New Wine, Old Wineskins

 

Fermentation starts, the wine bubbles, the wineskin stretches. Lookout. 

* * * 

Biblical illustrations paint pictures. They issue warnings, and metaphorically speaking, yesterday’s wineskin is no good for today. A new one is needed.

The elderly couple stands on the street corner, waiting in the drizzle. He looks at his watch, comments, “Should be here in one minute.” The minute passes and a sleek, driverless urban Uber rolls up, right on time.

The door self-opens, a bodyless voice shouts, “Climb in.” They look at each other, and then at the ghostly techno car. The choice is before them: ride or walk. New wine, old wineskins.    

Change is coming so fast we can hardly comprehend that the old is vanishing before our eyes, shoved shamelessly aside by the arrogance and urgency of the new.

And like new wine, the newborn ‘whatever’ grows suddenly old before its time. Like yesterday’s news, it becomes just a rejected relic of irrelevance used for spare parts and history lessons. It’s easily replaced by something new.  

Like a driverless urban Uber, the old wine-skin mind is incapable of calculating the ‘what-ifs’ of climbing in and taking a ride. So, which is it; stand aside and gawk, get out of its way, or get in?

The times are becoming disquieting. We hold fast to the old, live in the comfort of its convenience, the tried and true. But it’s short-lived. The new wine is bursting our old wineskins.

You might think this is a strange way of describing what’s going on in our world today. But it only takes a little bit of leaven to ferment the entire loaf. The new is expanding exponentially, standing on the shoulders of the recently departed that’s not yet buried.

There’s a unusual way of aging wine in Barcelona. In the tapas bar, the barista holds a bottle of freshly fermented wine over his head. About three feet below he holds a large pitcher and allows the wine to drizzle out slowly. Instant aging.

It appears to be tapas showmanship. But will it age wine? Who knows. It’ll certainly air it. No old wineskins needed here.

What, or who is causing this tectonic shift that overnight renders things obsolete? Anarchists, that’s who.

These creative iconoclastic wizards occupy Starbucks with laptops and lattes. They’re bored with the old. They test status quo, stiff-arm the pushback and delight themselves in the creation of apps that burst old wineskins. They live in the realm of dreams in the house of tomorrow.

Look, they say, you’ve had your shot, it’s our time. Technology is our weapon, our way of shoving you out, making room for our IPO’s. It’s our day now. Move aside.

But to their surprise, it’s hard to budge old habits and mindsets. We know their game, and we’re not capitulating easily. We thank them for Siri, for Alexa, for Google and Amazon. We’re battle-weary warriors of another era, slingshots not howitzers. We won’t back down.  

We cling to the proven mantra: “Old age and treachery will always overcome youth and vigor.” We don’t want to resemble old wineskins.

So, where’s the balance in this exploding conflict of new versus old, the middle ground of compromise in this insatiable urge that drives the young and restless to replace perfectly good systems?  Will crypto currency conquer cash, or electric vehicles vanquish air pollution? Who’s the mediator of this wild, uncontrollable ride we’re on?  

There is no mediator. No map, no speed limit, few rules and no arbiter. It’s more than competition and visions of billions. Creativity is the driver of these bodyless Ubers. It can’t be contained. It’s freedom in motion. 

And so here we are. What shall we do? Stand aside, gawk or get in and ride?

It’s our choice. In the tombstone words of Hunter S. Thompson, “Buy the ticket, take the ride.” Replace the wine skin, drink the wine.

 

Bud Hearn

September 26, 2022

 

      

A Faustian Bargain

 

“Be sober, be vigilant, because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walks about, seeking whom he may devour.” 1 Peter 5:8

***

How much manpower do you suppose it takes to keep the fires of hell raging hot? Peter was a fisherman, and fishermen are prone to exaggeration. He must have felt the heat of the ‘other’ side when issuing this warning.  

He knew as we all do that every occasion is an opportunity to make a deal with the devil. And once made, there’s no easy way out. We bargain without thinking of the consequences. Our soul is mortgaged, sold into slavery, and to complain there’s no need. Even Joe B can’t forgive that debt. Besides, he’s made his own deal with the devil.

Where’s this going, you’re asking. I’m not sure myself, except today I came mighty close to making such a deal. 

It’s like this, see. It’s Sunday, and if the adversary is active at all, he’s actively seeking absentee church backsliders and imbibers repenting from last night’s over-serving. Like Shakespeare said one morning after too much wine, “When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul lends the tongue vows.”

And oh, how many times has our own tongue made promises it never intended to keep? Remember, James said the tongue is a fire, and is set on fires of hell and cannot be tamed. One might infer from this that there’s a short distance between the tongue and hell itself. The devil is always close at hand. 

But today I’m just a common backslider, avoiding church under an obvious excuse that needs no explanation: the dog has business to do. I have refrained from making absolute statements that can come back to haunt me later, statements that usually begin with “I promise…” With age there’s wisdom.           

But here’s where the ground begins to shake. The island has flooded the last few days, so much rain that house foundations float and it feels like your home is moving into your neighbor’s back yard. It’s the kind of deluge that produces high water tables and green mold. Today it is not the mold that concerns me, but the sands. Quicksand, that is.

Things go nicely on the beach. The dog completes his task and I walk over some suspicious-looking sand to retrieve someone’s discarded beer can. And the unthinkable happens.

Before I know it, the sands open up, begins to devour me. I sink helplessly, down to my knees, no terra firma for my feet. Deeper and deeper, I sink. Quicksand.

If someone had asked me, “What were your first thoughts?” I might have quoted the devil. But being mired in quicksand is not the time for theological or philosophical discussions. I think I saw Lucifer squatting behind a dune, hoping to add another soul to his roster of fire tenders and singing, “Skin for skin, all a man has will he give for his life.”

We read about quicksand, special places where the water table is so close to the surface that the sands literally bubble. They swallow whatever crosses over it, mules, wagons, cars, humans. Even dinosaur remains have been discovered in the peat bogs of Florida.

But apparently today is not my time to stoke fires, inhabit a subterranean peat bog or to walk streets of gold. I get on my belly and crawl out of the mire, sandy but living to tell you about it. Left behind is a bubbling pool of silty water with an appetite, seeking something to devour for its meal.

In retrospect I suppose if I’d disappeared, sooner or later someone would have retraced my steps to the pool of water and the empty beer can. They’d scratch their head while examining the long claw marks in the sand, wonder about the beer can. Little else left there for clues.

In order to prevent mass cancellations, the resort would have suppressed the news as the ‘mysterious disappearance’ of a deranged old man who wandered off into the ocean, thinking he was at the top of the food chain and later realizing the error of such thoughts.

                                                   ***

There’s no moral to this story, just a semi-allegory about being stuck in mires of our own making and bargains made against our better judgment.

We’d do well to think about the fires of hell before we trade with the devil. His invitation isn’t to a marshmallow roast. 

 

Bud Hearn

September 12, 2022         

 

Winners and Losers

 

“Every hand’s a winner, and every hand’s a loser.” The Gambler lyrics

* * * 

We spend a lot of time trying to win and avoid losing. It’s life’s obsession, this game of winning or losing. And we come by it naturally.

We won the moment we drew our first breath, and we’ll keep on winning until the moment it leaves us. It keeps recycling.

It begs question, how many breaths are we allotted anyway? Maybe we may need to pace ourselves, cut back on those hot, torrid vacation romances. No? Ok, give up jogging, that’ll balance it out in this summer heat.

We love games and play a lot of them with ourselves and quite a few with others. Don’t deny it, we hatch plans and schemes from the moment we get up. Some win, some lose. We pretend a lot.

We play silly games with our brain. It’s a mortal conflict, a struggle between decision or indecision. To choose is one of the hardest games we ever play.

Which wins? Depends on the day, the moment, the emotion, because like it or not, brain and body both have to play the hand that’s dealt. It’s the Will versus the Flesh, mind over matter, or the matter over mind. You’re hungry, so you fight the urge. The body wins, the mind loses.

You look at yourself one day, don’t like what you see. The get-in-shape game is now in play. You fist-pump, swear to yourself to shape up. You spend money, buy new running shoes, bright colored ones, some garish-green shorts and hit the road. Decision has made Will a temporary winner. But wait, the game is just beginning.  

You’re feeling good, your will is winning. But the body doesn’t like the hand it has been dealt. It rebels at the first hill you approach. Sweat’s pouring from your glands, the contest begins to change. Second-guessing enters the fray and begins to question the wisdom of this game you’re playing. Defeat waits on the hilltop.    

Suddenly the moment changes, the game’s momentum shifts. Just minutes ago, the will was winning, now the conflict between will and body gets bloody real. Which has the guts to continue the fight? 

Your lungs heave, your breath comes hard. You see it clearly, mano a mano, less a game than a war. And there’s no such thing as a split decision. It’s a zero-sum game, a winner or a loser. Which will it be?

This little metaphoric example can apply to multitudes of contests we choose on a regular basis. Maybe golf, tennis, bridge, checkers, horseshoes, stock speculation, politics, you name it. There are winners and losers.

Games like life have rules. Some are based on tradition or written, others formulated as the occasion demands. But there must be an objective standard to determine the winners from the losers.

Score keepers and referees are needed. Can they be trusted? Dissent enters the scrimmage, followed by blame, ending in accusations. Ah, there’s the rub.

There are plenty of sore losers out there. They blame the rules and score keepers. Concession is not in their vocabulary. Winning is everything, hook or crook. Their ballot-box hokum, voter suppression hogwash and perpetual money-printing promises won’t change the outcome any more than your new shoes will allow you to finish the run.

(I just had to say that. It’s too bad scores can’t be as clear and convincing as the Bulldogs 49 to 3 over the Ducks.)  

We’ve been both winners and losers for a long time. But don’t bring up the score card of failed romances. It skews the win/lose model. No clear winners there, only degrees of losers. Some blame luck, good or bad, but what’s luck anyway? It’s simply the cards we were dealt, a message from the Fates to tempt and tease us while playing the hands best we can.     

We ask, “Will our winning luck finally run out?” A sober thought. Call it what you will, but Life is a gamble with incredible odds; if it were a bet, who’d take it?

                                              * * * 

 Longfellow penned his thoughts on winners and losers:

 

     When I compare

     What I have lost with what I have gained

     Little room do I find for pride.

 

     But who shall dare

     To measure loss and gain in this wise?

     Defeat may be victory in disguise.

     The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.”

 

Defy the odds, keep playing the game.

 

 

Bud Hearn

September 5, 2022