Compromise

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was yesterday and my sins are that I compromised twice today.”

“You don’t have to bring this in here every day.”

“Should I count bringing it in as a sin too?”

“No, but try to exercise a measure of forbearance. Did you compromise with someone else for a change.”

“No, not with someone else. Like yesterday and the other days, I compromised with myself. I knew that what I wanted to do was a sin, but I felt that if I didn’t do it, I was probably hurting myself in some way by holding off. It sure felt that way. I got pretty desperate.”

“We’ve talked about this. It won’t injure you to hold off. Not holding off is a sin; it’s not a compromise. You’re giving in. That’s not the same thing.”

“Is it a mortal sin?”

“It is a gravely disordered action, but a mortal sin is done deliberately, knowing that it is not what God wishes for us and without any regard for that. You are an immature adolescent, which probably lessens your responsibility in this. God knows that we will sometimes fail but He does expect us to do our best to live according to His ways. He knows when we have done all we can to resist sin. If we have done that and have acknowledged and confessed our sin, then we can rest in the knowledge that we have done our best, and that He will forgive us.”

“So should I come tell you every time I do it?”

“Let’s you and I compromise. I’ll keep you in my prayers, you attend Mass, and the rest we’ll leave for now between you and God.”

“Can I compromise with Him too?”

 

For Daily Post

Guest Post: My Angels (Anne P.)

I’ve always seen angels. Hallucinations or schizophrenia, they’re real to me. They walk beside me and talk to me. Not always, but sometimes. One at a time.

Usually a  girl, although once in college and once when I was coaching a male lacrosse team for the company, they were uncertain boys.

All were my age, until I approached forty. Then they began to get younger as I got older.

The girls preferred the diaphanous. The boys preferred leather. They all stayed buttoned up, so some simple questions about them remained unanswered.

None were beautiful or ugly, but they were all attractive to me, and intriguing. At some point I learned that the Persians invented angels and for a while all my visitors had black curly hair and black curly beards, male and female alike.

We never discussed religious matters. Being old immortal Persians, they might have tried to convert me to a belief in Ahura-Mazda or another of their gods. Instead, we strolled along talking about whatever came into our heads.

What I discovered about angels:

• They’re a lot like me.
• They don’t ask questions.
• Their strongest response to my confessions was “Oh. Huh.”
• I never met one I didn’t like.

The Spice That Hooked Medieval Nuns

(The Atlantic)

Hang on, Atlantic. There is a big difference between having a habit and being hooked.

The medieval nuns had habits and the habits were boring affairs. Monochromatic. Itchy.

Don’t get me wrong. Living in a secure nunnery was vastly preferable to being stuck outside its walls, where life was nasty, brutish, and short, to coin a phrase. In the nunnery, the sisters made due with less: less mud, fewer fleas, and zero monks. Still, they could have done with something more, or so they told themselves. More less but also a little bit more more.

That’s when the wimple was invented, to spice up their habits. Each nun made herself two wimpli, one for the six quiet days and one for Sunday. In countries where the everpresent mud could be made to extract a dye, wimpli would be found of varying hues (they started out white but had to be washed in muddy water).

The monks answered with the invention of the cowl, but cowli just made the monks creepier than before. Why spend so much time on your tonsure if it were only to be covered with a hood? Nobody trusted a monk in a hoodie. In some neighborhoods, it was worth your life to beg for alms (or peanuts), especially if your robes were black.

Today, some nuns take their wimpli for granted. They want yet more. Some are wearing hats.

God’s Family: The Children

I have commented previously on God’s wife (here, here, and here) and dog (here and here). What about His children?

Of course we’re all God’s children. Jesus is the best and Satan is the worst. George Washington never told a lie but he’s the only U.S. president and God’s child who can say that. (I’d credit the wag who wrote the line about Washington but can’t remember his name.)

All of God’s children have got wings, robes, harps, shoes (some debate about this one), rhythm, swing, and trouble. They may not have money and they may have the blues.

So what about the kids still up there, living at home with God, who we never hear about?

God has three kids in the house: Bud, Randi, and Claude. Bud is a Buddhist who climbed a tree in God’s backyard a long time ago and never came down again. Randi is a two-billion-year-old teenager who lives in the basement and has a problem with the size of her wings. Claude… I’ve got nothing negative to say about Claude. Claude’s an angry young dude.

So nothing newsworthy about the stay-at-homes. Don’t call them Millennials! The Creator keeps it real up there in the Fields of Bethesda… or no, that’s a housing development in Maryland I’m thinking of.

There are stories about God’s special children, but I’ll save them for later.  I don’t want the next missile scare to be worse than the last one.

Missile-alarm Activity Guide

Missile Arrival Time – Activity Before It Hits

If you have 1 hr. (the missile won’t take longer) – Put your will in a lead box. If everything mentioned in the will is located near you, don’t bother.

If you have 45 minutes – Enough time to do something fun. What do you like? Food? Indulge yourself. Rock climbing? Climb your chimney. TV? Lots of buzzkill programming probable at this time; stick to DVDs. Sleep? If you can sleep in this situation, your mind is right.

If you have 30 minutes – Way too much time for anything religious, like prayer. An eternity if you’re praying, especially if you’ve got bad knees. But speaking of eternity, you might want to spend a second or two thinking about how you’re going to spend that.

If you have 15 minutes – Cook soft-boiled eggs!  One iteration for practice and another to eat, with seconds left over to wash the yolk off your lips. A good soft-boiled egg depends upon timing. Bring your water to a boil, then maintain it at a strong simmer. Add eggs to the pot. Begin timing. If you’re cooking one or two eggs, five minutes delivers a tasty runny yolk. Cook up to seven minutes for a firmer yolk that can still be eaten with a spoon. Don’t just check your watch. Set a timer to ensure consistent results.

If you have 5 minutes – You need something simple to do. Straightforward. No time to organize. I like to floss at stoplights, for example. If your life has not been so great, count your blessings. Five minutes should be plenty.

If you have 30 seconds – Bend over. KYAGB. (Why not go out on an old, old joke?)

Ex-employee Slams Measles Church

Oh, the itch!

Jesus had chicken pox but he never had measles. You can confirm this in the Epistle to the Walmites in the Apocrypha.

Who did have measles? Search the holy writ. Google “measles god jesus the holy trinity a host of angels and saints true republicans” and see what you get. Nada.

And yet, as far as we can determine, by prayer and introspection, neither God nor Jesus was ever vaccinated!  Measles are caused not by invisible “germs,” but by sin, QED.

I was hired by the One True Megachurch as a greeter. My job was to watch for vaccination marks. Or “Satan’s Mark,” as Reverend Amoebes referred to it. Those with the mark were drawn into the church, placed in positions of power, and then blackmailed. The Reverend also had a thing for those marks, so there was some physical monkey business going on as well. I had no problem with the blackmail, as the receipts were used by the Reverend to  further the ends of the church. I wasn’t provided with the details.

It’s surprising how many different types of mark a measles vaccination can cause. Reverend Amoebes never tired of the variety.

Once the Reverend was through with them, the marked church members were banished.

Naturally, quite a bit of measles and mumps was to be found in the congregation, especially among the children, whereas in the rest of the city the diseases were practically nonexistent. The church was being tested by God. Once it passed the test, measles and mumps would break out all over the metropolitan area and everyone in the church would become immune. In the meantime, we were the Job of congregations, questioning not our suffering, everyone looking like spotted chipmunks with cheeks full of nuts.

Everyone but the Reverend, that is. Miraculously, he remained healthy.

So matters would have remained if I had not surprised the Reverend in his  study late one Sunday evening. Later he claimed that I was sneaking in to get at the chest containing his “slush fund.” I could have sworn he was in the vestry with Pearl Price at the time. She was moaning in there for sure. Was it just the itch?

In his study, the Reverend was changing out of his vestments. He liked to go downtown after midnight wearing black. When I walked in on him, he was between shirts and there on his arm was a vaccination mark.  No way I could miss it.

Now, I’m out on the street, unemployed. Obviously didn’t reach the slush fund. No market in town for my job specialty, not until the city comes to its senses and learns to detest vaccinations like I do.

What Would Jesus Do? #526

Dear WWJD, my daughter, who is only twelve, wants to wear a “training Wonder Bra.” These things are designed to accomplish one thing and one thing only and should definitely be banned and illegal. I told my daughter N O spells NO and now we aren’t speaking. How would Jesus handle this situation? #AngryWorriedMom

Dear AngryWorriedMom, in Jesus’ time, women wore an outer tunic over an inner tunic. The woman’s outer tunic was somewhat longer than the man’s (Isaiah 47:2; Jeremiah 13:2). Nothing was worn beneath the inner tunic (the coordinated bra-and-panties set had not yet been invented).

So we would need to explain to Jesus what the training Wonder Bra is. Also, we would need to explain to Him that a girl of twelve, these days, is not already married and starting a family. These days, attracting a husband has more to do with dress, makeup, and jewelry that with presenting a goodly dowry of sheep and goats.

Sadly, we would also have to make Jesus understand that today, the average tween girl  looks like a tart on the best of days.

Once He had learned all this, I believe, Jesus would seek out the factory where the training Wonder Bras are made and, growing wroth, would drive all the workers to without the structure (which is located in Shenzhen in Guangdong Province, China, 19.1 km from our Christ the Lord Christian Church, congregation 129, in that same city).

Guest Post: Hyrum Smith

On the occasion of his wedding (50th wife), welcome, Hyrum, and congratulations.

***

Thank you, DWEW.

Yes, I have 50 wives.

It’s a religious thing.

Don’t ask about the sex. That’s always the first thing to come up. I don’t talk to my wives about it. I won’t talk to you about it. Once the subject comes up at home, I can’t get a word in edgewise, so if a wife tries to sneak sex into the conversation, if a wife even looks like she’s thinking about sex, if she even glances anywhere below my belt, I tell her,  forget about it for the next year or two, period.

I mostly pay for sex in town. Much simpler. Note, however, that I do have 241 children, just in case you think I’m a closet homosexual or something.

Also, don’t ask about food. The cooking competition is worse than the screwing competition, pardon my French. I walk into the dining room, sit down, and eat what’s on my plate. Then I say thanks and get up and leave. You want a review of your dinner? Check my plate. If the food is still lying there, your dinner stinks.

Keep the kids away from me. One hint of favoritism on my part and all hell breaks loose. We’ve got 50 moms here (ages 12 to 92). Take care of your kids! If they want to go to college, make sure they get a scholarship. You can’t beat being a member of a cult for moving to the top of various lists.

If you’re my mother, one of my sisters, or one of my daughters, don’t try to marry me. This means you, Mom. It’s embarrassing to have a whirlwind romance and find myself at the alter, only to discover you’ve used a wig and contacts to disguise yourself.

If this is about money, talk to Sariah (the 92-year-old). She keeps the books. Cult finance is not taught in Accounting 101.

I don’t talk politics, except to say, where do you think Romney got those debating skills? And Jon Huntsman felt right at home as a diplomat in China, a country with a population of 1.3 billion.

One last thing about sex. If you consort with a prostitute on a steady basis, ensure that she has at least one child by you, if you want to keep straight with God.

could the anti-christ be china?

“could the anti-christ be china?”

This is a search question that was used to reach my blog today. I think that it deserves an answer.

First of all, I know a Chinaman. He serves me a plate of pan-fried noodles every Friday evening at Woo’s. I don’t know whether he speaks English or not. All I’ve heard him say is “You likee?” He wears a short-sleeved white shirt and black trousers. Could he be the Anti-Christ? Perhaps. I can’t just come out and ask him, because the Anti-Christ is apt to lie. Let’s keep this guy in the back of our minds for now.

There are one billion Chinese in China. That’s 1,000 million. We can deal with them million by million and then we’ll only have to do it 1,000 times. Half are female, so we can eliminate them. Or, wait. Has it ever been proven for sure that Christ was a guy? Maybe we better not rule out the females just yet. And anyway, with all the transgender, sex-changing activity going on (End of Days!), it’s a moving target anyway.

So, first of all, the Anti-Christ will come all friendly like. The checkout woman over at Pay And Go did not get the memo. Very crabby. Maybe she’s Japanese. I read an article where a whole crowd of folks, white, brown, yellow, and black, were given a test: they were all shown pictures of Chinese, Japanese, and Koreans. Nobody could tell the difference. So that checkout woman, if the Anti-Christ is Chinese, is not Chinese. She failed the friendly test. That’s how we know that the Japanese are not the Anti-Christ. Pearl Harbor.

What about all those different Chinese languages? You could get 20 Chinese in a room and none might know what any of the others are talking about. Is the Anti-Christ that tricky? What about Taiwan? Is everybody on the island just pretending to dislike the mainland?

If the Chinese are the Anti-Christ, they sure fooled Pearl Buck. And they’ve wasted a humongous amount of time, incense, and gongs on Buddist ceremonies.

Wait a minute! Lucy Liu. I love Lucy Liu. No way she’s the Anti-Christ. But she’s seductive, so seductive. Could she come to me sometime, like a thief in the night? No, that’s Jesus who will do that. It’ll be spooky when he does, too.

My time as a monk

When I was in my 20s, I renounced the materialism of the Western world. I got a job on a freighter after obtaining my seaman’s ticket, and worked on the high seas until taking my accumulated pay and debarking for good at the port of Chittagong. I could have lived like a king for a year in Bangladesh but instead I secreted my money on my person and made my way north on foot, depending upon the kindness of strangers for my biryani and llish.

In time, I passed through the hills of Meghalaya (the Scotland of India) and crossed into Assam. I endured rain, sat and watched the one-horned Indian rhinoceros, and eventually progressed into Bhutan. Here, in the deep valleys, as I approached the mighty Himalayas, I began sitting with the Vajrayana monks whom I encountered. Finally, in the company of these monks, I began the long, long tramp to Cona in Tibet, at 14,000 feet, and eventually, as the seasons passed,  to Gonggar. I was tempted to apply for membership in the Sakyapa school of Tibetan Buddhism at the Gonggar Dzong or the Gonggar Choede Monastery, but I craved to leave the valleys and trek up into the wild and rocky Himalaya hinterlands, which I did, feet wrapped in burlap. I could feel myself leaving the world behind and approaching true understanding on the edge of the great voids of thin air that fill the spaces between the mountain peaks up there.

I arrived finally in a small and nameless village on the stoney gray flank of a gigantic mountain. A woman, Chomo-Lung-Ma (Godess Mother of the Universe), took me in. There were no monks in the village but she explained by gesture that this was a good thing – that I could best advance my own personal monkhood in solitary fashion.

It developed that she had six children. She kept me busy with chores, which seemed good for a newbie monk. I never figured out where the village’s food came from. The goats would wander off over the flinty slopes; they must have found something to eat somewhere back there because they came back sated. Chomo-Lung-Ma gave me sustenance sufficient to keep me alive and able to work, no more.

When Spring arrived, she gathered the family’s meager belongings and the kids and prodded me out onto the track through the village. It seemed as if we walked for months after that. Walked and walked. In fact, we did walk for months. We walked until we arrived on the ocean shore at the harbor of Beihai in Guangxi province. Chomo-Lung-Ma took my money stash, which had remained intact since my final day on the freighter, and she and I and her children crossed the Pacific and were smuggled ashore south of L.A. We caught a succession of buses north to a furnished bungalow in Canoga Park. Five bedrooms, three baths, red-tile roof, full landscaping. We took up residence as a happy, middle-class married couple. She worked with a gang smuggling Far Eastern drugs; I was in charge of the kids, the pets we acquired, and the Escalade. Two housemaids came in on Tuesdays and Fridays.

I would have done some yard work, but a Mexican crew showed up every Thursday to take care of that.