Two Little Words

How many times in a day do you hear the words thank you? Depending on the circumstances, it could be quite often. Most of the time, it’s simply a mere social requirement…a necessary courtesy with limited meaning. You hold open a door…“thank you.” You purchase groceries…“thank you.” You move out of someone’s way…“thank you.”

Over the years, many people have said “thank you” to me, but it’s mostly like that. Just something as much about affirming personal civility and feeling the comfort of an orderly world, as it is about showing appreciation. Not that it’s a bad thing. No…it’s nice to hear some thank you-s even if they are not all that heartfelt. But there was this one time when someone gave me a truly sincere thank you that rose above all the rest.

I was about seventeen at the time, and had gone into the ‘big city’ to meet up with a friend and catch a movie. It was the ‘big city’ because there was a store with an escalator to an entire second floor, and also two, (count them), movie theatres. If I remember right, the movie we went to see was “Every Which Way But Loose” which is a terrible movie by the way, unless you like that sort of thing. It was a warm sunny day, and the line in front of the ticket booth was long. We took our place.

While we waited in line on that calm and peaceful afternoon, something a little unusual happened. An odd man suddenly appeared on the sidewalk up ahead. He seemed troubled as he began pleading to various people in the line-up. I watched as each time he approached somebody, he would be ignored or turned away. I never saw such a thing before. An upset man going down a line of people, pleading, and all of them turning their backs. It was a strange sight.

I didn’t know about the homeless then…this sub-class within our society. Where I was from there were no homeless, and the one guy who did sleep out in the woods had a home. He just didn’t seem to like it very much, and only went back when the weather made him.

And at that time charities had yet to become big business, and the homeless had yet to become media pets, and people had yet to be socialized to politely condescend and patronize instead of just calling them “bums.”

It’s also possible that the man himself may have actually had a home, but just didn’t like it…much like the guy in my village. Who knows? But he was raggedy, and didn’t look like he had much of anything in this world.

So everyone was turning from him as he worked his way down the line, until he finally comes to me. He looks in my face and desperately asks, “Will you talk to me? I’m coming down from a bad trip and it’s bad. I need help.”

Well, I wasn’t naïve. I knew what a “bad trip” was. It was the 70’s. I watched T.V. So he started talking, and I started listening. I didn’t turn away because I could see he wasn’t violent or a pervert. He just needed to talk. He was in pain for the need to talk.

I don’t think I said much of anything at all. I just looked at him and listened, and he mostly talked about how bad his “bad trip” was, and how someone had given him some “bad stuff.”

It wasn’t long, however, before the ticket booth opened and the line started moving. Now as it happens, we Canadians take lines very seriously. The British taught us that. When the line moves, you must move also. So I explained to him, “Sorry, but I have to go now,” and pointed at the line. I was a little worried that he’d be sad, but to my surprise, his face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Thank you,” he said in a way no one had ever thanked me before…or since. “Thank you for talking to me.” That’s when I knew his feet were firmly on the ground again. His bad trip was over. He then calmly turned and walked away.

It was a sunny warm day, and someone had given me the gift of a proper ‘thank you.’ I was feeling really quite good about that when I suddenly noticed a girl from my High School coming back through the line towards me. Sensible-clothes-wearing-educated-parents-good-marks-never-in-trouble-with-the-teachers-didn’t-even-say-a-swear-word-girl. Why would she walk back through a line that was moving forward? Had the British taught her nothing?

So, she comes up to me all icky-giddy-Gladys-Kravitz-like and asks, “What did he say to you?”

“He was coming down from a bad trip and needed to talk. That’s all.”

“And you talked to him?” She spit out the words ‘you’ and ‘him’ like we were both trash to be cast out. She wanted me to feel ashamed for having talked to that man. She wanted to feed upon that shame…exalt herself upon that shame. I’d seen it before in others.

I didn’t reply, but just kept moving in the line. I never did tell her how much she filled me with disgust…this girl who I knew to be a long standing member of the High School Christian Club. What would be the point? I learned early on that when people don’t want to know, they can’t even begin to understand.

On Being a Jew

Before I explain how I ‘became’ a Jew, I should first explain how I ‘became’ a Palestinian.  It all started with my interest in genealogy. Several years ago a new company came out with the idea of genetic genealogy. If you sent them a sample of your DNA, they would analyze it and hopefully tell you something about your ancestors that is not traceable in existing records.

The first test I did was a Maternal DNA test. It specifically looks at a part of the X chromosome that is passed down mostly unchanged from mother to daughter for thousands of years. Through it, they identify what’s called your haplogroup. It’s like a female trail into the deep past. Also, it can be matched to people who shared the same female ancestor. My matches were few, but one stood out from the others. This person was a Palestinian! Incredible! To find such a match in a population that has been in one place for thousands of years was a genealogical jackpot!

So, I am a Palestinian.

But then, another new company with a broader test caught my interest. At first, the information I received was helpful, but it was when they upgraded their product to include cousin matching that it got really interesting. By identifying common strands of DNA, they would be able to match you to your biological cousins, (in the database), from first to distant.

My initial cousin match was very exciting, but when he sent me a list of peculiar Eastern European surnames, I was completely confused. Only after a few more matches contacted me, did I see that I was matching to Ashkenazi Jews. The Ashkenazim exist as a DNA grouping because of centuries of endogamy which is the polite word for cousin-humping.  They have been good ole-fashioned Middle Eastern cousins-humpers for a very long time, resulting in a close genetic relatedness amongst them. Even though I am only part Ashkenazim, I share common DNA strands to the majority of the population. We, my Ashkenazim brothers and sisters, are the hillbillies of the world. Yee (oy vey) Haw!

At first, I was stunned by my discovery, but then I felt like I had been given a heavy weight to bear. You see, already having ‘become’ Palestinian, I had begun researching more about Israel, and examining what exactly was happening over there. What should have been a celebration of my new found Jewish heritage did not make me feel good.

Let me try to explain by first telling you a story. I heard it many years ago. The story was told by a man who was there when it happened. He probably didn’t tell many people about it. He told my parents, and my mother told me. I might be the only one left who knows it, which is even more of a reason to share it with you now.

This man was originally from an Eastern European village. I don’t think it was a very big place. It was likely one of those small nondescript places where nothing much ever happens, and everybody knows everybody else. One day, the Nazis marched in. They marched in and ordered several of the young men in the village to dig a deep and long pit. When the pit was finished, the Nazis then gathered up all the Jews and lined them up at the edge of the pit. I don’t know whether they had the Jews face them or look away. I don’t know whether they did them in groups. I don’t know any of the details, and it doesn’t really matter anyway. Details cannot make this story any better or any worse. It’s horrible any way. So, they raised their rifles, (or machine guns), and shot all the Jews who then fell dead into the pit. After it was done, they ordered the young men to fill it in. But before they did, some of those men climbed into that pit and picked over the warm bodies of their neighbours, taking whatever worldly goods they considered of value.

And then I look at Israel…

I look at Israel and see the militarization, the ruthless secret service, the propaganda, the unashamed racism, the greed, the violence, the disrespect for human life, and I think, is this what those Jews died for…the kind of society Goebbels would drool over…the kind of society that killed them?

No! I can’t believe that! Those innocents who died that day were my people. They lived decent lives. They hurt no one. They worshiped the One and Only God, not a state or a government. They were my people, and they did not die for that!

You see what I mean by the word ‘weight.’ I’ve cried more than once over it.

I’ll tell you something though…something else about Ashkenazim DNA…something important. In spite of centuries of endogamy, we have the most remarkably varied haplogroups. There is not one area of this globe that is not represented in our DNA. From the Middle East to Europe, East Asia to South Asia, Australia to North Africa, South Africa to North America, South America to everything in between…the entire beautiful family of man is represented in our Jacob’s ladder. This is the real pride of being a Jew…our special secret that YHWH has placed there and no man’s evil can remove. The secret that all of God’s precious children are within our hearts, and that every last one of them warms our veins with this glorious and sacred gift of life.

Blessed are those who act justly, who always do what is right. Psalm 106:3

A Family Mystery

The Plate[1]

Here is my mystery. A plate fired by the Wedgewood company. It was my grandmother’s most prized possession, and also her secret possession. As you can see, it appears to show the Royal British Coat of Arms.

In my attempt to unravel the mystery, I have contacted the Wedgewood Museum, and had others contact Wedgewood, but to no avail. They do not respond. I’ve also tried other British museums, but the ones who do respond have little to no information.

I was able to learn that it was fired a few years before or around the time of my grandmother’s birth, so it could have been given to her parents. It is also some type of private commission which means it was not sold commercially.

If anyone has any ideas, please comment below, (comments are moderated.)

The skinny black lady in the back is my great grandmother. The girl in the front holding the doll is my grandmother.


Killing the White Man

Everyday I work at killing the White Man. It’s not easy, and he still refuses to die, but everyday I work at it.

I didn’t notice when he grew there. I wasn’t born with him. He wasn’t genetically encoded by my European ancestors. No, he was a virus. When society began to form my mind…began to pull and prod and twist my thoughts in its different soulless directions, that was when the virus was planted and the White Man grew.

He came from movies, T.V. shows, wisps of adult conversations, and even kids’ cartoons. He came when, in grade one, Sandy Dingleberry told a story of the horrible things that could happen when a ‘black’ man marries a ‘white’ woman. I learned quickly that Sandy was a liar, but the disease had already touched me in her words. Disease is like that.

He came when someone at sometime taught me “Eenie meenie minie mo” and that word came out of my mouth before I knew what it was. When I discovered the meaning, it was too late. That word had already crossed my tongue. Never saying it again could not change the fact that it was said. In finding a way to grow, the White Man will use all sorts of trickery.

It was my mother who helped save me somewhat from the White Man. She said, “I am a Negro; I am an Indian.” She was deep in White Man territory, and the people around her didn’t like what she said, but she would not be silenced. She kept saying “I am a Negro; I am an Indian” regardless of how they treated her.

Unfortunately, she could not completely kill the White Man that had infected me, but she crippled him. She left him without legs or arms or a voice, but I still hear him breathe, and everyday I try to kill him.

I see him everywhere. Not just on the inside. I see him on the outside too. The White Man is in everyone. That’s what a virus is. It doesn’t discriminate. It just invades. The symptoms may vary according to a person’s situation, but that’s him…that’s the defiling White Man…defiling humanity every chance he gets.

In some the White Man is strong. You can tell by the way they defend him…protect him…embrace him. In others he is a wasted mess, clinging to life, but if you don’t admit he’s there, you can’t kill him, and he’ll keep on breathing his diseased breath into your mind. You have to see him to destroy him completely.

I have a dream that one day, I will finally get him. I will at last hit him in just the right spot, and he will be dead…gone…obliterated from my mind. After that, I will then become the antidote. Every breath I expel out into this world will be filled with White Man antibodies, and then as the wind carries these antibodies to every corner of this planet, eventually everyone in the world will breathe them in. When that happens, he will finally be destroyed, and we will all learn how glorious and wonderful it is to be alive and free at last of the White Man’s tyranny.


The Devil Speaks in Tongues

At the time, I didn’t ask myself why she invited me. I was young, wanted to make friends and was open to new experiences. But now I know. I know now why she invited me. She decided that she would ‘save’ me. I was the project she was hoping to get an A+ on—an A+ that would open wide the gates of Heaven. Why, one day old Saint Peter himself would greet her and exclaim, “Way to go (I forget her name)! The best gold harp for you!” That’s the way she must have imagined it. She wanted me to be, not her friend, but her pre-paid ticket to Heaven.

I can’t remember what exactly she said, when she invited me, but she did use the term Charismatic Catholic. Whatever! Sure, I’ll check it out. Why not?

The meeting was in a school, (must have been a Catholic school), on the second floor. We sat around in a circle, and people talked. What they talked about, I don’t recall, so it couldn’t have been that interesting. If it were interesting, I would not have forgotten it.

There was a stout little priest who was quiet and docile, and always seemed to be battling something within his own mind. There was a blind guy they doted on because blind guys feature big in Christianity. And there was a very outspoken middle aged woman who ran the show. At least, I think she was middle aged…when you’re that young everyone over 25 looks middle aged.  Those are the only ones I can remember.

So I went maybe 2 or 3 times to sit in a circle and listen to these people. They were a little weird, but I’d been in a Pentecostal Church before, so I knew about weird. Weird didn’t particularly weird me out.

Then it happened…

There we were sitting in the circle when suddenly the outspoken woman who ran the show started ‘speaking in tongues.’  Okay, whatever! Go with the flow.

I watched as her male ‘attendants’ would bring someone to her. She’d babble something then thrust her hand forward, making that person fall backwards. The attendants would then dutifully catch the fallen in their arms. From there, the person would be laid out on the floor like a freshly slain body. I assumed the idea was that they were so filled with the Holy Spirit that they were rendered paralyzed. Soon the floor was covered in people.

Well, didn’t someone just come over to me and grab me by the arm. I didn’t want to go, but what could I say? I was young and just wanted people to like me. And they were so gung-ho about this speaking in tongues and people all over the floor thing. So I went.

If I remember right, the outspoken and now tongues-speaking woman was about eye level with me, but she didn’t look at me. Instead, she was looking upwards as if she could see more than just the ugly classroom ceiling. From there, it all happened so fast. She was saying something that didn’t sound much like anything at all, when suddenly WHAP! she hit me in the forehead! I couldn’t believe it! She hit me HARD! right in the forehead! I didn’t get it. Wasn’t it supposed to be the Holy Spirit who knocked you down, and not some bare fleshy undeniably corporeal hand?

The hit caused me to stumble backwards, but I quickly regained my footing and stared her right in the eye. She stared back at me and that was when I saw it…the hatred…the anger…the ‘how dare you not fall to my authority like the others.’ I tell you, if I’d never seen the devil before, I saw him that night in her eyes. What a situation I was in!

Thinking to myself, that if I didn’t fall back she might keep hitting me until I did, the next time she hit me, I fell back. They put me on the floor with the others and I covered my face with my hands. The others did not cover their faces, but for some reason I felt I couldn’t leave my face exposed in this room. So there I was, on the floor, praying to God and saying, “This is ridiculous. What do I do now?”

Anyway, I stayed there and played along for while, getting more and more frustrated with the entire silly situation. I kept wondering just how long one was required to be ‘overcome.’ Finally, I peeked through my fingers to see if the others were off the floor and many of them were, so I decided that it was okay to get up.

In keeping with the show, I then got up, walked over and hugged the blind guy. That seemed to confuse the heck out of him, but it also seemed an appropriate ending scene to this crazy play.

The next week I went back. I don’t know why. I guess like so many lonely teenagers, I would overlook a lot in pursuit of friends. So I went back, but they were gone. The school was locked and there was no light on the second floor.

Later in the school hallway, I would sometimes pass the girl who invited me. But we never really spoke again, and I never asked her about the group or what happened to them. I suppose it just seemed fitting that it should end that way.


In my quest for wisdom, I have turned to old books


Webster’s Encyclopedia of Useful Information and World’s Atlas

Published: Chicago Illinois by Ogilvie and Gillett Company 1890

From chapter entitled: Multum in Parvo

Subtitle: Finger Nails As An Indication of Character

“A white mark on the nail bespeaks of misfortune.

Pale or lead-colored nails indicate melancholy people.

Broad nails indicate a gentle, timid, and bashful nature.

Lovers of knowledge and liberal sentiments have round nails.

People with narrow nails are ambitious and quarrelsome.

Small nails indicate littleness of mind, obstinacy and conceit.

Choleric, martial men, delighting in war, have red and spotted nails.

Nails growing into the flesh at the points or sides indicate luxurious tastes.

People with very pale nails are subject to much infirmity of the flesh and persecution by neighbors and friends.”

The next chapter, “How to be Handsome.”

The Horrible Things They Still Do To Jesus

Of course, it must have all started near the beginning, but where exactly? I suppose, at first, it was only in small ways—Peter using selective memories of Jesus to ease his immense guilt, and then after him, Paul, a reformed torturer/murderer using Jesus to try and purify himself.  Certainly, it gained real momentum when the new political machine they called the Catholic Church was born, and the crucified man became the mascot. It was genius marketing really—playing on such deep fears, deep shame, and deep perversions. A man unclothed, broken, beaten, and permanently staked up for public display. Oh, the emotions such an image could evoke!

Sometimes I think of what it takes to physically manufacture such a thing. These days, a slave-worker in Asian likely makes most of them, hammering the little nails into the crucified man statue—day after day—tap, tap, tap—thousands of nails into thousands of hands and thousands of feet. I wonder if she’ll ever realize that the nails should actually go into the wrists, and not the hands.

And then there was a little Polish boy I babysat as a teen. One day he pointed to the crucifix on the wall, giggled devilishly, and declared, “The Lord is barren.” At first, I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about in his less than perfect understanding of the English language, but then I realized he meant that the little crucified man was without clothes. The crucifix was a bit of naughty pornography for this boy. Out of the mouths of babes, eh? Suffering-pornography. That’s why I never will watch The Passion of the Christ. It’s suffering-pornography.

And then all because of a fluke generated by politics and the marriage problems of elite inbreds, the Church split, and Protestants were created. Eventually that little switcheroo caused branches to form in all directions…and oh, what directions…directions that, henceforth, resulted in my Sunday school teacher excitedly waving the ‘miracle photo.’ It seems she had gone to a special presentation organized by the church. The key-note speaker was a woman who had been privy to a stupendous, incredible, marvelous miracle! What started out as just an ordinary photo being taken of her and her husband turned into so much more. For when that ordinary photo was developed, POOF! Jesus appeared in the picture next to them!  The Sunday school teacher let us all have a good look at the evidence. Sure enough there was a man, a woman and a guy in a Jesus costume. I was just a kid, but even I knew that was not Jesus. What does it take to perpetrate such a crime? Thinking up the scheme, dressing up as Jesus, setting a price for the photo, going on a preaching circuit, turning Jesus into a bold faced lie—it’s horrible! And this was sanctioned by the church.

And that brings us to the Jews, oy vey! Being part Jewish myself, I really hate to have to have to say this but…added to all the horrible things being done to Jesus is a group of right-wing Jews trying to bake Him into a flavourless bit of unleavened bread. Paper Jesus, (no way as fun as Paper Mario)—a flat two-dimensional Jesus who was a good kosher boy, who wanted to FIGHT! the Romans, who was not particularly amazing in any way except in that he was a Jew. These people even claim that Jews had nothing whatsoever to do with the crucifixion. Well, that’s not true. Some Jews were obviously involved in the crucifixion, but not because they were Jews, but because they were assholes, and assholism knows no cultural nor ethnic boundaries. In nature, God created assholes at the bottom, but in man’s topsy-turvy world, assholes are usually at the top, and it was assholes at the top who were responsible for the crucifixion.

So why would these right-wing Jews have such an interest in Jesus? As it appears to me, it’s a narrative specifically designed to further galvanize the support of the right-wing Christians, who already do their own horrible things to Jesus. It’s meant to correlate and control all of the horrible things done to Jesus in the name of politics, power, money and racism.

Oh, Jesus H. Christ! Isn’t it about time You put an end to this nonsense?

…but praying aside for now, Jesus is so incredibly complicated that it’s very difficult to explain just what He is. So instead let me explain what He is not.

Jesus is nobody’s:

  • self-serving idol
  • political pawn
  • money machine
  • plasticine man
  • security blanket
  • excuse
  • medallion
  • camouflage
  • costume
  • justification
  • surety
  • mascot
  • collateral
  • military uniform
  • ‘get out of jail free’ card
  • influence peddler
  • suffering-pornography
  • a simple easy to swallow sugary elixir
  • free pre-paid ticket to Heaven
  • name-dropping name
  • fraternity or sorority pin
  • self-serving lie

…and to try and recreate Him into any of these things is just plain horrible!

Jesus said to them, “Truly I tell you, the tax collectors and the prostitutes are entering the kingdom of God ahead of you. For John came to you to show you the way of righteousness, and you did not believe him, but the tax collectors and the prostitutes did. And even after you saw this, you did not repent and believe him.

Matthew 21:28-31

A Really Short Story Inspired by the Song “I Will Survive” (by Gloria Gaynor and later a rather biting rendition by the band Cake)

Oh, it’s you.

Just stop right there, and don’t even think about crossing over my threshold. You’re not welcome here anymore.

And now I can’t believe you are giving me that look…that look like you can’t understand why…as if you have no idea what you’ve done…that ‘who me?’ look because you’re just as pure as the driven snow. Right?

No! Don’t speak! Don’t say a word. It’s no longer your time to say anything. You’ve said all you had to say before, which in the end wasn’t much at all. Empty, thoughtless, stupid words were all you knew…all you know.

You left me here. You left me in this purgatory. I thought I was going mad. What else was I to think? That’s exactly what happens when people go mad…what happened to me. What did you think I knew? You think I was on the inside? I told you I wasn’t. Did you think I knew their secrets…that I was a part of their party? I was alone. You knew that. But it didn’t stop you, did it? It didn’t make you more human and less simian.

I gave you a chance…no, I gave you every chance to prove that you were more…that you were better…that you were evolved. And each time, what happened? You didn’t change your ways. Each time you treated me as if I were your thing…your token in a monopoly game. Which one did you envision me as, the wheel barrow, the thimble, the scottie dog? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore.

And before you ask, no, it’s not just about Tootsie O’Toole who showed up at my door one day, waving that ring. The one you know I paid for, because without me you would have been a nobody. Laugh if you like, but you know that’s true even if you don’t have the guts to see it. You know a lot of things you’re not man enough to see.

I never did tell Old Toots the truth. What would be the point? She thinks you’re an American sheriff and those black licorice guns you carry are the real deal, but we know better…don’t we. We both know I’m the only sharp shooter around these parts.

The choices you made about me, didn’t you see them in the headlines? They were written there. You can’t make choices about me and not have them echo throughout this world. Those choices resounded in moments in time…words overhead…things spilling, falling, breaking, dying. Your choices were well recorded everywhere. And even when the Universe threatened to strike you down with, for God’s sake, lightning itself…even when it thundered and crashed right above your head…even with all that, still you held on to your fool’s cap like it was the Word of God. Nothing could shake you from that egotistical dream you made for yourself…that egotistical dream you made of yourself.

And now it’s too late…now that you see what happens when I pull out, it’s too late. And there are no do-overs in this world. You failed the test. That’s it. It’s done with, finished, kaput. The buzzer sounded and you didn’t have the right answer. You lost. Now, go! Go cry your heart out on Tootsie’s shoulder. And if things get real bad, you can always pawn that ring.

A Trip To the Zoo

Did you ever go to the zoo, and as you were staring at one of God’s beautiful magnificent dangerous creatures, SUDDENLY! you see that creature staring back at you…

The Zoo
I pace
In this iron cage
Back and forth
Forth and back
My African paws
Pounding against
The man-poured
Concrete floor

Through the bars
I spot you
Peering at me
Come closer
My dear
You paid your
Two cents for
A peek

Eager trembles
Run through my body
To see you standing there
Looking so
Very very

The Bible

I am enamoured with the Bible.

Please do not think badly of me being enamoured with a book that is so full of sex and violence. I just can’t stop myself from liking it. And you, hypocrite, probably watch The Game of Thrones which is just as bad.

But I do like this book. I like to quote it on Twitter and in my novels. It is just too enticing to stay away from. “Beware, the Lord is about to take firm hold of you and hurl you away, you mighty man,” said the Prophet Isaiah. I mean, how cool is that!

I still have my first Bible. It has a zipper! I was so excited to get it and it was so much fun to clasp the little cross attached to the slider and zip and unzip the book. Zip—unzip—zip—unzip. As a kid it gives you something interesting to do in church, and it also added to the fun of turning those noisy onion skin pages.

My Bible was second hand, (just call me Second-hand Rose LOL), and whoever owned it before me may have been perfectly crazy having underlined a whole lot of stuff in the New Testament using mostly a red pencil crayon. He or she, (but likely he), didn’t seem too interested in the Old Testament. Maybe it was too scary with all its monsters and cannibalism and what-not. Anyway, following with the tradition, I underlined a bunch of stuff too.

The previous owner underlined: “Let a woman learn in silence with all subjection.” Timothy 2:11  So I underlined, “Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her.” Luke 11:42 Ha! Ha! Jesus wins! Paul sucks! (Did you notice that Paul seemed to have some serious sexual issues?)

But I should tell you about the pictures. Yes, my Bible has pictures! They are not exactly Leonardo Da Vinci if you know what I mean, but as a child they were better than no pictures. There’s Noah with a dove and rainbow, and Moses, real angry and ready to whip that piece of rock right at those idol worshipers’ heads. And there is also Jesus looking not like you would expect him to look, but instead looking like a blonde catalogue model. Even in one of the best Bible scenes when Jesus is chasing those greedy no-good sons-of-dogs out of the Temple, in the picture, he’s looking like a ridiculous goofball. That’s just not right. I would draw a mustache on those pictures, but he already has one.

Years ago, there was a man I went to listen to a few times who was a bit of a Bible expert. He wrote a book all about the Bible. His name was Northrup (I know how funny is that!) Frye, and the book was called “The Great Code.” It’s an interesting book, and the ending is quite good. Spoiler Alert! Here is the ending:

“Man is constantly building anxiety-structures, like geodesic domes, around his social and religious institutions. If Milton’s view of the Bible as a manifesto of human freedom has anything to be said for it, one would expect it to be written in a language that would smash these structures beyond repair, and let some genuine air and light in. But of course anxiety is very skillful at distorting languages…The normal human reaction to a great cultural achievement like the Bible is to do with it what the Philistines did to Samson: reduce it to impotence, then lock it in a mill to grind our aggressions and prejudices. But perhaps its hair, like Samson’s, could grow again even there.”

…and you got to admit, Samson’s hair was very very sexy!