fish you can, three hour time limit.

The Russian team won, snagging 4 pounds of pan fish. But their elation chilled when the United States Anti-doping Agency showed up. The Russians were lined up on the ice like common criminals facing a firing squad and tested for “banned substances.” The win was tainted when the test results revealed a mood-enhancing combination of vodka and anchovies.

Ice fishing is hardly an Olympic event. It rivals for pure boredom the state sport of Georgia…watermelon seed spitting. It’s really a winter sanctum for retirees and milquetoast men. They have fled with flasks from cabin fever and contentious women, seeking refuge in frigid air upon frozen lakes. To fish? Ha, to escape!

But now the Rope-a-Dopers have arrived. Fueled by Executive Order, they’re purging performance-enhancing substances from all forms of competition. ObamaCare levels the playing field. There’s a bad moon rising, folks.

Good thing the World Anti-Doping Agency wasn’t around in the small town of my youth. Drones were only sci-fi fantasies. Otherwise, my band of oddballs would have been busted as doping felons and vilified, stigmatized and institutionalized. Take our afternoon game of marbles, for example.

They weren’t Olympic grade, but betting was sanctioned. Boasting rights were the pay-off. It was alleged we sometimes imbibed in performance-boosting drinks. They mainly consisted of bottled Cokes or Moxie Cream Sodas, enhanced by pouring in packs of Tom’s peanuts and shaken vigorously. Our energy levels went nuclear from the surfeit of sugar and salt.

But our puny stimulants couldn’t match LeRoy’s brew. He was a moose of a kid with massive hands…imagine a baseball glove. He was sort of a freak of nature, a term coined by Armstrong to sidetrack the anti-doping sleuths. He did pull-ups and push-ups using only his thumbs. Picture an Orangutan. He played a mean game of marbles.

He could shoot a marble with accuracy across the school playground. In a three-foot circle he was deadly. Such was his velocity that marbles vaporized on contact. One day he decimated my entire stash of cat-eyes. It cost me my Babe Ruth baseball cards, my Mad Magazines and a pack of Juicy Fruit gum for money to get more marbles.

Leroy had his own energy drink…an RC Cola (Royal Crown, if you’re under 60). He kept it close, taking occasional gulps with furtive glances. It emitted a smoky vapor that smelled like hot asphalt. He would hunch his shoulders, pop his knuckles and shoot, straight-line, 0 to 60 in a micro second. Only marble fragments remained.

We were curious about the secret concoction he swilled. One day we hid his bike. He left in a fury, leaving behind his RC Cola. We examined the contents…a few peanuts, a pinch of snuff, Moon Pie crumbles and shards of a Tootsie Pop sucker, a half-smoked Picayune and a plug of Bull of the Woods chewing tobacco. It was nasty.

LeRoy is now president of the National Spit Tobacco Federation. Its educational program grooms young baseball players in the art of tobacco spitting for Olympic competition.

The Island Seniors have a Duplicate Bridge Center. For years they competed in undetected seclusion. Participants dutifully checked their knives and guns on entry. Until one day Maude Clinkscales, an octogenarian with poor eyesight, brought in brownies boosted with sugar and some unknown, suspicious white substance. Things got ugly and out of hand. Rumor is there was pole dancing and strip poker. Gossip here is pernicious.

Today, black SUVs patrol their parking lot. Men in black manage detection machines and monitor the snacks. The games have returned to insufferable boredom. The Anti-Dopers are now showing up everywhere. What’s next? Jump rope contests, yoyo events, kite flying meets and horseshoe pitching matches? Nothing’s safe. RC Cola, where are you?

As for me, I’m wondering if Rick-Rack paddle competitions could restore some balance. Imagine the possibilities!

Bud Hearn
March 6, 2013