This just in...I'm an idiot.

This morning I had a major cognitive breakdown, a new low in the inexorable decline of mental acuity for those of a certain age. It is embarrassing to admit that it has come to this...

I woke at the usual time after an uneventful night's sleep. My morning routine was virtually unchanged except for the latest contest of wills with Lucy, the psycho dog. Suddenly, she has decided that going down the stairs is beyond the pale. In her disturbed mind, our staircase is now the gauntlet of death. At first, she would only go down them if we walked along side her. Then, it became walk beside her with the leash securely attached to her collar. Now it's, I ain't going down those stairs for love nor money!! I have been forced twice this weekend to carry my 65 pound dog down the stairs of my house. But...I digress.

After this absurd encounter with Lunatic Lucy, I began laying out my clothes for the day, before  jumping in the shower. Pam made the odd remark, Wow, that's a fancy shirt. Nothing. Then I went to take my daily medication and noticed that I had failed to take yesterday's allotment. Still...nothing. Then I hopped into my car and started driving confidently to my destination, wondering why I couldn't get Sport's Phone with Big Al on the radio. Again...nothing, zip, nada...

It was only when I got to the corner of Pump Road and Three Chopt that I got the strange sensation that something was not right. Where was all the traffic? I picked up my cell phone and looked at the lovely picture of Pam and me on a boat in the Caymen Islands taken back in a time when I had not yet been turned into a blithering idiot by the ravages of time. Clear as day in white, block lettering came the announcement that today was, in fact, SUNDAY, AUGUST 27...not Monday, and if I continued on my present course, my clients in Mechanicsville are going to be shocked by my appearance on their doorstep before they had even had a chance to eat their bran flakes. 

I made an embarrassed u-turn then sheepishly drove back home where I promptly confessed to my concerned wife that her husband had indeed lost his mind.

A Life...in Church.

I am a 59 year old man, and for all of that time, I have been in church, the first 20 years by conscription, the last 39 by choice. I was born into Kingsland Baptist Church in Chesterfield County. While my Dad was in seminary, I was a member of the church he pastored on the weekends, Nicholsville Baptist Church in Nicholsville, Alabama. But, I don't remember much about either of these places. The two churches where I spent the majority of my life were Winns Baptist Church in Elmont, Virginia, and Grove Avenue Baptist Church in Richmond.

All of this is on my mind today because Pam and I have spent the last two days in a prospective new members class at Hope Church. There are several unique things about this. First, it's only the second time we have actually joined a church as a new member in 33 years of marriage, second, Hope is a Presbyterian church, and third, Hope is the only church I've ever attended which requires people to go through two days of meetings in order to join, and even then it's very much a take it or leave it proposition. It's like they're saying, Sure, we're really glad you're interested in Hope, but let's not run off half-cocked and do something stupid without knowing what you're getting yourself into, ok? I'll have more to say about Hope a little later on, but right now, I want to write about what my church life, for lack of a better term, has been like. Some of you will identify and relate with what follows. Others may be bewildered by it. But, for better or for worse, being in church all of my life has shaped me. It has been an enormous force for good in my life, while simultaneously being a force of anger and frustration. It's been a complicated relationship, between me and this institution, one that I feel compelled at this stage of my life to write about. For me, it all began when my dad was hired to be the senior pastor at Winns Baptist Church. I was ten years old.

Winns Baptist Church

When you're a preacher's kid, you're not really a member of a church. It's more like you are part of the package, a collateral accoutrement that had to be tolerated. At age ten I got the distinct impression that first Sunday at Winns that I was expected to be seen, often, as in--every single time the church doors were opened, and heard from, never. In addition, they would greatly appreciate it if I was never seen swinging from the chandeliers. My Dad was the pastor at Winns for sixteen years. There were good times and bad times. Some of the sweetest, kindest people I've ever met were there. I had my first kiss there, met and eventually fell in love with my wife there. It was at Winns where I actually came to a personal faith in Christ myself.  But, it was also at Winns where I learned that not everyone claiming faith in Christ was a nice person. In fact, some of those who cried, "Lord, lord!" the loudest were more like the spawn of Satan.

 I experienced my first church fight at Winns, complete with several knock down, drag out business meetings, and anonymous letter writing campaigns, (back before the Internet and social media, character assassination was very much a retail business). When the source of a church fight is the question of whether or not your Dad is competent enough to justify his continued employment, things tend to get personal. At age 16, enduring a church fight did a great job of feeding the growing cynicism already running wild in me and most other 16 year olds I knew. I responded to it by writing a play which was performed by the youth group one Youth Week Sunday. It was a send up of a raucous church business meeting where I put very little effort into hiding the real world identities of most of the characters. It was not well received by it's intended targets, and I was thrilled by their anger. The last service I ever attended at Winns was my wedding. Soon afterwards Dad moved on to a Church in Charlottesville. So, for the first time in my life, I was tasked with finding and joining a church in which My father was not the pastor.

Grove Avenue Baptist Church

The first couple of years of married life saw Pam and I not trying very hard to find a church. We discovered that we very much enjoyed two day weekends, and not having to wake up so early on Sundays. But, once Pam was pregnant with Kaitlin, we began the search in earnest. Since my two sisters had both landed at Grove, post-Winns, we decided to visit one Sunday. Vander Warner was the pastor and I throughly enjoyed his sermon, but hated the church for two reasons...it was too big, and it was broadcast live on television. The presence of TV cameras up and down the aisles was a huge turnoff. But, we were going to soon be parents and thought that we needed to settle on a church home sooner rather than later. A few Sundays later we found an amazing Sunday school class taught by a young architect, filled with other couples our age who were also expecting. The next week we joined. This being a Baptist Church in the mid-80's, joining consisted of us walking down the aisle during the alter call, shaking a minister's hand and then being swept off into a room which was decorated like a funeral home, where some guy asked us ten minutes of questions. That was it. We were in! It's called moving your letter, a process by which the new church contacts your old church to verify your membership there, then presto, the paperwork gets done, you get a fresh box of offering envelopes and it's all good. The procedure is spelled out somewhere in Malachi, I'm told.

Pam and I both grew to love Grove. We raised both of our children there with the invaluable help of countless people who poured their time and talents into our children. My wife began a 13 year run working and teaching in children's church, while some idiot thought I would make a great chairman of the Finance Committee since I was in the "financial business." It was a disaster. My leadership style is way to heavy on sarcasm and highjinks to make the necessary adjustments to church finance....

Random ministry leader making his pitch to my committee for funds: So, we need a 20% increase in our funding for this year because of all of these great ministry plans we have for the new year.

Me: You're kidding, right? Dude, you didn't even spend the money we allocated you last year. What do we look like, Central Fidelity Bank??

Yeah, so that didn't go well. It didn't take long for the church leadership team to realize that my skill set needed a different outlet for expression. An amazingly humble, godly ex-marine named Gary Stewart soon asked me to consider becoming the Sunday School teacher for a group of ninth grade boys who had scared off three teachers in three months. For reasons that remain a mystery, I said yes. Thus began a ten year run as a leader and volunteer in the youth ministry at Grove. It was easily, the best ten years I've ever had in church. Spent a fortune. Gave up weekends. Quadrupled the wear and tear on my house since nearly every weekend, the place got overrun with a couple dozen hormone-crazed kids. Spent a week every summer with over 200 teenagers at summer camp. But, as crazy and as difficult and demanding as it was, I loved it, primarily because I was making a difference. In all of that time, I was oblivious to what was going on in the rest of the church. I'm sure there were fights and disagreements going on throughout the church at the time, but I never noticed any of it, because I was busy with the kids. It was beautiful.

Then came a three year stint teaching college students. Also fun and satisfying. But after three years there, my time had passed. Then, for the first time in thirteen years I reverted back to just being a regular member, one of those guys who comes every Sunday morning, sits in the same pew, and slowly, quietly starts getting annoyed by church. It's the disease that afflicts most people in church who aren't involved in some sort of ministry. People in church, left at leisure, become critics. That sermon was lame. Could those sopranos possibly be any flatter on that song? Reading the announcements to us right out of the bulletin. Seriously? Who does he think we are, a bunch of illiterate morons?

So, after a few years of this spiritual whining, you look at yourself in the mirror and realize that you need to make a change. It's not the preacher, it's you. Then it occurs to you that you've been at the same church for 30 years. Somewhere during the last few years, you've stopped listening, you are no longer hearing the voices there. You need a new voice, a new season of growth, a time for renewal. 

Hope Church

A year later, you find yourself at a two day prospective member class event at Hope Church. There will be no moving your letter nonsense with this group. These guys are Presbyterians, and if you want to join this church, much will be expected of you. There are slick handouts on glossy paper spelling out what it means to be an owner/operator. One speaker after another tells us, here are the seven essentials of the faith that we believe. This is our mission statement. Here are our plans for the future. Here are the areas of service that you will be expected to move into at some point. If you want to be a member of something, go join Hermitage Country Club, or the YMCA. We don't want members, we want spiritual entrepreneurs who are ready to work, ready to lead and ready to sacrifice for the mission of the Gospel. Oh, and when you give, we take cash, checks, EFT debits, PayPal, and coming soon...pay by text!

There was something invigorating about such an unvarnished airing of expectations. It's good to know that we will not be allowed to sit around being a critic, that something will be required of us. We will be expected to make the church a better place than how we found it. This will not be some cheap, resume stuffing title, Member, Hope Church. Rather, it will be a call to action.

I think, we just might be ready.

Hefty, Hefty, HEFTY!!!

Hurricane Harvey is set to pound the coast of Texas with 100 mph winds and upwards of 35 inches of rain. Early reports indicate that the citizens of Corpus Christi have suddenly lost all interest in the raging Confederate statue controversy. Funny how the prospect of eminent death focuses the mind.

I'm not suggesting that the statue uproar isn't a legitimate thing. It surely is. I mean, when suddenly the sight of them has become so heinous, so provocative that the city of Charlottesville has taken to wrapping giant black trash bags around them to hide them from public view, it most definitely is a thing.

I'm told that under this giant tarp is a statue of Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson astride a horse. The Charlottesville city government, after a tumultuous town council meeting where they were loudly jeered, mocked and cursed by an angry assembly of concerned citizens, made the decision to shroud the offending statues. The move was met with varied reactions. Some called it a good first step, while others considered it a desecration, while still others lamented, Seriously, Charlottesville?? A black tarp?? No orange and blue?

Apparently, the city fathers opted for the black tarp only after they received a price quote on surrounding the statue in giant mirrors, which was too costly. Although the mirrors had the added advantage of encouraging citizens to examine our souls, and gaze upon ourselves for inspiration instead of venerating our troubled past, the cost was prohibitive.

Still, the tarp play was seen by most observers as only a stop gap measure and carries with it a new set of problems. Prior to "The Covering" as it has quickly become known, local police only had to concern themselves with protecting the statues from vandals on the left who might descend upon it in a mob and tear it down Raleigh-style. Now, they must protect the tarp from pocket knife wielding hooligans from the right. 

As a good capitalist, I smell a huge opportunity here for the folks over at Glad, the trash bag company. If I were them I would be all over this picture with the greatest virtue signaling add campaign of all time...Glad...taking out history's trash, one rebel at a time. Or maybe the guys over at Hefty can beat them to it with...Don't risk sanitizing your public square with some whimpy bag. Go with HEFTY, HEFTY, HEFTY!!

I suspect that the Charlottesville city council is in for a rude awakening if they think covering Confederate statues in platstic bags is going to calm the crowds that so reviled them at their last meeting. The next one might be even worse, since now angry citizens can make the case that by covering Jackson and Lee with bags, the city has actually protected the statues by muting the spray-painting graffiti free speech rights of urban artists. Hopefully, cooler heads will prevail and some compromise can be struck. Either way, the next meeting for the Charlottesville town council will be must-see TV.

1500? Hard to Believe.

Every now and then, with longevity, comes the inevitable milestone event. As milestones go, this wasn't that big a deal, nevertheless deserves some mention, so I will...

Yesterday, I wrote the 1500th blogpost in the nearly seven year history of The Tempest. 

As fate would have it, number 1500 was fairly typical. Something stupid happened in the world, and I wrote about it. I usually do this writing between the hours of 6:00 and 8:00 in the morning, make of that what you will. Honestly, this blog is the easiest thing I've even done in my life. It's like, see ball, hit ball. Easy. I inherited, mostly from my mother's side of the family, strongly held opinions. The ability to write them down came from Lord only knows. The first thing I ever remember writing was in elementary school, when I "wrote" a comic strip that featured an Indian during the days of the Wild West getting caught stealing a rifle from a cowboy and immediately starts resighting the pledge of allegiance. I was probably 8 or 9 at the time. The teacher thought it was "odd and clever" but gave me a side eye glance that I will never forget, like she was thinking, Where did that come from, and who is this kid??

Included in these 1500 posts have been lots of stories of family life, since that is the most important thing I've had going these past seven years. I've bragged on my accomplished kids, and doted on my amazing wife, which I'm sure has annoyed some of you. That's ok. Nobody's holding a gun to your head, so... I've written about the loss of both of my parents, and writing about it helped me get through it. I've written about my dog Lucy, and of what it was like to lose Molly. I've written about my daughter's wedding, the planning, expense and joy of that event. 

But, I've also written, a lot, about politics. It was never my intention to do so. Ordinarily, politics is boring, plodding stuff. But with Obama and now Trump, not so much. It is in the arena of politics where I have had to do the most thinking. Looking back over some of the things I've written these past seven years, some of it wasn't always well reasoned. Sometimes, I have gone with my gut instinct on things, and then regretted it a few months or years later. But other times, I have had open debates here...with myself...on hot button issues that have flared up. As the readership of this blog has grown I have felt a greater obligation to be more careful when slinging my opinions around. Some issues which I find insufferably moronic, others hold dear, so I've learned to tread carefully when dealing with the strong feelings of others. This careful treading has had mixed results. Sometimes I've been better at it than other times. Sometimes there's just no way around he fact that I'm  going to annoy someone. Whenever that someone is my wife...it usually gets edited out!

Luckily, I don't write this blog for a living. Since virtually none of you ever click on the adds that are featured on this blog, The Tempest is essentially a public service. The fact that so many of you read what I have to say is astonishing to me.

So, post 1501 is almost in the can. That's over 850,000 words written in seven years, hopefully in some discernible, mildly understandable order. It has been great fun. Thanks for reading!

Morons. We are surrounded by morons...

The University of Virginia, desperate to return to the days of being totally ignored, is set to begin their football season on September 2nd against William and Mary. For reasons that defy all logic, ESPN has planned to broadcast this game on television. And now, the very real and legitimate concerns raised by the Confederate statue controversy have been opened up to ridicule and public mockery by...ESPN.

Apparently, and trust me...I have triple checked this story to make absolutely sure I wasn't being punked by the Onion...one of the announcers who ESPN had scheduled to call the game is an Asian man named Robert Lee. This unhappy coincidence was too much for the morons who run the network:

" We collectively made the decision with Robert to switch games as the tragic events in Charlottesville were unfolding, simply because of the coincidence of his name. In that moment it felt right to all parties. It's a shame that this is even a topic of conversation and we regret that who calls the play by play of a football game has become an issue."

The past couple of years has proven to me that when it comes to insanity, anything is possible in America. However, perhaps nothing I have read during this period of insanity can surpass the above ESPN statement for simple, basic sand-pounding idiocy. So, as a public service to ESPN and thinking people everywhere, I will now rewrite this statement, adding crucial information left out in the original draft.

We collectively made the decision... (The gutless management team here at ESPN which consists of trembling lunatics terrified that sports fans would mistake an Asian man for a white supremacist).

with Robert...(despite Robert's incredulous howls of laughter and repeated phrase, "You've got to be sh***ing me, right? 

to switch games as the tragic events in Charlottesville were unfolding, simply because of the coincidence of his name...( yep, and for no other reason..just that, the freaking coincidence of this Asian man's name. That alone is what made us all think that this was a smart, sane thing to do. Can you believe it???)

In that moment, it felt right to all parties...( and we here at ESPN are all about what feels right, rather than what is right)

It's a shame that this is even a topic of conversation...( and it is a topic of conversation only because the morons at ESPN have made it one!!!)

and we regret that who calls play by play for a football game has become an issue... ( again, it has become an issue only because of the dim bulbs who run ESPN)

Ok, just so no one gets even more confused, Mr. Lee is the gentleman on the right, not the bald headed dude. Which begs the question, why didn't ESPN recognize how problematic it would have been to allow someone who might possibly have been associated with the skinheads broadcast a UVA football game so soon after the Charlottesville racist violence? Had they been more woke perhaps that would have felt right as well. 

So, thanks ESPN. Thanks for turning a transformational moment in race relations in America into the punch line of yet another politically correct joke.

Morons.

Different President, Same Afghanistan

Back during the presidential campaign of 2016, Donald Trump actually said a few things that I liked, particularly when it came to our misadventures abroad. It wasn't enough to entice me to vote for the guy, but it sure sounded nice coming out of his mouth. Things like this:

" When will we stop wasting money rebuilding Afghanistan? We must rebuild our country first!"

" Why continue to train Afghanis who shoot our soldiers in the back? A total waste. Time to come home."

" We have wasted enormous amounts of blood and treasure in Afghanistan. Their government has zero appreciation. Let's get out."

Whenever I would hear him say things like this it would almost make me forget what a dogless ignoramus he was. So, last night, after six months in office, it was time for Trump to reveal his official policy towards Afghanistan. He, like Obama before him, came into office deeply skeptical about Afghanistan and having pledged repeatedly during the campaign to change course in that God forsaken hellhole. But there he was behind the podium in Fort Myer, Virginia announcing a renewed commitment to eh, to eh...well, let me let the first dog free President since William McKinley tell you himself:

" We will fight to win. From now on, victory will have a clear definition: attacking our enemies, obliterating ISIS, crushing al Qaeda, preventing the Taliban from taking over Afghanistan, and stopping mass terror attacks against America before they emerge."

"A core pillar in our new strategy is a shift from a time-based approach to one based on conditions."

" The consequences of a rapid exit are both predictable and unacceptable."

" I share the American people's frustration."

Okie dokey.

Melania is often accused of plagarizing former First Lady, Michelle Obama. Well, this speech seems like the President's attempt to follow in his wife's footsteps. This "new" policy towards Afghanistan is strikingly similar to Obama's strategy towards Afghanistan, which bore an amazing resemblance to George Bush's Afghanistan policy which I will summarize as follows:

" Ok, that bastard Bin Laden blew up the World Trade Center, and we think he's hiding in some cave in Afghanistan. So, we need to go in there and get him. SQUIRREL!!!! Wait, their government is a mess, and the Taliban are bad guys, and since we couldn't find Bin Laden, and while we're over here, we might as well try to defeat the Taliban. Besides, if we don't, Afghanistan might be converted to a safe haven for terrorist to plan more evil deeds against America. And, sure, the government in Kabul are basically a bunch of kleptomaniacs, but they've got to be better than the Taliban, right? I'm sure we can get this job done in no time, but if we don't we will just keep getting dragged into this festering abyss for as many years as we can convince the American people that to pull out would lead to consequences that are both predictable and unacceptable. In the future if a President suggests getting OUT of Afghanitsan, the entire military establishment will accuse him of being a defeatist ( if he's Republican ), or a weakling ( if he's a Democrat ). That way, no matter how long it takes or how victory gets defined, we will always be here, slugging it out with a bunch of sheep herding poppie growers forever!!"

I'm sure that when Trump got back to the White House after the speech and was not greeted by a faithful dog, even a guy like Trump must have had a moment of self reflection as to how he possibly could have been hornswoggled so badly by his generals. Or maybe he called up Obama to commiserate..."What the heck Barack? Why can't we quit Afghanistan??"

All About the Eclipse

So, this afternoon we're having the solar eclipse thing. In ancient times this would be the occasion of great terror complete with the rending of garments, the splitting open of animals and terrified calls to repentance. Today hundreds of small towns will be overrun with herds of dorks craning their necks skyward, geeked out with protective eye ware the serious minded had ordered from NASA, while the last minute eclipse partiers picked up from the discount bin at Bob's Diner and Thrift Shop. The entire thing is supposed to be over with in a little over three hours, kind of like Lawrence of Arabia, or any movie by Peter Jackson.

I'm not even sure what I plan to do during all of this eclipsing. I didn't get any of those cool glasses. Of course, I could make one of those makeshift cereal box things that allow me to see the shadow of the thing reflected off the inside bottom of the box. But that seems like a lot of trouble. I can't just go about my day and ignore the whole thing, can I? I mean, isn't this one of those once in a lifetime things that one just has to participate with in order to be fully alive? Seriously, how lame would it be to spend the afternoon of the great solar eclipse preparing spreadsheets of account balances for a client? No, I will do my part to join in with the rest of American humanity and participate in the experience.

Maybe I'll go outside and stand in the semi-darkness, back to the sun, and wait for the temperature to drop. Part of me wants to hustle around town looking for a pair of those glasses, but another part of me is wary of buying solar eclipse glasses at the last minute. No telling what you'll get. My son had toyed with the idea about a month ago of buying a bunch of  NASA issued glasses in bulk for a dollar a piece and then selling them for $10 each the day of to his unprepared co-workers. This would have been a raging success since it would have taken brilliant advantage of free enterprise and the human tendency towards procrastination. Knowing my son, he probably dropped the idea out of either misguided guilt over the vulture capitalist overtones of such an endeavor, or he got distracted by Neo-Nazis marching around his beautiful home state, or his beautiful girlfriend, or a new video game. He hesitated, and now the opportunity has passed.

Meanwhile, closer to ground zero down in Columbia, South Carolina, my daughter's  National Park Ranger husband is in science geek heaven about now. He will be guiding visitors to Congaree National Park through the afternoon's event with wild enthusiasm and erudition. No observer under his care will suffer any retina damage. The same cannot be said for the rest of the country. Large areas of the country are inhabited by Americans who often preface poorly thought out plans with the phrase, "Hold my beer!"

We can only hope that large percentages of the Neo-Nazi, white supremacist and KKK population fall into this category.