FYE

I’ve heard that Newfoundland has the worst roads and the nicest people on the planet. Like so many things I’ve heard it’s only half true. Anyone who’s ever driven on New York’s Major Deegan Expressway or taken a tooth-rattling jitney ride down into Utah’s Monument Valley knows this. But, while she doesn’t have the worst roads, Newfoundland can lay legitimate claim to being the home of the world’s nicest people. I speak from experience, with a bit of personal bias mixed in. My mother was born in Newfoundland, which means I have maritime blood coursing through my veins.

 

What makes Newfoundlanders so nice? I think it’s the weather. A hundred and seventy some odd inches of annual snowfall and 102 days of blowing snow have mellowed them. Newfoundlanders take life in its stride.

 

I had the good fortune to be stationed at Ernest Harmon Air Base in Newfoundland from 1964 to 1965. The assignment gave me the opportunity to explore my DNA in depth. I spent as much of my off duty time as possible finding my way to McIvers Cove to visit my mother’s family. I met them all and they were wonderful, but there was one uncle who became very special to me. His given name was Fiander (pronounced Fye – ander), but everyone called him Fye.

 

I’ll never forget the morning I first met him. I had just finished breakfast at my Uncle Billy and Aunt Mabel’s. “Oooohhhh, Philip,” Mabel exclaimed. “Your Uncle Fye is a comin’ down the road to see ya.’ He ‘pears to be full of excitement.” I looked out the window and there he was. He was tall and lanky. His gait was like a hippity-hop. In a strange way it reminded me of Charlie Chaplin’s alter-ego, the Little Tramp. Fye was tall, well over six feet, which made the gait even more amusing to watch. He was wearing a burgundy cardigan that he’d buttoned up unevenly. His head was crowned with a well weathered golf cap. I heard him squeal with delight as he swung the door open. “Is this truly our Susie’s boy?” Once he was assured that I was he hugged me for what seemed like hours.

 

Three day passes and leaves from Harmon came and went and so did my time in McIvers. Every time I was there Fye would take me under his wing and we’d flit from place to place around the cove, drinking tea and gathering gossip like a couple of bachelor gadabouts. I didn’t notice till my third visit that Fye only had one tooth, a lower right incisor. By the time of my sixth visit I’d read Richard Brautigan’s “A Confederate General from Big Sur.” One of Brautigan’s characters was an off-center relic named Lee Mellon, who, depending on the day might have one tooth, or three. The teeth seemed to magically appear or disappear. From that point on I always found some discreet way to stare at Fye to see what was going on. I’ve never known whether it was my imagination or some sort of counter culture magic, but Fye’s tooth seemed to move like Lee Mellon’s. One visit it might be an incisor; the next it might be a canine.

 

I developed a deep bond of affection for Fye. About two months before I shipped out for Vietnam I spent a night in his cabin. We talked a lot about the bonds of family. And, there was small talk. I noticed a twelve volt battery sitting on the floor next to his bed. When I asked him what it was for he said that he had plans to get a TV, a hand crank, and a wife so that he could wire the battery to the TV and have his wife turn the crank to generate “lectricty” while he watched the Toronto Maple Leafs.  I couldn’t tell whether or not he was serious, although I did detect the hint of mischief in his eyes.

 

I thought often of Fye while I was in Vietnam. I sometimes wondered whether or not he was addled. I took a while, but I came to see that he was far from being addled. Fye just took the world in its stride. He didn’t need much to make him happy. 

 

Looking back on it now, I see that those days with Fye were the launching point in my quest for faith and belief. The warm memories of his simple ways slowly melted away the despair gnawing on me.  I’ll always be grateful to Fye for that.

 

I’ll see him again someday, dressed in that burgundy cardigan and golf cap. Maybe he’ll even have a full head of pearly whites, although there’s a part of me that’s hoping that I’ll get to see whether that incisor I saw last has once more magically become a canine.

THE COIN OF THE REALM

“Well, you’re on your own, you always were

In a land of wolves and thieves
Don’t put your hope in ungodly man
Or be a slave to what somebody else believes…
If you want somebody you can trust, trust yourself.”

-       Bob Dylan – “Trust Yourself” (1985)

 

In any civil society trust should be the coin of the realm. Without interpersonal trust our families and communities can easily wither and decay. Without institutional trust, particularly at the government level, society breaks apart at its seams, piece by piece. When trust is in short supply, so is justice. And, as it goes with justice, so it goes with truth. As the prophet said, “So justice is driven back, and righteousness stands at a distance; truth has stumbled in the streets.” Objective standards become obsolete. They’re replaced by government decrees, executive orders, or outbursts of civil rage and popular demands for retribution. It’s not far from that point till it all becomes every man for himself.

 

This is the course our leaders have chosen.

 

I’ve been trying my best to speak out about the dangers of the surveillance state for months. In some circles that marks me as the village idiot.  That’s alright. I’ll keep plugging away.

 

I thought a month or so ago I’d seen it all, but I was wrong, as evidenced by the Obama administration’s latest attempt to plug leaks and “keep us safe and secure.” On July 9^th, McClatchy News Service revealed that the executive branch rolled out a program called the “Insider Threat Program.” The long and short of the President’s order is for federal employees to spy on their fellow employees¸ looking for potential security threats. Some civil libertarians have dubbed the executive order “Barack Obama’s national neighborhood watch program.”

 

This program, along with the massive data gathering operations, prosecutions of whistle blowers, I.R.S. targeting operations that now appear to reach to the highest levels, and executive branch programs that profile American citizens who have hosted international students or have travelled internationally, has made being an American citizen an increasingly risky proposition.

 

I don’t consider myself to be a political libertarian, but as I’ve gotten older (and hopefully wiser) I’ve become increasingly libertarian. How did this happen to someone who invariably tears up when he hears “God Bless America?” It all boils down to the word trust.

 

A few years ago I became acquainted with the work of economist Robert Higgs. I read his “Crisis and Leviathan” and found it fascinating. I don’t always agree with him, but I have always found him to be thought provoking. An extended excerpt from a recent essay he did on the surveillance state follows. I’m including it because I believe what Professor Higgs says is really important:

 

“How many individuals cannot be blackmailed by someone who knows everything about their personal affairs, much less by someone who also controls enormous surveillance agencies, police forces, and the courts? With the information now in their hands, state authorities will be well-nigh certain to augment their powers by using this information to deter or cripple political opponents, to coerce unwilling cooperation (including false testimony) by others, and to silence anyone who might be tempted to criticize or expose their misfeasance and malfeasance. To suppose that American state officials will not act in these ways is naïve in the extreme. These politicians are not angels; on the contrary. And their newly acquired treasure trove of information places a resource of heretofore unimagined power in their hands. To trust that they will not massively abuse their control over this resource flies in the face of everything we know about the kind of people they are.”

 

I have to admit that I was one of those naïve people. I just didn’t think when I first started digging into this sordid mess that our government could do the sorts of things they’re doing to us now. But, the more I dug, the more angry and libertarian I became.

 

Misplaced trust in any human institution can be foolhardy. As Bildad told Job, “What they trust in is fragile; what they rely on is a spider’s web. They lean on the web, but it gives way.  They cling to it¸ but it does not hold.”

 

As I see it, there are only two ways out of this mess. First, we need to scream bloody murder. We need more village idiots! For folks in these parts it means that Jerry Moran and Tim Huelskamp are only a phone call or an angry e-mail away. It means we need to flood the President’s in box or his voicemail with our expressions of outrage. Second, we need to heed the poet’s words. We need to trust ourselves Trusting in our government is misplaced. It’s become everything it shouldn’t be. It has become a fool’s errand.

MADE IN HEAVEN

Nancy and I just got back from Lake Tahoe. We’d gone to attend the wedding of Corina Nour, a young Moldovan woman who’d first come to live with us about ten years ago to attend Emporia High school as an international exchange student.  

 

I was the “officiant” at the ceremony, thanks to a gracious invitation from Corina and her fiancé, Sherwin Sheik. It was one of the great honors of my life.

 

Looking back on things now, it’s clear to us that God has had his fingerprints all over the plan for Corina’s life.

 

It all began quietly. Nancy and I had just gotten back from a short getaway to Chicago. As soon as we got home, Nancy went upstairs to her office and began catching up on all the news here in Emporia. She browsed through the back issues of the Gazette and read a short blurb from Glen and Carol Strickland about their need for a host family for a young woman from Moldova. Nancy was intrigued and suggested we consider contacting the Stricklands. I wasn’t too sure at first, but Nancy convinced me that hosting a student would be a healthy exercise for us.

 

Corina left Moldova sometime in early August. She spent a couple of days in New York, thanks to the big east coast blackout of 2003. When she arrived in Wichita she looked like she’d been through the mill. After finding out that their airline had lost her luggage and then making arrangements to get it to Emporia when it was found, we headed home.

 

It took her a few days, but Corina plowed her way through the early problems she faced. It wasn’t long from there till she was thriving in an atmosphere where opportunities were ever-present

 

As the weeks and months passed, Nancy and I came to see how special our relationship with Corina had become. It never became a parent-child relationship. We saw from Corina’s life that she had wonderful parents in Moldova. There was no need to reinvent the parent wheel. We felt strongly that our best role was to be Corina’s friends and that, at the appropriate times, to be advisors and confidants.

 

She excelled in everything she tried, whether it was languages, history, literature, or debate. The reports from the school validated what we’d come to know. Corina was one in a billion.

 

Her year in Emporia was over in a flash. As we got her to the departure gate in Wichita we were all overcome with emotion. Was this to be our last time ever seeing each other? And what of Corina’s life? How would all her incredible potential be fulfilled?

 

The years passed. She did quite well back home in Moldova. She went to Romania to do her undergraduate work in finance. When she was close to graduating we saw a new door of opportunity we could make available to her – a masters’ program at E.S.U. We were confident that she understood how to take advantage of the opportunity. She accepted and came back.

 

The next four years were a whirlwind. She parlayed a 4.0 G.P.A. and her work ethic into a job at the Granada Theatre and another as a graduate assistant at the university. By the time she was in the throes of her last year the big opportunity came – an internship at Cisco Systems in San Jose. She completed the internship, came back, graduated, and was then offered a full time position with Cisco.

 

But it doesn’t end there. She met Sherwin, the man who is now her husband, in California under the most incredible circumstances. There’s not enough space to write about it now. Suffice it to say that it was truly a match made in heaven.

 

How do these incredible things happen? Chance? Luck? The only explanation that I find satisfactory is the grace of God. What else could explain the tight connection between a young woman from a liberated Soviet republic and two American retirees who answered a last minute call for help? What else could explain the fact that Sherwin’s family had come to the California to escape the clutches of the Iranian revolution?  And, the timing of the internship at Cisco? It was perfect.  

 

As I watched Corina come down the aisle with her father to take her vows I had to fight back the tears. I was awestruck by her stunning beauty, but I was even more amazed at how God had taken such disparate pieces, cultures, and events and stitched them together with such love and care.

 

We’re back home now, settled in. In quiet moments we occasionally find ourselves wondering how Corina and Sherwin’s dreams will be realized. However that plays itself out, we’ll be eternally grateful for being a small part of setting it all in motion.

LIBERTY'S TIMELESS VOICES

A few years ago Nancy and I spent part of our vacation in Normandy. We had a wonderful time. The people of Normandy are especially gracious. I think the graciousness stems from the deep sense of appreciation the people of Normandy have for those who gave their lives to liberate them back in 1944.

 

This sense of appreciation is especially evident in the tender care the people of Normandy give as custodians for the cemeteries and monuments that dot the landscape. I remember passing through the American Cemetery that overlooks Omaha Beach. As I weaved my way around the white crosses or the stars of David that mark the final resting places of the brave souls who gave their lives I could see that there wasn’t a blade of grass out of place. It’s a reflection of the love the people of Normandy have for those who died liberating them.

 

While in Normandy I took part of a day to walk up Omaha Beach. I started at the water’s edge and made my way slowly up the beach. As I did I occasionally looked up, trying to get some sense of what things must have been like on June 6^th, 1944. I came to the conclusion that everyone who embarked from the landing craft must have reckoned themselves to be dead men before they ever set foot on French soil.

 

Why would so many men risk what must have seemed like certain death? Did they all have death wishes? Did they enjoy the inner feelings of terror they must have felt? The only answer that seems satisfactory to me is that they loved liberty, their own and that of others, more than they loved their own lives.

 

Nine thousand, three hundred and eighty-seven Americans are buried at the American Cemetery in Normandy. They lie peacefully, cared for lovingly and tenderly by the people of Normandy.

The 4^th of July is just about upon us. Fireworks are already on sale her in Emporia.

 

I doubt that I’ll be lighting up any bottle rockets, I’ll try to celebrate, but I’m going to have a hard time. It’s not because I don’t understand what liberty is all about or because I don’t appreciate the sacrifices so many Americans are still willing to make to preserve liberty. I’m having a hard time because I believe many of our leaders have lost their way. They have forgotten.

 

Maybe if I remind them they’ll listen. Maybe they’ll realize that liberty’s timeless voices need to be heard these days.

 

In his “Dissertation on Canon and Feudal Law,” One of our Founding Fathers, John Adams, said, “The jaws of power are always open to devour, and her arm is always stretched out, if possible, to destroy the freedom of thinking, speaking, and writing.”

 

In August, 1776, Samuel Adams had this to say to American loyalists who valued security under the tyranny of King George more than liberty – “If ye love wealth greater than liberty, the tranquility of servitude greater than the animating contest for freedom, go home from us in peace. We seek not your counsel, nor your arms. Crouch down and lick the hand that feeds you; and may posterity forget that ye were our countrymen.”

 

On March 23rd, 1775, Patrick Henry¸ speaking at St. John’s Church in Richmond, Virginia, uttered these now famous words – “Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!”

 

Speaking to the ratifying committee of the Virginia legislature in June of 1788, Patrick Henry warned, “The liberties of a people never were, nor ever will be, secure, when the transactions of their rulers may be concealed from them.”

 

In his 1838 Lyceum address, Abraham Lincoln answered the question of what might ever destroy the American union with these stark words – “At what point then is the approach of danger to be expected? I answer, if it ever reach us, it must spring up amongst us. It cannot come from abroad. If destruction be our lot, we must ourselves be its author and finisher. As a nation of freemen, we must live through all time, or die by suicide.”

 

In 1787, James Madison warned “The means of defense against foreign danger historically have become the instruments of tyranny at home.”

 

And finally there’s this timeless wisdom from a James Madison to Thomas Jefferson letter penned in 1798 – “Perhaps it is a universal truth that the loss of liberty at home is to be charged against provisions against danger, real or pretended from abroad.”

ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE

“They own your every secret; your life is in their files
The grains of your every waking second sifted through and scrutinized
They know your every right. They know your every wrong
Each put in their due compartment - sins where sins belong”

 -Meshuggah – “The Demon’s Name is Surveillance” (2012)

 

I’ve been writing about the dangers of the surveillance state since February. The responses I’ve gotten so far have been very interesting. Some friends, particularly those within the faith community, think I’m a bit over-wrought. Some openly wonder about my loyalty to our way of life. Others from within the community at large have dubbed me a conspiracy theorist.

 

I’m grateful that Nancy and the critters still see fit to let an enemy of the people like me live under the same roof.

 

Actually, it’s my critics who have the problem. I’m right and they’re wrong. Our executive branch is building a massive security apparatus manned by a growing army of bureaucrats. They’re well educated. They’re brilliant.  C.S. Lewis once described their ilk as “quiet men with white collars and cut fingernails and smooth-shaven cheeks who do not need to raise their voices.”

 

The N.S.A.and the Justice Department are grinding the troops out faster than some of our diploma mills can cast their unsuspecting graduates out into the cold, cruel world. And, they’re building a multi-billion dollar facility in Utah to house them and the deadly tools of their trade.

 

My critics can deny it till all the cows come home, but the headlines and bylines bear me out:

 

“U.S. is Secretly Collecting Records of Verizon Calls” (The New York Times – June 5^th)

“Author of Patriot Act Says NSA Phone Records Collection ‘Never the Intent of Law’” (Fox News – June 6^th)

“President Obama’s Dragnet” (The New York Times editorial board – June 7^th)

“Lawmakers Dispute Obama’s Claim They Knew of Tracking” (Newsmax – June 8^th)

“The Constitutional Amnesia of the NSA Snooping Scandal” (John Judis – The New Republic – June 10^th)

“NSA Building Huge Data Farm” (The Daily Kos – June 11^th)

“Privacy Isn’t All We’re Losing” (Peggy Noonan – The Wall Street Journal – June 14^th)

“James Clapper’s ‘Least Untruthful’ Answer” (Ruth Marcus – The Washington Post – June 14^th)

 

There are times I get frustrated with the way some people react to my concerns. I’m not at all what they claim. First, I’m far from being over-wrought. In fact, I think they’re the ones who may not be concerned enough about what’s going on all around them. Our Constitutional rights are being eroded and they just turn a blind eye and say, “This is all being done to keep us safe.” I’d be willing to be they know more about what’s going on with Lindsay Lohan or Jodi Arias than they do about our Constitutional rights.

 

Second, I’m no conspiracy theorist. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe Roswell was clever marketing, not reality. I don’t believe the World Trade Center towers were brought down by a C.I.A. missile or some nefarious Jewish cabal.  Enough said!

 

Third, I’m as loyal as any American can be. I believe in the American ideal. I believe in our way of life. I believe in the principles that undergird that way of life, particularly our Constitution and Bill of Rights. When I was a young man I joined the military. On the day I enlisted I raised my right hand and swore to “support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same.” I would gladly take that same oath today. But, I don’t believe that my government has the moral authority to send me or any of America’s sons and daughters out the front door to defend liberty and then reward us at the back door by shredding the first, second, fourth, and fifth amendments to the Constitution by deceit.  If that marks me as disloyal, then their claim about me is nothing more than Orwellian claptrap and the word loyalty itself has no meaning.

 

If I’m guilty of anything, it’s believing in the principles that made us the envy of the world. If I’m wrong, then so are millions of oppressed people around the world who have fought and won the right to breathe the sweet air of liberty.  If I’m right about the surveillance state, we’ll all have to learn to live in an America where everyone is a suspect.

 

We’re treading on a dangerous path. Peggy Noonan put it this way: “Too many things are happening that are making a lot of Americans feel a new distance from, a frayed affiliation with, the country they have loved for a half a century of more.”

 

We dare not tread another step further. To do so would be to invite disaster.

A DOG NAMED KATT

We have a new addition to our menagerie. Her name is Katt. With a name like that, you’d think that Katt would be a cat. But she’s not. Katt is actually a dog. I gave some fleeting thought to changing her name, but after a day or two the name grew on me. So, the matter is settled. My dog, Katt, will forever be Katt.

 

Almost every time I call her name I chuckle. I find the idea of calling “Katt” and watching a dog appear quite amusing. It reminds me of Eugene Ionesco and the theatre of the absurd. In one of his plays, “Rhinoceros,” there is a conversation between a logician and an old man. The logician begins the conversation by observing that “cats have four paws.” The old man responds, “My dog has four paws.” The logician, believing that his logic is impeccable, proudly declares, “Then your dog is a cat and the contrary is also true.” I now find myself occasionally muttering “My dog is Katt…and the contrary is also true.”

 

It’s only been a few weeks, but she’s already wormed her way into my heart. I assumed that she would bond to Nancy since she’d been owned by a woman, but to my surprise she’s bonded herself to me and my buddy Ranger the sheltie, the only two men in the house. She’s especially fond of me and follows me everywhere, upstairs, downstairs, out to the back yard. When I sit in my recliner she tries to climb up with me, pawing incessantly as she does.

 

She looks like Jack, but she’s not like him. She’s not overweight like he was. She’s never learned any tricks. She doesn’t seem inclined to chase rabbits or squirrels. She just dotes on me. I think she knows I’m a sucker for that sort of thing.

 

We’ve already had the adventure of a lifetime. Last week we took her and Ranger to our crash pad in Kansas City. On Sunday afternoon I took them for a walk around the River Market. We were having a great time until we got to the “Max” bus stop. A couple of young girls got Katt excited and she started jumping up and down. Somehow she managed to slip out of her collar. The girls lunged at her and she bolted. She ran out into the street and nearly got hit by a car. I started running to get her, with Ranger in tow. She panicked and started running down Grand Avenue. It all looked hopeless until a homeless man saw my plight and started running along with me. “I’ll get her for you, Mister,” he reassured me. The chase was on. For the next fifteen minutes we ran, following cues from people pointing us in the right direction as we did. Then we lost her trail. It looked like all was lost. But, the homeless man refused to give up. “I’m gonna’ get her for you. Don’t you worry.” Then, as suddenly as she’d disappeared, Katt reappeared. She ran past us and several other people and stopped in front of a man and his wife. From outward appearance, they appeared to be well heeled. “Grab her,” I pleaded. For some reason the man decided some more fun was in order. “Let’s see how far we can make her run,” he said as he very deliberately chased her off. Thankfully, the homeless man refused to give up. Somehow he managed to catch up with Katt before she got to Interstate 70. As he handed her over to me I thanked him profusely. I gave him twenty bucks for his kindness. As he walked away I noticed that his eyes were tearing up.

 

It was quite an adventure. As soon as we got back to Emporia I went to Wal-Mart and got Katt a harness to replace the collar she’d slipped out of. There will be no more unplanned escapes for Katt.

 

The adventure also taught me a very important lesson. Life is sometimes like the theatre of the absurd.  Appearances can be deceiving and logic often fails. You’d think it would’ve been the well-heeled man who rescued me instead of some homeless man. You’d think that a well-heeled man would’ve been full of the milk of human kindness rather than the homeless man.

 

How do all these things get sorted out? What’s the reward in the end for being kind? What’s the penalty for being downright mean? Is it like the story of Lazarus the beggar and the rich man? Was that homeless man a Lazarus of sorts? Will he, like Lazarus, find himself in Paradise some day? And how will the story end for the well-heeled man? If his actions that Sunday afternoon are any indication, he may be very thirsty.

THE TYRANNY OF NECESSITY

 

 

“Necessity is the plea for every infringement of human freedom. It is the argument of tyrants; it is the creed of slaves.”

-          William Pitt  (November 18, 1783)

 

After she’d reviewed my last piece on good intentions, my wife suggested another essay might be in order. She observed, correctly, that in politics the misuse or abuse of power is one of the few things that’s universal. Both major parties engage in these unseemly practices, particularly at the executive level. Right now we have a Democrat in power, so I’ve been focusing my attention on the failings of Barack Obama and his administration. Somehow, with the best of intentions, he has seen the needle come off his moral compass. That sort of thing happens when the good ends intended make room for justifying any tyrannical means being used to make those desired ends a reality.

 

But tyranny isn’t the exclusive domain of the Democratic Party. It’s been often practiced by Republicans. Democrats, particularly Progressives, most often find themselves on the road to perdition with the best of intentions. For Republicans, particularly Conservatives and neo-Conservatives, the tyranny most often begins with necessity or perceived necessity.

 

We’ve known this since the birth of our Republic. When Thomas Jefferson accused King George of establishing “an absolute Tyranny over these States,” he offered facts to prove that the tyranny was real. Among them were: (1) “sending hither swarms of Officers to harass our people, and eat out their substance” and (2) “for imposing Taxes on us without our Consent”

 

The King begged to differ. In a speech to Parliament he offered this - “We shall have Unanimity at Home, founded in the general Conviction of the Justice and Necessity of Our Measures.” He concluded his remarks by firing this broadside right back at the colonists - “My Desire is to restore to them the Blessings of Law and Liberty, equally enjoyed by every British Subject, which they have fatally and desperately exchanged for all the Calamities of War, and the arbitrary Tyranny of their Chiefs.”

 

King George didn’t think he was being tyrannical. He believed he was doing what he had to do to protect the British Empire from the tyranny of its colonial subjects.

 

It took a revolution to sort it all out. When the smoke cleared, the King had reluctantly come to the realization that necessity can be a very dangerous word. It’s a lesson that political leaders often have to learn the hard way, which brings me to George W. Bush.

 

We all remember the legal wrangling, the dangling chads, the counts and recounts, and the final verdict of the Supreme Court that ushered in his presidency. One of the interesting things that’s been buried over time was the positions he took concerning the Middle-East and nation building during his debates with Al Gore. In October 2000 he declared himself to be against invading Iraq. He said that a Bush administration would pursue what he called a “humble” foreign policy stance toward the Middle-East.

 

It was a fairly easy goal to maintain until the terror of 9-11-2001. That changed everything. We knew we had to do something about what had happened. I remember my frame of mind during those days. I was in an ugly mood.  Someone was going to pay for the evil deeds. I think the overwhelming majority of us felt that way, with the exception of a few self-righteous Progressives and preachers who were blaming us. It didn’t take long before fire was raining down from the heavens on Afghanistan. We liked it and the President’s popularity soared.

 

But it didn’t end there. Under normal circumstances Saddam Hussein might have been a minor irritant. But I believe 9-11 changed that in George Bush’s mind. He was determined to protect the country, which led him to believe badly flawed intelligence about WMD and Iraq’s role in the 9-11 plot. The next thing you know we were raining fire down on Saddam and his henchmen. For the most part I think we enjoyed watching Baghdad’s night sky light up. It was our collective way of saying, “How ‘bout them apples, Saddam!”

 

Should we have invaded Iraq? Should we have gotten tangled up in nation building? No! Nor should the Patriot Act have been passed. But, these things, and more, happened. They didn’t happen because George Bush was a Nazi or a criminal. They happened because he felt he needed to do them to protect the county.

 

I suppose it doesn’t make a lot of difference if tyrannical government output stems from the best intentions gone awry, as it is with Barack Obama, or if it’s born out of what seems to be necessary action as it was with George Bush. The truth is, tyranny is tyranny is tyranny. We should all be against that!

THE TYRANNY OF GOOD INTENTIONS

It’s said that confession is good for the soul, so I guess I’d better fess up. I admit to a feeling of guilty pleasure as I watched I.R.S. Commissioner Steven Miller squirm his way through several hours of Congressional testimony last Friday. I felt almost as good as I did when my beloved Red Sox came back from a three to nothing deficit to defeat the Yankees in 2004.

 

I suspect anyone who’s ever endured an I.R.S. audit shares my sense of guilty pleasure. There aren’t many experiences in life that can compare with the pain being grilled by the tax man. I’ve been through a couple of visits to a urologist and still cringe when I hear the snapping sound of a rubber glove being fitted on a human hand. I’ve had double bypass surgery. I had the wind knocked out of me once when I was playing hockey. I’ve been through a divorce. I did a one year tour of duty in Vietnam. I’ve even been to some of our city and county commission meetings. I can assure you that none of these things can compare to the pain and agony of an audit.

 

The old adage says that there are two inevitable things in life – death and taxes. I haven’t crossed the threshold of death yet, but I know that a Celestial City awaits on the other side. I have been through an I.R.S. audit and I’ve learned that it’s an experience filled with pain, grief, frustration, and loss. There’s no Celestial City to be won. In my case it was made worse when, in answer to the auditor’s question about whether or not I was a wealthy man, I responded, “In a manner of speaking I guess. I own shares in missiles, atomic submarines, tanks, guns, nuclear warheads, and a lot of other stuff I don’t have much use for.” He didn’t find my answer very amusing and by the time he was done with me it had cost me another two hundred bucks.

 

But it’s alright now. The auditors are being audited and I’m as happy as a clam. I’ve even added any Congressional hearings on the I.R.S. to my “must see” TV viewing list, along with “Doc Martin,” Call the Midwife,” “As Time Goes By,” and the Stanley Cup playoffs.

 

I don’t think the President finds the I.R.S. crisis and its counterparts very amusing. One crisis is plenty, but having to simultaneously juggle the I.R.S. targeting of Conservatives, Benghazi, the Associated Press subpoenas, and Kathleen Sibelius’s national shakedown tour is more than even a leader with self-described messianic qualities should be expected to manage.

 

Some of my fellow Conservatives are prematurely ascribing sinister motives to the President in this mess. Not me. I think he really believes he’s leading us to Utopia and he’s built a team that shares his Progressive vision. They believe they’re right about everything and see nothing wrong with using the machinery of government to ensure that the narrative harmonizes with the vision.

 

It all has a theological quality to it. Jeffrey Rosen recently observed in “The New Republic,” that the undergirding rationale for what’s going on in Washington these days is “based on the technocratic over-confidence that a progressive administration must, by definition, be on the side of the angels.”

 

What does this mean when the rubber meets the road? It means edits, audits, subpoenas, and a shakedown tour to fund Obamacare.

 

One of the things I’ve noticed about the President as the scandals mount is that he’s getting annoyed. That would be good, except that I think he’s only annoyed because he believes some folks (think Tea Partiers, pro-lifers, Conservatives like me, Libertarians like Steve Corbin, etc.)  just refuse to understand that his intentions are good. After all, there’s nothing wrong with a bit of skullduggery if the goal is noble. Right?

 

It’s strange, really. I do get it. I think the President’s intentions are good. I just think that the flowers and petals of good intentions being strewn along the winding road are actually leading us down the primrose path to tyranny. It’s a philosophy that seems very noble on the surface, but once you dig to its roots, you can see that it’s dangerous beyond imagination.

 

So, I’m all for good intentions, but I’m dead set against tyranny, because, as Christian apologist C.S. Lewis once wrote, “Of all tyrannies, a tyranny sincerely exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It would be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron's cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end for they do so with the approval of their own conscience.”

CROUCHING AT THE DOOR

My emotions since seeing the carnage in Boston a few weeks ago have been all over the place. When I first watched the media reports the rage and revulsion I felt were white hot. Then the rage morphed into three fruitless days of confusion. How could this have happened?  And why? No answers came and even if they had they wouldn’t have explained away the evil. Knowing the how or the why wouldn’t have made me feel any better.

 

Evil is very real. It’s been with us since the dawn of human history, “crouching at the door” of the human heart. Even in this era of human progress it’s with us, appearing as an uninvited guest at the times and places we least expect it. As author Lance Morrow once put it, evil is “a mystery, a black hole into which reason and sunshine vanish, but nonetheless is there.”

 

I’m now at a different stage, considering the human dimensions of the tragedy. It’s a tale of lives needlessly taken, limbs shattered, dreams dashed, and a proud city locked down, living on the cusp of martial law. And, it all happened because two young men, Tamerlan and Dzohkhar Tsarnaev, opened the door when evil knocked.

 

I find it exceedingly difficult to consider that the evil inflicted on Patriot’s Day had a human face. And, I find it every bit as difficult to consider that it happened in Boston, the “cradle of American Liberty.”

 

I grew up in Boston. I know the city well.

 

I didn’t grow up in the Boston of privilege. My memories of Boston life are of shabby tenements and government housing projects. My roots aren’t in Beacon Hill, the panoramas of the Flint Hills, or furrowed country rows. Mine are in neon and broken ghetto glass. In spite of the disadvantages of my youth, my roots are deep and my memories are fond. I love Boston; I always will.

 

I spent many of my formative years in Cambridge, just across the river from downtown Boston. The Tsarnaev brothers also lived in Cambridge. They both attended Cambridge Rindge and Latin School. I graduated from Cambridge High and Latin School before it merged with Rindge Technical School in the 1970’s. I read the classics there. I studied Latin and read Caesar’s Gallic Travels.

 

Like the Tsarnaev brothers, I was a welfare recipient. I wasn’t proud of it. As soon as I was old enough, I found my way out of the system’s clutches. I’m very grateful to the U.S. Air Force for liberating me.

 

I experienced many of my rites of passage in Boston. I remember my first job. I was twelve. I spent many a Saturday riding along in Mr. Sahaday’s vegetable truck. My ear is still tuned to his words beamed from a loudspeaker mounted on the roof of the truck. “Raspberries, strawberries….thirty-five cents a quart.” I remember the pride I felt when I’d deliver the fruits and vegetables to his customers. There were some Saturdays I got to take home as much as two dollars in tips. That was a lot of money in those days.

 

A couple of times a year I’d get to go the Gahhhden (you know it as the Boston Garden) to see the Celtics or the Bruins play. In the summer I’d take the subway to Fenway Park and watch my beloved Red Sox. That was back in the day when bleacher seats really were affordable. I loved the Sox so much I’d imitate their batting stances when I played stickball. My favorite was, of course, Ted Williams, but I also did a really good Jackie Jensen and a pretty fair Billy Klaus.

 

But, more than any of the rites of passage, I remember the pride I felt in being from Boston, the home of the Minutemen and the “shot heard round the world.” I loved walking along Freedom Trail and making stops at Faneuil Hall, Paul Revere’s House, or the Old North Church. I’ve climbed to the top of the Bunker Hill Monument. I’ve been to the village greens at Lexington and Concord many times. I’ve been to the site of Emerson’s “rude bridge that arched the flood” on April 19^th, 1775.

 

Boston is, in the truest sense, a good and noble city, and that makes the act of terror inflicted on her and her citizens all the more senseless.

 

But, there’s no point in asking the how or why of what happened. The Tsarnaev brothers had their reasons, almost certainly convoluted. Perhaps, in the end, they were driven by what Morrow termed “the discrepancy between the daydream of a golden age and the disappointments of the present.” If so, what they did would only have to make sense to them. It could never make sense to the rest of us.

THE KINGDOM'S HEIRS

It’s been about a week since I got back from my latest trip to Mexico. I’ve gotten past the travel fatigue, but I’m still walking in the afterglow of the sights, sounds, and experiences.

 

When you mention Mexico to most Americans, the images usually conjured up are gleaming white beaches, the plush resorts to be found in Acapulco and Puerto Vallarta, casinos, spas, or golf courses. That wasn’t the Mexico I saw, or have ever seen. The Mexico I’m acquainted with is gritty. The people I’ve met and have come to know live in crude cinder block homes that sit atop huge landfills, which in turn are primitive attempts to mask the smell of tons of rotting garbage that’s been dumped beneath them. The people somehow manage to live on pennies per day, doing work that no “self-respecting” American would ever consider doing. Their intestines are filled with worms and parasites. Their afflictions are many.

 

That’s the Mexico I know. In many ways, it’s the Mexico I prefer. I prefer it, not because of its problems, but because it’s real and the people living in that reality respond to love. The Mexico of the resorts and casinos seems empty and plastic to me. The more I think about it, the more I’ve come to believe that sitting by the pool, praying for 11 red or 34 black to magically appear on the roulette wheel, or anticipating the turn of a card to fill in a straight flush is about as futile and meaningless as life can get.

 

For four days our group of nineteen went from site to site, diagnosing, prescribing, dispensing, touching, hugging, playing, and praying. There were more than enough needs to keep us fully occupied for twelve hours or more each day. The work was occasionally interrupted by laughter or spontaneous cheers as something beyond our ability to explain occurred. There were moments when the overwhelming nature of the people’s needs would reduce us to tears.

 

The doctors, nurses, and pharmacist who were part of our team took care of the medical needs. They did an amazing job! The rest of us did the touching, hugging, playing, and praying. I especially loved being around the children. And, they loved being around me. I became quite good at face painting. I drew a mustache and goatee on a boy who appeared to be about eight years old. I nicknamed him “Snidely Whiplash.” I was quite proud of my work. I found a couple of small water pistols and engaged in mock gunfights with the boys. Every time I did my imitation of John Wayne’s walk they would laugh uncontrollably. That, in turn, gave me the opportunity to soak ‘em real good. I challenged a couple of six year olds to arm wrestling contests, which they won.  Even teenagers gravitated toward me. I adopted two, calling one Butch Cassidy and the other the Sundance Kid.  I think that surprised some of our group. Over time, I’ve developed a bit of a reputation for being a small town hair-shirted prophet. They didn’t realize that even a dour old man like me has his soft spots. On the way home, one of the team members expressed his surprise. I told him I was beginning to work on my epitaph. My first draft reads something like this:

 

“Kids loved him.

Politicians hated him.

All in all, a well-lived life!”

 

We saw things in Mexico one doesn’t see very often on our side of the border. I saw hundreds of lost souls saved. I saw a lame woman come into one of the meetings, struggling to move with the aid of a crude, home-made cane. I saw her leave without the cane. The joyful expression on her face was the only explanation I needed.

 

One of the beautiful things about Mexico is that the social environment seems far less rigid than ours. Everything’s done in the open. I saw an Aztec shaman trying to cleanse some demons from a guy in Mexico City’s downtown park. I passed by the “church of death” one day and lifted a drive-by prayer of exorcism as I did.

 

The openness of the environment makes the fight very easy. One knows what he’s up against. Our north-of-the-border demons are much harder to see. They wear a cloak of respectability and can be found in corporate board rooms and legislative chambers. They often wear Brooks Brothers suits. They have names like greed, envy, and lust for power. They have a tender touch, but they’re deadly.

 

The afterglow of Mexico remains, yet I know her needs are still acute. But, I also know there’s hope for Mexico’s poor and needy. As it’s written, “God chose the poor of this world to be rich in faith and heirs of the kingdom?”