Play One on TV

Happy Easter, everyone. At least, I hope you’re having a happier Easter than I am, being in the throes of one of my classic sinus headaches. No, we’re not talking about taking two aspirins and calling in the morning. This is a piercing, nail-biting, hurts-to-look-at-shiny-things headache. If you’ve never had one of these and want to know what it’s like, take a vise, tighten it around your head, and then throw yourself off the Empire State Building headfirst.

Thanks to an incredibly hot shower, a few extra hours of sleep, and the use of some pseudoephedrine hydrochloride (also known as “unrefined meth”) I am starting to feel somewhat better. Downgrade “Empire State Building” to “Trump Tower”.

However, I did wimp out on church this morning. It’s no big deal, really, as I don’t attend one of those churches that banish you to one of Hell’s circles for neglecting the risen saviour on His day. However, I do feel a little guilty about it. Figures — I finally find a church that doesn’t use guilt as one of its motivational tools, and I go on and supply my own instead. If you can’t tell, I’m not the best person in the world at accepting grace.

But I really do feel like a class-A wimpomatic. I’m a Christian. Saved by grace, empowered by the Holy Spirit, and beholden to nobody on earth, right? I’m suppposed to go and serve and be Christ on Earth and baptize and all that jazz, yet I can’t pull myself out of bed long enough to sit on a padded pew for an hour. Pathetic.

I’m sure that Jesus felt like total crap on the Third Day — after all, he’d been kinda sorta dead and all, not to mention recovering from a small detour through Hell (and ripping down some gates along the way, if I remember correctly). But did he wimp out? Did he give in to what must have been the mother of all hangovers? No, sir! Not only did he get up and Go Forth, but he rolled this humongous stone out of the way and capped two guards on the way out.

Next to that, I’m a bunny rabbit (although I fit the other popular Easter icon). Something tells me if the resurrection story had been up to me, it would have been the Fifth or Sixth day, possible Seventh if I couldn’t find any Alka-Seltzer. Thank God (quite literally) that He had better stamina. Or maybe he had access to better nasal steroids. Who knows?

If there’s a theological or psychological term for being intimidated by your savior, let me know. I’ll put it down on my next physical form for a conversation piece.

Happy Easter. Eat some chocolate bunnies. Just try to chew very softly, please.

This morning, two Boy Scouts from my troop were awarded their Ad Altare Dei medals. The phrase is from Latin and means “To the Altar of God.” The medal is awarded to Boy Scouts of the Roman Catholic faith who complete a rigorous 6-8 month course of religious study. Despite the fact that Boy Scouting lists “duty to God” as one of its guiding principles, fewer than 4% of all Scouts earn their religious medal. So I felt it was important for me, their Scoutmaster, to be on hand to congratulate them.

These medals are usually presented in a ceremony before the Scout’s congregation. This being a Catholic medal, it followed that the ceremony would take place in a Catholic church. This presented a bit of a problem for me, an ex-Catholic.

To say that I am “ex-Catholic” is like saying that Pete Rose is an ex-baseball player. 20 years ago, I left the mother church and never looked back (having remembered the story of Lot’s wife). Today, I am a very happy and productive member of a decidedly non-Catholic church. Nonetheless, this morning was greeted by the sight of me stepping into a Catholic church for the first time in many a year. Much to my surprise, I didn’t burst into flame in the foyer.

Perhaps I should go back and explain a few things.

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This post is dedicated to “Big Unit” for continuing to bug me about writing this up.

You may recall the recent arrival of a glowing package upon my front porch. This was the end result of a sordid tale that started with an innocent link from Lynn, a not-so-innocent comment from me, and then a completely-guilty impulse buy.

The package was shipped promptly from Amazon.com, and I crowed to one and all when it arrived, promising an unveiling within a Biblically-sound three days time. I then let the silly thing sit around the house for two weeks. Thank goodness that procrastination isn’t one of the seven deadly sins.

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What to my wondering lunchtime eyes should appear? Why, this box from Amazon.com! I do believe my Jesus Action Figure has arrived. Even if I didn’t have the prophecy from DHL at my disposal, the golden glow is a dead giveaway.

Either that or it’s Cherenkov radiation and my next update will see me typing from the burn ward at the hospital.

However, whether or not it’s Lord of the Action Figures, I must be off to work. More later!

UPDATE: Okay, I cracked the box and made sure it’s in there. It there, all right! I haven’t had much time to investigate further. Truth be told, I was tempted to wait three days before opening it, but maybe that’s a tad bit too irreverent, even for me.

Of course, it’s just an action figure, so it’s not like I’m risking the fires of Hell if I’m disrespectful to it. Lego Hell, maybe.

My son will be celebrating the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday by staying home from school today and playing X-Box. I suppose it was inevitable. For kids his age, the legacy of Dr. King has been relegated to another semi-anonymous holiday along with President’s Day and Memorial Day.

Despite the cultural disconnect, my son’s attitude gives me hope for the future of our country. To my parent’s generation, Martin Luther King Jr. was either an impassioned visionary or a pain-in-the-butt rabble rouser, depending on what side of the civil rights issue you stood. To my generation, he was a man before his time, without whom the civil rights movement would barely have registered on the political scales of the South.

To my son’s generation, he’s “that guy who made the ‘I Have a Dream’ speech.” Kind of like how Lincoln is “that guy who wrote the Gettysburg Address” and Washington is “that guy on the one dollar bill.” While my son’s historical knowledge needs some shoring up, I’m encouraged by the fact that he doesn’t see Dr. King as anything unusual — he’s just another famous guy who did what needed to be done. In the same manner, his friends aren’t black, or white, or Asian, or Hispanic, or anything else; they’re just “the guys.”

My parents grew up with racism. I grew up dreaming of the death of racism. Perhaps his is the first generation that will grow up wondering what all the fuss was about.

According to the prophecies gleaned from DHL, Jesus should arrive on my doorstep sometime today. I wish I’d repainted the awnings.

Actually, it’s not the Jesus, just a plastic replica. More specifically, it’s a Jesus action figure that I wrote about a couple weeks ago. My wife thinks I’m nuts for ordering one. I responded by asserting my rights as an mature adult to use my discretionary income for any safe and prudent purpose. And I blamed Lynn for giving me the original link.

Of course, most American companies are more interested in profits than prophets, so I’m not banking on this arrival. I’ll keep you posted!

Seen on the marquee at a northside city church:

God is always online! Never a busy signal!

Sounds like the Lord finally upgraded to broadband. I assume that all of His internet gaming is done in God mode.

I imagine He has a killer firewall, although I hasten to add that I have no desire to see it.

Christian minister Pat Robertson has once again launched himself to the top of the “He Said WHAT?” list. This time, he is suggesting that Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon’s stroke was divine punishment for “dividing God’s land.”

I always try to avoid casting stones at my fellows in Christ, but I’m not above casting a straightjacket or two. Pat has made himself quite visible during this last year — calling for the execution of Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez, warning municipalities that God may smite them for teaching evolution, and other nice Christian sentiments. I think it’s time for the good Reverend to retire to the pasture he claims to shepherd.

It is because of incidents like these that Hollywood usually portrays Christians as buffoons and morons. I’m not above laughing at myself, and some of the ridicule is richly deserved. However, I can only laugh so much before I begin to cry.

Around this time of year, “Peace on Earth, good will toward men” becomes the clarion call of anyone celebrating the holiday season. Say it how you might — Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Kwanzaa, or even the much-maligned “Happy Holidays” — we’re all caught up in a worldwide love-fest of peace, joy, happiness, and universal brotherhood.

All except for me, that is. Please allow me to wish you calamity, strife, and tidings of woe. And that’s from the bottom of my heart.

Now, before you throw me to the conservative talk show hosts for dismemberment, please hear me out.

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Jesus once admonished his followers, “You know how to interpret the appearance of the sky, but you cannot interpret the signs of the times.” (Matthew 16:3)

Apparently this congregation cannot interpret the sign on their lawn.

I have been watching the current “Happy Holidays” versus “Merry Christmas” flap with detached bemusement. I can see how each side feels very passionately about this issue (and in Mr. Bill O’Reilly’s case, I can judge just how passionate he feels through measuring the spittle hitting the camera lens). However, I find myself overwhelmed by a massive sense of “who the heck cares?” It’s kind of like the Cola Wars - give me a Coke and a smile and I could care less if PepsiCo’s stock went up.

If you want to blame someone for secularizing Christmas, you’ll need a time machine, because it certainly didn’t start with Wal-Mart. You could start with Irving Berlin and “Happy Holiday” (and make sure you punch Mel Torme on your way out). Or you could blame Macy’s for putting Santa Claus in their traditional Thanksgiving Day Parade. While we’re talking about the jolly old fellow, go way back to the US colonial days and blame the British for bringing over Father Christmas. Heck, let’s just go back to the first millenium AD and blame the Catholics for canonizing Saint Nicholas in the first place.

Utter Wonder has his usual whimsical take on the whole thing. As usual, he makes the point using far fewer words than I.

As John Kovalic says, remember to keep the Han in Hanukah!

Yesterday, I spotted a contractor’s truck sporting the logo “Homes by Canaan.” I just have to know: if “Homes by Canaan” builds my house, and later that year a bunch of people start marching around my yard blowing horns, should I be seriously worried?

Time to review the “acts of God” section of my homeowners policy again.