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Voice

That which is inside the soul must find its way out. For every one of us, expression is a dire and deep desire.

Some constrain it, allowing it to become anger or disappointment, while others cannot contain themselves and sing like nobody’s business.  Many dread to express themselves for fear of being thought the fool. And just as many loose their feelings on the world, embracing foolishness in all its cockeyed glory.

With age our voice finds reason in a variety of forms. But to me the voices of children are the most beautiful of all. To speak out with innocence, candor, and the spontaneous purity of expression is a gift I wish we could all have held onto into our adult years. Never were we more genuine than when we spoke in our youth.

I cringe still when I think back on all the archaic utterances of grown ups who snapped, “Children should be seen and not heard.”

Beyond being callously dismissive, there is hardened cruelty in such a remark. The damage it does to children is immeasurable.

Our voice finds expression in behavior as well as words. Some of the most beautifully eloquent people I have ever known made the very best use of their silence to demonstrate the finest emotions.

For the most part, as true human beings, we need the nuance, warmth, tenor and tone of another person’s voice.

Finally there are the little voices. The whispers that are privy to none but you. Sometimes they terrify and fill you with doubt. But if you listen to the sound of your own voice, your inner voice, you can rise above doubt and judgment.

A few years back, a very dear friend who was a raconteur, singer and performer was about to undergo throat surgery. His vocal cords were his life and there was a distinct probability that this procedure might well leave him mute. In sympathy for his terror and anguish at going under the surgeon’s knife, I composed a bit of verse for him. It goes like this:

A VOICE
(© 2013 Michael J. Cahill)

A voice —
A fertile, fragile thing
It makes to laugh
It makes to sing

It calls the dog
It greets a friend
Its tone can brighten
Or offend

It brings to life
The charm, the wit
Occasionally
The idiot

It makes mistakes
It makes amends
It gets a face slapped
Now and then

But what’s important
In he end
One’s truest voice
Comes from within

A clownish dance
A comic pose
Your underwear
Outside your clothes

An understanding
Nod or stare
A sparkling smile
A poem, a prayer

So fear not
To be absent of
That voice I have
Come best to love

The voice that best
A friend defines
Is found between
The spoken lines
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By the way, my friend survived the surgery handsomely.

And now he won’t shut up. C’est la vie.

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Useful

A year ago a close friend was lamenting the suicide of her 16-year-old nephew. In his crushing despair, the boy had hanged himself. “What a waste”, my friend said. “When my time comes, I hope that my death isn’t in vain.”

No one among us was ever meant to experience a merely commonplace life. Just getting by is not being alive — it is poverty.

I agree it is difficult to identify what we’re intended to do. But I do know in my bones that every living thing needs a sense of purpose or it cannot survive.

I am reminded of some Native American cultures where an elder who has been identified as someone beyond their purpose simply wills themselves to die. And when I worked for the railroad many years ago, I recall countless older engineers who simply lived for their work. But, one after another, when they were forced into retirement at 65, within a week or two of leaving their service, these perfectly healthy men were dead.

For human beings, purpose is everything.

And just making money, kids, is not a purpose and has precious little to do with the quality of any life. I laugh at the bumper stickers that read, “Whoever dies with the most toys wins.” Just try taking those toys with you or cashing them in for a family that loves you.

Monetary gain is the ideal deceiver of a person’s true worth. The sticker should read: “Whoever dies with the most toys is still dead.”

So what’s the secret? How do we discover our true north? Well, ask yourself this one question: “What would I do if I wasn’t afraid?”

When you finally arrive at an answer that makes sense of this question, then you will have found your life’s purpose.

While that discovery is no easy feat, of course, that new information becomes your jumping off point to greater things. Ralph Waldo Emerson held that, “The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well.”

Examining the fears that hold us back is key to identifying our purpose. Personally I have known the pain of loss. Without that knowledge I’d have no compassion for others.

All of us have a place in history. Whatever happens to even the smallest among us becomes a resource. Our humiliations, misfortunes, losses and gains — these are our contributions to a history of mankind.

When people tell me they’re unhappy, my first reaction is that only people with no purpose are unhappy.

I contend that what I am living for and what I would die for are really the same question. When I reach the end of my days and look back, I will know if my life had purpose by one simple measurement — whether I have lived in despair or not. If I have followed my heart, then I trust that I will have found and fulfilled a purpose. Hopefully a noteworthy one.

The final measure of a person’s sense of purpose hasn’t so much to do with where we are but rather in what direction we are headed. One of my favorite definitions of devotion is this: Love is not two people looking into each other’s eyes. It is two people traveling in the same direction.

That communal sense of forward momentum holds in itself a glorious sense of purpose. If we are only meant to just be there for one other person — for some that is purpose enough. I know personally many folks who are worth it.

Passion is your finest barometer for your purpose. Whatever it is in this life that excites you to do your best work, let it lead you to your purpose.

My friend’s lament that her nephew may have died in vain made me wonder about the absence of purpose in his life.

For me the greater sin would be to have lived in vain.

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Traveler

When she was four and a half I took my daughter to her first movie in a theater. Disney’s “The Fox and the Hound”. Five minutes into the film the momma fox is hiding her pup in the forest to protect him. Upon hearing the approach of hunters, she dashes off to lead them away from her little one.

The cute, confused face of the baby fox.

A distant gunshot.

And silence.

Uh oh….

Courtney looked up at me, unblinking. “What happened to the mommy, Daddy?”

Do I lie? God, look at that little face. I want her to be able to trust me. No, I think she can take it. She’ll understand. Be honest — gentle, but honest.

“She…… died, honey.”

“Waaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!”

There was no consoling her and we had to leave. So much for candor.

The disappearance of a dear one from our life will never be a feat of ease for those who must reckon with it. About six months later we found a dead finch in the yard and she started asking me about death.

“Am I going to die someday?”

“Every living thing has a beginning, a time to be, and an end. It happens to everyone, sweetheart.”

“Are you going to die someday?”

Do I break her heart again? Those adorable eyes…..

“Yes.”

Long thoughtful look at my face. Then finally, “Where will you go when you die?”

“Well, I’m kinda hoping I’ll get to go to heaven.”

“Where’s heaven?”

And that kicked it all off. I thought she would have been satisfied with a stock Sunday school answer. But she had to take it further and I was suddenly on unsteady turf.

At this point in my life I hadn’t really warmed to any kind of faith and her question got me thinking. There she was with those precious, searching eyes, waiting for an answer. Barely five years old and so curious about the big issues. When I was five I was lucky if I could figure out how the bathroom doorknob worked.

But still, that’s the eternal question, isn’t it — Where do we go? The answer I finally gave her is the answer I still hold to today.

When my mother passed away two years ago, I kept hearing my daughter’s question returning from 21 years before — “Where’s heaven?” For weeks after the funeral I could only think of all the wonderful things my mother had been to me — a personable, kind, morally decent, insightful, generous and witty woman who read aloud to her children. Also the single funniest person I ever met.

In my reminiscence of her, I tried to consider how Mom might have answered my daughter’s question had I been sharp enough to ask it of her myself. This is how I imagine she would have explained it…..

Going Places
(© 2013 Michael J. Cahill)

“Where Shall We Go?” has always been
My favorite game with you
When you were small upon my knee
What traveling we would do

The yard beyond our windowsill — ?
An icy mountain steep
Or a Viking ocean full of storm
Or a jungle forest deep

The universe was ours to roam
By land and sea and air
By hawk and mule and rocket fuel
What journey’s we would share

There is one voyage separate
From all that we will take
But oh, my love, though by myself
I will not you forsake

Yes, by and by, one day I’ll die
As all God’s creatures must
But I shall spend eternity
As something more than dust

And if I go to heaven
We will not be far apart
For don’t you know, my darling child
That heaven’s in your heart

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Restraint

In our youth the best of our teachers encourage us to reach for the stars. Still others caution that a man’s reach should not exceed his grasp. Personally I am all for star reaching, otherwise heaven no longer seems possible.

I believe we should be guided by our goals, to be strong and push ourselves into the world with enterprise and audacity.

But all ambition aside, where is the wisdom in relying solely on the forceful thrust of unbridled drive and forward momentum? None of us wants to come across as the proverbial 800 pounds of angry pot roast gracelessly slamming through a china shop. A degree of restraint is wise in every endeavor, professional and personal.

Police actions have much to learn from the tragedy at Kent State. Anyone in a position of power owes as much of their leadership ability to strength as they do to a coolness of temperament. When strength is moderated with restraint, civility invariably prevails.

My daughter has remarked that she is drawn to bad boys, though it hasn’t always worked out to her advantage. I would offer the best kind of bad boy attitude would be one of potential. If the potential were the dominant factor, then perhaps the restraint behind it would carry the sex appeal. There’s something alluring in the awareness of someone’s danger and intensity while trusting they have the self-possession not to act on it.

It breaks my heart that few of her bad boys have possessed that restraint.

I agree that balance is very much the fundamental factor in deciding between discretion and zeal. A charitable organization asks why we do not give in all directions? Might it be for fear of losing ourselves? As Henry Miller noted, “Until we lose ourselves, there is no hope of finding ourselves.”

On the other hand, I have to smile at Mae West’s observation that, “I like restraint — if it doesn’t go too far.”

Of course the old adage still applies — that the secret to being a colossal bore is to tell everything. One of my favorite authors, Orson Scott Card, said, “Among my most prized possessions are words that I have never spoken.”

Though a sparing tongue will serve you well, the human heart has only so much wisdom when it comes to what to say — or more importantly, whether to say it at all.

I hesitate to offer advice to anyone when it comes to matters of the heart. But I did write this poem as a cautionary tale to myself that restraint is a scalpel and a sword with the power to both heal and harm.

UNSAID
(© 2013 Michael J. Cahill)

Benny Beluga
Thought brevity nice
If he queried you once
He would never ask twice

Bonnie Belinda
Was painfully shy
Though she wanted to speak
She would let it go by

When Benny met Bonnie
They both felt the same
That Beluga-Belinda
Would make a nice name

But Bonnie and Benny
Were never to wed
Though they both loved each other
It was always… unsaid

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Quintessence

Art is merely perception that challenges existing concepts in a novel fashion.

Okay, then.

Now, I don’t really know what that means but it sounds vaguely artsy. I find it difficult to engage in such broad generalizations. If you want to sell me on a concept I much prefer specifics. Details.

And context. Context carries with it all the importance in the world.

For example, if you were to say to me, “It is better to create than to learn. Creating is the essence of life”, I’d probably think that was an okay bumper sticker.

However, if you then told me that particular quote is by Julius Caesar — well, stop the presses, kids!

This from the guy who created tens of thousands of corpses and oppressed entire nations to build a massive empire, but never learned not to kill people in the process?

Okay, he did give us aqueducts. Hats off for the aqueducts. But otherwise the ludicrous nature of this quote makes it hilarious once you know who said it.

Giving it context makes all the difference.

Einstein was more pithy and succinct: “Imagination is more important than knowledge.” Now that’s a bumper sticker. Knowing its author really adds gravitas to the words, especially if his picture is on it.

For me the essence of the creative act is a dismissal of all rules save one: Integrity. We are drawn to the creative act because it is so telling of our deepest and most hidden truths.

It is monumentally difficult to create. Most people are stifled by the intimidation of it all. And for those who try and fail, it can be more dispiriting than mere defeat. It is a theft of all enthusiasm that amounts to a wringing out of the soul.

And yet those are the people I admire most. Because they tried.

The ones who continue to try, and then try again and again — those with longing in their bones who open their veins and investigate the depths and still seem to come up dry. Their expression may not discover an audience but it makes their effort no less valuable and their art no less sincere.

I have a weakness for the tryers because I’m of the same cloth. Nothing takes more time or effort or blood or madness or bouts of screaming frustration than trying. No other crushing of the spirit can match the deadening heartbreak of standing in the shadow of true creativity and feeling empty handed.

And still the tryers try.

I do admire them.

They move among us. They’re our neighbors, friends, and dear ones, ever longing for fruitful expression.

That very hunger is the quintessence of art and it drives every creative soul.

Though we may rarely recognize the bloom they have labored to produce, I take heart in the words of A. A. Milne who noted,… “Weeds are flowers too, once you get to know them.”

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Pray

It is commonly presumed that only people of faith have a deep connection with prayer. But the act of meditative communication should not be shoehorned into the box of religion. Our minds needn’t be spiritually inclined to benefit from the thoughtful act of one human being reaching out to the universe in some indefinable manner that brings ease and comfort in a weary world.

Exercise and traditional meditation may adhere to structure, posture and discipline, which are wonderful in and of themselves. But to be by oneself and settle the mind into a hopeful state, simply asking for a bit of relief, a sliver of help – this requires no training or association with anyone other than oneself.

I have had my doubts about God, like everyone who is honest about their faith. It’s actually an important part of wrestling with that whole human-and-deity relationship. It’s healthy to question in search of reason. Some of the most devoted, loving and spiritually inclined folks I’ve ever met are simply not convinced there’s anything out there. On occasion I can be one of them.

And still, whether you believe in God or not, praying is one of the finest things we can do for ourselves. Because as people we are not meant to handle everything alone. My pastor says that a Christian life is a life lived in community. I agree it’s important for us to rely on others, not only for social interaction but for a frame of reference to whether what we’re doing in our lives is the best we can manage for ourselves. Another person can comfort you, hold you responsible to yourself, or offer some insight that guides you back to where you wanted to go in the first place.

Community is good. Relying on others is good. But when we’re feeling wounded and in need of peace and solace, there are few things within our grasp that can top a bit of prayerful time alone. 

One of the very coolest things about praying is you can do it anywhere and without adult supervision. There is no wrong way to pray.

For me the most important thing about it is this — prayer is no more dependent on religion than our need to eat is dependent upon where we dine. One is a need – the other a convenience. The thing that facilitates a need should never be confused with the need itself.

There’s an old saying that goes, “Religion is for those who don’t want to go to hell. Faith is for those who have been there.”

Isolation is never good. Reaching out is one of the most human things we do. If there is nobody around when this need arises, I never feel I am alone. Somewhere in the spiraling void around us is a heart that will listen.

And isn’t that all any of us really wants anyway — to know that we’ve been listened to?

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Outlook

“How the hell do you stay so optimistic?”

When a comment like that hits you from out of left field, it takes a few minutes to get your bearings.

“Damn, I didn’t realize I was.”

I’ve always pictured myself as having a somewhat pissy attitude. I tend to become irritated at the smallest things, something I’ve always known about myself and never liked. Since I’m still recovering from years of abusive Catholic guilt, I suppose my awareness of it has me constantly checking myself to be sure I’m not offending anyone. Who wants to be around someone in a constant sour mood? I certainly don’t.

Maybe it’s not optimism people notice in me but rather an overcompensation for my guilt at being a jerk and then masking the behavior before anyone notices. Jesus, whose brain works that fast just to not be noticed?

Damned Catholic school.

My mother’s experience with the nuns back in the 1930’s and 40’s was idyllic so it’s understandable that she would want the same for her children.

My father was exceedingly good at his job and every couple of years was promoted and transferred so we moved a lot. We never had money but my parents worked extra hard to provide the best they could manage and always scraped together money to make sure my five sisters, two brothers and I had a superior education.  We went to Catholic school.

Or rather they went — I did time.

I’m not saying all Catholic schools are bad — just the five I went to.

I can only blame so much of my angst on school though. When I was 22 and out on my own, I was complaining, as always, to a dear friend about the fact that I was so bad with money, always bouncing checks, because my parents never taught me how to balance a checkbook. My friend, Skip, told me I was an idiot.

“If they didn’t provide you a skill you need, okay, maybe they’re at fault a little. But once you realize you’re deficient in that skill and you take no action to change that situation then your parents are no longer guilty of that sin. You are the only one responsible for your own shortcomings. So shut the hell up and quit blaming them.”

Boy, I sure got told. He said it with love of course. But the truth really stings when you’re left with no recourse other than to admit, “Yup. I’m an idiot.”

I’m still not that great with finances. But I know now it’s not my parent’s fault.

If you don’t like your experience, it’s up to you to change it. So I insinuated myself into the company of people whom I most admired. Those I wanted to be like.

Nice people. Good people. People who don’t hit you. People who don’t spend their resources recklessly.

One of the best pieces of advice I’ve heard lately is that, to be happy, don’t spend your money on things — spend it on experiences. They enrich the soul.

I firmly believe we are all a product of our experience. If you want to be rich, hang out with rich folks. If you want to be funny, hang out with comedians. If you want to be a writer, spend time with other writers. And if you want to be happy, seek out the pleasant folks who aren’t so busy trying to be rich or funny.

One day eight years ago my wife, in a hail of tears, stated it was unfair that I seemed happy when she was so miserable. And her misery was my fault because it was my job to make her happy and I wasn’t doing my job.

You must understand that I’m a pleaser. I derive great enjoyment from doing for others and putting them at ease. It’s my fun in life. But this was the first time anyone ever told me that it was my job.

I don’t care at all for confrontation but I told her, “Sweetheart, it’s not my job or anyone’s job to make you happy. You are the only person in this world who can make you happy. It’s a conscious choice. It isn’t visited on you like a gift or something you can find. You must decide to be happy, despite all the anger and misery. If you don’t know how to do that for yourself, then I can’t help you.”

I’d never talked to her like that before. I stood up for myself. It was one of the best days of my life.

Also one of the very worst. Six weeks later we were divorced.

I suppose I internalize my frustrations too much. I was raised to put on a good front. And for the most part, I guess I end up buying into the act. I choose happiness. Which means I simply focus on good things, hang out with good people, read good books and listen to good music.

I don’t watch things like reality TV — watching angry people verbally bitch-slap their fellow man on national television is not my idea of entertainment. And it certainly makes me anything but happy.

So yeah, it’s an effort to choose to be happy. But given the alternatives, I will always find it worth the effort.

I guess I can see how people think of me as optimistic. We all get pissy now and then. But if you want something bad enough, like happiness, you create an environment within which a happy attitude is likely to grow.

Okay. Today I’m an optimist.

Now to make it come true.

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Nightfall

Darkness takes on many forms.

Because of its mysterious grip on our imagination, we often fear the dark. Not just as children but throughout our lives because darkness represents all manner of things that intend us harm. The less we can see of them, the more profound is our dread.

Doubt is a common culprit, ever lurking in the gloom. Pride too. Illness is forever fighting obscurity, while addictions are most at home in the shadows. Their powers reside in their ability to intimidate from a place of hiding.

To Shakespeare’s lament that ‘there is no darkness but ignorance’, I cry “Comrade!” However, to the popular boast that “ignorance is bliss” I may concede it’s true — but only for the ignorant. For any intelligent soul, an ignorant person is anything but bliss.

Philosophy and scripture are brimming with references to light and dark. It is our most commonly identifiable analogy for health and sickness, trust and betrayal, good and evil.

All mystical connotations aside, the core purpose of gloom is to cloak that which we most ought to recognize. As Thomas Merton wrote, “We stumble and fall constantly even when we are most enlightened. But when we are in true spiritual darkness, we do not even know that we have fallen.”

However, darkness has also gotten a bad rap. Much of the time we are too quick to dismiss its benefits since it provides a powerful frame of reference. Without darkness would we not recognize the value of light?

In painting and photography the playing together of light and shadow are everything. In our greatest tragedies and comedies, the fractious interplay between white hats and black hats is the only reason we remain engaged. Their powers to fascinate and entertain are shining examples of what a delightfully wicked mess it is to be human.

When great evil is visited upon us, we readily equate it with the darkest abyss — the utter absence of compassion. And we struggle against this insidious void through art, understanding, and tolerance to fight our way back to a sunny place. No good or worthwhile thing is ever easy. But darkness will always be the standard against which we measure our best ideals and most admirable behaviors.

I love that the singer Reba McEntire advocates the singing of sad songs because, “It gets the hurt out in the open into the light, out of the darkness.”

I never deny the inclination to grieve because it is there that our finest healing must take place.

When I think of the coming of darkness and whatever time I may have left in this world I’m often reminded of Og Mandino’s wisdom: “I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars.”

When night falls, we should always choose to light a candle.

In my search for that one special someone to step out of the darkness and change my life, it may be worth considering that that person could be me.

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Magic

The human experience thrives on a convincing act of magic. At least mine does. One of the most emotionally staggering of all magic tricks is the sudden appearance of a fully formed person — a baby being born.

Of course it follows that the greatest disappearing act of all is death. Once the light in a person’s eyes evaporates into eternity, no investigation of hidden wires, trap doors or sleight of hand can account for its secrets. Search and ponder as you may, but in the end we are at the mercy of our ignorance.

To be sure, anyone who employs practical magic must be skilled in the art of misdirection. The element of trickery must be elegantly masked to generate an effective illusion.

But what about the magic of human interaction?

It occurs to me how easily interchangeable are the stages of a relationship with the categories of traditional magic tricks  — many of the same illusory practices apply:

.                              MAGIC                                                           ROMANCE
• Producing something from nothing              (Two people meet and hit it off)
• Teleportation from one place to another      (A growing together in affection)
• Prediction of an outcome                               (Partners project their dreams on each other)
• Levitation in defiance of gravity                     (Romantic love)
• Transformation from one state to another   (Suspicions and doubts develop)
• Penetration of one object through another  (Sex, or a knife through the heart)
• Restoration of a destroyed object                  (Making up after a fight, or therapy)
• Escape from a restraining device                   (Losing inhibitions, or coming clean on a lie)
• Vanishing                                                         (The breakup, or divorce)

However closely these mechanisms of magic and romance may seem to parallel each other, many would not conceive of romance as being the more unreal of the two.

Consider that, even though traditional illusionism is widely acknowledged to consist of intellectual puzzles and riddles, the audience still wants more than anything to believe the magic is genuine. Why else would they pay good money to experience something they know is fake to begin with?

Sound like any relationships you know?

If secrets behind these tricks were to be revealed, captivation would fall away and, robbed of our amazement, we’d be disappointed that we were so easily taken in.

Stage magic?

Or love?

Our wishes, wants, hopes and dreams are the pilot lights of true prestidigitation. In our finest goals we discover the alchemy of our aspirations.

Where Robert Heinlein remarked coldly that “One man’s magic is another man’s engineering”, an optimist may counter with Danielle Steele’s hopeful notion —  “If you can see the magic in a fairy tale, you can face the future.”

Personally, I’ll go with Erich Fromm who observed, “In love, the paradox occurs that two beings become one — and yet remain two.”

For my money, that’s as good as magic gets.

The end of awe is the beginning of hubris. And with hubris, innocence fades, excitement wanes, and love diminishes.

But the foundational root of all real magic is the wonderment we first experienced as children, wide-eyed to everything new in the world — breathtaking music, a child’s first sneeze, the opening of a tulip, a staggering sunset, the allure of a lover’s eyes, the flush from a first kiss.

With each of these enchantments something in you understands that genuine magic is more the province of the soul than of the mind. Any rational account of one’s life requires the inclusion of the mysterious.

Despite the occasional employment of smoke and mirrors, I still very much believe in magic.

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Levity

Respect is a pretty big deal in anyone’s book. Respect for a person, an environment, a life style or institution. Even a situation.

Levity is an appropriately satirical remark in an inappropriate environment.

A whispered bit of observant humor at an overblown funeral is one thing. But when an assailant sticks a weapon in your face and says, “You respect me now, don’t ya!” — are you really going to tell him the truth?

“Just because I respect what a gun can do, doesn’t mean I respect the fool holding the gun.”

No. That’s the kind of pithy reply that gets your vital organs shut down for you.

Extreme instances aside though, I actively seek out any and every opportunity for levity. My desire to illuminate the ludicrous or ridiculous is surpassed only by my need to laugh. I can’t resist poking fun at those who genuinely deserve it.

However, I would never make a joke at the expense of someone else’s dignity. That is cruelty, plain and simple, and I should not want to stoop to that kind of humor.

But when an inconsiderate, self-important individual or entity presumes it’s okay to behave in a manner disrespectful of others, I am compelled to react.

A couple years back, one such popular and still-too-common practice inspired in me a bit of satire. It resulted in my creating this fake commercial. As of this writing well over three and a half million people on YouTube have approved. It’s called “Cell Phones In Church”:

Like I said — appropriate response in an inappropriate environment.

Across the board, ordained clergy of every stripe have praised this bit of satire and many ministers and pastors have asked for their own copy to play for their congregations. I am always happy to accommodate and have received some lovely responses.

By the same token, I’ve also been hit with a good deal of hate mail for this bit of fun. There are those who have protested this video so vehemently and scorchingly with cries of “Blasphemy!” — really, blasphemy — that I am left to imagine these poor souls must either have been born without a sense of humor or had it surgically removed.

This video in no way disrespects the church or religion. It does however satirize the disrespectful nature of people who blithely ignore the courtesy of silencing their electronics in a public forum, whether it be a church, lecture hall or movie theater.

It’s not about religion — it’s about rudeness in any environment.

To be clear, I do not disrespect their negative points of view and I have not censored these scathing tirades. Indeed every comment that is fit to print, both pro and con, has been clearly posted beneath this video on YouTube. Only those remarks containing foul verbiage have been removed, and there have been quite a few. I never imagined church folk to be so handy with vulgarity.

I do however take issue with some viewers’ ludicrous accusations that this video means I must hate the bible. My NIV is a marvelous collection of 66 books containing a nice mix of history, poetry, literature, and life lessons. It is a volume I happen to read regularly and admire greatly. Though for some passages, I still prefer the more poetic translation of the King James. But no, I do not hate the bible.

It baffles me to receive such dire and serious comments such as, “Jesus wouldn’t allow such things”, “It’s unchristian to send people to hell”, and “You shouldn’t be doing that!”

Frankly I can’t decide whether to recommend these people put more fiber in their diets, or just thank them for their conviction that I can manage what the video suggests.

Levity is a tricky animal because when you pull it off you often run the risk of upsetting a portion of the populace.

I remain convinced that it’s not only important, but actually our duty, to observe some degree of vigilance — to draw attention to injustice and demonstrate the ridiculous nature of those who thrive on abuse at the expense of others.

For my money though, laughing at ourselves is the finest kind of laughter. When our own folly is made clear we can finally acknowledge we are not more important than the next guy. It’s what George Carlin called the laughter of recognition — things that are funny because they make us see the same failings in ourselves.

One of my favorite quotes happens to be from scripture. It urges us to “make a joyous noise.” What more joyous noise can there be than good-natured laughter?

In the spirit of levity, another of my favorite quotes is from the writings of Hunter S. Thompson:

“When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”

Folks, when dippy fundamentalists are convinced I possess the power to actually send people to hell, it doesn’t get much weirder than that.

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