To vent or not to vent; that is the question

“I allow the truth to be the truth, no matter how much I may want it to be something else.” Jonathan Maberry (Dust and Decay)

I don’t do a lot on social media. I post an occasional photo if I’ve seen or done something special that I think family or friends might be interested in. I may post something “political” if I’ve got my panties in a real twist, but prefer not to as I’m not aware of anyone who has ever changed their mind because a clever little meme convinced them they were wrong. 

I certainly have my opinions and perspectives, but I prefer to share them with those who ask. Everyone is entitled to their opinion; their right to be wrong. That’s true for you, me, and everyone in between.

Most religions include a form of what is often called the Golden Rule: Do unto others what you would have others do unto you (or the converse: Don’t do to others what you wouldn’t want done to you.). If I don’t want fiery coals heaped on my head or trash dumped on my feed, it would be unseemly to do so from my end.

I feel bad for people who use social media to report their woes. I don’t mind folks asking for prayers or sharing their concerns, of course. I’m not always sure what I can do when something bad happens to those I know or love, but I can at least pray for them and for their situation. 

But I’m not sure that those digital spaces in which we dawdle are the best places from which to vent about those who’ve “done them wrong.” I think many folks have become addicted to venting, though. 

It used to be that one wouldn’t air their “dirty linens” in public; it would dishonor the family. Keeping up appearances was important. I’m no prude, and I would never want to toss people back into closets or force folks to live a lie, but I’m not sure we know what boundaries are any more. There are some things I’d rather not see, and some things I’d rather not hear, or some things I’d rather not know about. 

We seem to have become a world of voyeurs and exhibitionists; we’ve lost the capacity to restrain ourselves. I’m sad when a couple is having problems in their marriage, or when one’s co-workers behave irresponsibly, but I’m not sure the internet is the best place to air those grievances. For one thing, those who could possibly help are least likely to be spending time looking for folks to rescue. They live in bat caves, looking for bat signals; they’re not cruising social feeds looking for troubled souls strewn amongst cute-kitty posts.

No, the place to vent is with a friend, in person, huddling over a cup of coffee, tea, or alternate beverage (when the sun’s gotten over the yardarm). For serious situations, having a pastor or therapist is important. Otherwise, venting should be left to devices designed to handle pressure.

Jesus suggested that the person with whom to address problems or issues is the person with whom one has an issue, or who may have an “ought” against them. Such a meeting is better held in private, and the focus needs to be on fixing the problem, not the blame. When someone airs a grievance in public, their goal isn’t to fix the matter, but to gain allies. They’re not interested in making peace, but in waging war and winning battles. 

It may not always work, of course. Leopards can’t always change their spots; scorpions will continue to sting, for that is their nature; bullies will continue to believe themselves to be the aggrieved victims of life. Still, Jesus didn’t call us to be successful (he ended up on the cross, didn’t he?); he called us to be faithful. “Go, deal with them in private. If that doesn’t work, ask for help. Take care of the brush fire so it doesn’t become a towering inferno!”

That means finding constructive ways to vent. The world makes more than enough victims. Our job is to make amends as needed, restore relationships where possible, and to be peace-makers, always, here in this our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Being of sound mind – now that’s a laugh!

“The work we do on ourselves becomes our gift to everyone else.” Source Unk.

For the past several years I have been sort of the on-site audio-video guy for our church.* When everything shut down for the pandemic I found myself watching the church’s earliest efforts of doing worship online and absolutely hated the experience. It wasn’t that it was online (sometimes being away from people can be nice), but that it was being projected from a stationary laptop with horrible audio and video quality.

I’m not a technical expert, but I do know how to plug cables in and out of ports, so I offered to help, bringing in a decent video camera, amp/mixer, and microphones and, over a period of a few months, assembled enough hardware, gizmos, and adapters to produce a halfway-decent experience for online worshipers. 

As things returned to normal, we continued our online presence so that those who could not attend church (for age, health, or other reasons) could continue to join us. The internet allows us to extend the church’s altar rails in ways we’d never been able to before.

The parish recently upgraded its audio equipment, installing a new speaker array and sound-board. Our goal was to enhance the quality of sound within the church itself, as well as to improve the audio portion of our ZOOM presentations. The video quality was fine, but the online audio continued to be horrible, especially regards to the music. Our microphones were working properly, but for some reason the signals were simply being lost somewhere between the mixer/amplifier and the listeners at home.

Nate, the technician who fine-tuned the newly installed system, and who does the audio work for his own church, came out several times to try to diagnose and fix the problems. We really didn’t know if it was the equipment failing us, operator error (remember, I haven’t been of sound mind in years), or some other issue. It was as baffling to him as it was to us, which was good. I hate being alone in my confusion.

Nate came, hooked everything up to his diagnostic equipment, tested all the components, and finally conducted a ZOOM call with one of his co-workers back at the shop. Bizarrely, they put me on piano so they could replicate our worship experience while they listened and diagnosed. I do NOT play piano, and even struggle to play chopsticks on the instrument. If one ever wants to experience perdition, they need go no further than to attend a piano recital where I am the featured performer. On a positive note, when I stop, the silence is quite heavenly.

In any case, they discovered the source of the problem was not with either the equipment or the operators, but with ZOOM. There is apparently an audio option that is not found in the audio or advanced settings menus. Instead, there is a tiny pop-up option on the video screen itself that is only visible on the monitor when scrolling across the video feed. The purpose of that programming toggle is to eliminate background noise so that when people are on a call, all the extraneous noise (like dogs barking, toilets flushing, music playing) is filtered out. That’s very helpful for folks who work from home. 

However, for worship, it means that everything we want the folks online to hear is filtered out by default, and the App simply needs to be toggled ON to allow that “background” noise to become part of our corporate worship. The option was always there; we simply ignored it, not really seeing it, knowing what it meant, or what it was for.

 Now that we know what to look for and what to do, we can flip the switch and focus on the tasks at hand – making a joyful noise unto the Lord, and scattering the seed (also known as “broadcasting") to the furthest reaches of the Lord’s fields. 

We live, we ask questions, we seek experts, and we learn. It’s as simple as that, which sounds good enough for me here in this, our valley.

* I should note I am ably assisted by Michael Boss, Ben Worrell, and Jen McCabe in the loft. This is NOT a solo gig!!!

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

A MODERN PARABLE

 A PARABLE OF GRACE

Jesus was walking about incognito one day and happened to stop by a local coffee shop that was famous for turning water into expensive drinks. Jesus had no money as he’d left his wallet and ID back home in the high country. Fortunately, the gentleman in front, a lawyer by trade, had performed a subtle rite known as “paying it forward” for the next person in line.

“What a wonderful ritual,” Jesus said as he smiled. “It appears the Teachings have caught on.”

The lawyer ruined the moment, of course, when he replied, “Now you should do it for the person behind you.”

Jesus thought a moment and replied, “Ah, I would, but I haven’t any silver or gold.”

“Then you shouldn’t have come into the shop,” answered the lawyer. “What do you teach, anyway? How to be a bum?”

Jesus answered him with a parable:

There was a man who deigned to dine in a fine restaurant, to enjoy a delightful meal. It’s a large restaurant. It’s a busy restaurant. The menu is humungous, and there’s something for everyone. Beef, seafood, scallops, venison, ham, wild boar, escargot, octopus, salads, everything from hamburgers to five star French cuisine and more. Everyone orders what they wish. They’re all having a delightful time.

The owner looks out and says to her restaurant manager, “The meals are on me. Tell the guests”

The manager replies, “But what about your servers? How about their wages and tips?”

The owner smiles, “Oh, they shall be paid in full, and I shall pay them double their tips and gratuities. They’ll lose nothing.”

The manager reported this to the section leaders, but they did not pass this report along to the customers. In hushed tones they said to one another, “Perhaps they shall pay us for their meals, plus gratuities, and we’ll profit like never before!”

But the Manager strolled around the restaurant, visiting every table and declared, “The meal is on the house.”

The patrons were happy, but the servers grumbled. “He’s chopping our legs out from beneath us!” So they grabbed the manager, hauled him out back into the alley, killed him, and tossed his carcass into the dumpster with the rest of the kitchen trash.

The servers rubbed their hands with glee, but it was short-lived. The Manager came back into the restaurant with a fresh change of clothes and spoke into the loud hailer, “The meals are on the house, courtesy of the owner of the house. Thank you for making this such a joyous occasion.”

The manager returned to the office where the owner sat at her desk. “Thank you for coming out to the dumpster, finding me, giving me CPR, a shower, and a fresh change of clothes. I have repeated your message to our patrons that the meal and gratuities are on the house. What shall I do with those brutish servers?”

The owner paused a moment to think and replied, “Have them sit down, grab a meal, and enjoy it. It’s on the house for them, too. I shall be out to serve them forthwith.”

“But they don’t deserve to be rewarded for their wickedness, do they?” queried the manager.

“I don’t reward them for their wickedness. It’s not about crime and punishment, carrots or sticks. It gives me joy to share freely from out of my abundance. If they can’t handle it, that’s their problem, not mine. The meal’s on the house. The meal’s always on the house."

With that, Jesus enjoyed his latte and returned to strolling about and managing the little eatery known to the locals as Earth.

The lawyer sat there, slack jawed and amazed.

© Keith Axberg, 2023

NOTE: No theologians were injured in the making of this parable.

The Weeds Will Always Win

“Faith is looking beyond what is, and trusting what will be … (faith) is the presence of light in darkness, the presence of God in all.” Ellen M. Cuomo

The dandelions have taken over the lawn again. We did a fair amount of weed control when we first moved to our home in Western Washington six years back. Lawns take a lot of work, there’s no doubt about it. But we’d gotten the dandelions pretty well under control by digging them out one by one and engaging in a chemical warfare I’m not fond of (for the environment’s sake). But over time, they have crept back into our lawn once again to become a major eyesore. 

Why is it that children are so care-free and adults so uptight about things like neat lawns, prize winning roses, or hedges trimmed straight, level, and plumb? 

I recall sitting, as a child, on dandelion infested lawns, gazing in wonder at those fragile seeds arranged in a downy ball more wondrous than any fireworks display on the Fourth of July. I could pluck up a stem ever so carefully so as to avoid losing even one pif [sic] so that I could personally blow the whole ball of wax apart with a breath – delighted to see the wind pick up each and every seed, spreading them far and wide into neighbors’ yards. 

Those were also days I would hold bright yellow dandelion flowers beneath the chins of little neighborhood girls to see if they liked butter (for the old tale was told that if your chin glowed yellow, then you did, indeed, like butter). We didn’t ruin the effect by talking about the science of light rays, reflections, and the rods and cones in our eyes that allow us to see such things. We simply delighted ourselves with the experience of life, being silly, and having fun being kids.

Oh sure, we had our chores. We had homework to do during the school year. But play is (and was) a child’s primary work. That’s how we learned to get along and how to settle disputes. We learned about consequences, too. Mr. Grassley yelled at us, scolding us for spreading (“dander-lions,” he called them) and potentially ruining his pristine lawn. The wind blows where it will, and God doesn’t care where seeds blow, but Mr. Grassley sure did!

Well, I'm grown up now (for the most part) and the dandelion seeds have suddenly come home to roost. I live a sober life, so I’ve never yearned to make dandelion wine (and that which I tasted years ago never resulted in my wanting more), so the old saw about turning lemons into lemonade (in this case, dandelions into dandelion wine) simply doesn’t hold water today.

I can guarantee I am at the age where I will not be digging weeds out of the grass one by one with my pointy little dandelion tool any more. As much as I resist looking to utilize a chemical solution for a natural problem, I’m afraid I probably will. I know it is a losing battle. In a war of man versus nature, nature will always win. 

I wonder if I really need to control the weeds that crop up from time to time in my lawn or flower beds. I’ve often heard it said that the opposite of love is not hate or apathy, but control. How can we say we love nature if we seek continually to control it? How can we say we love our neighbor if we continually try to control them? How can we say we love God if we perpetually try to control God with our prayers or wishes? 

Jesus taught us to pray, “Thy will be done.” Maybe I don’t need to control weeds or life; I just need to make adjustments so that they don’t control me, for I believe it’s a two-way street.  

In the end, I don’t need to become an herbicidal maniac; I just need to look “beyond what is and trusting what will be” (in the words of the poet). In the meantime, it’s enough to know I DO like butter here in this, our valley. My dandelions tell me so.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book) 

Aging With Dignity

How long shall I have perplexity in my mind, and grief in my heart, day after day? Psalm 13:2

Sometimes life is hard. There was a day I could spring up from wherever I was sitting and go do what needed doing. Today I rise like some royal potentate from his throne: slowly, regally, and with dignity. It isn’t because I am important. No, it’s because I want to allow my body time to realize I’m on the move; it needs that time to send some fresh oxygenated blood to the brain so that I won’t collapse after I’ve gotten all vertical.

I’ve been doing some projects around the house and find myself somewhat irritated that tasks that used to take me minutes now take hours. I built some homemade storage shelves in the shed out back the other day, and a project that should have taken thirty to forty-five minutes took ninety minutes, instead.

Then last week I was putting together some raised flower boxes (as I no longer want to bend over to pull weeds or cut flowers), and the components were almost too heavy for me to carry to where I’d intended to place them.

That’s OK, though. Aging, as they say, beats the alternative, although there are some who might take issue with that, as well. Sometimes aging can bring with it a lot of pain and misery. If I can laugh about mine, it really isn’t that bad, is it?

One of the things that helps me most as I get older is being able to take stock in where I am, what I’m doing, and noting how I’m feeling. Even a toddler is getting older as they reach a new day. Aging is part of life, and the things I could do as a young whipper snapper are things that either take longer now, or are now beyond my ability to actually do.  I can either stew about it, or just give the task a nod and decide whether or not it needs to be done, if it needs to be done now, and if it needs to be done by me.

The key to aging gracefully is acknowledging that I’ve never done anything gracefully in my life, so why should I expect aging to be any different? Life’s too short to fret over all the “woulda, coulda, shouldas” of life. My goal isn’t to age gracefully as much as it is to continue doing things that matter. I want to be useful. I want to be helpful. I want to be light where there is darkness. I want to offer a selection of solutions where there’s a problem, or to at least sit quietly with someone who’s in pain so they don’t need to suffer alone.

I want my life to look like the Prayer of Saint Francis (Lord, make me an instrument of your peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; etc.). None of that requires a strong back, six pack abs, or a brain as quick as greased lightning. It just requires a shift in focus. The key is compassion.

Compassion is the capacity to move beyond survival – to become one with the other. Too much time and energy is devoted to identifying differences, rather than commonalities. Yes, we’re all different. I can’t walk a mile in your shoes, nor you a mile in mine. What we can do, though, is walk together and talk about what it’s like to be who we are, and to do so without fear of judgment. That’s hard to do, though, because we’re under a constant barrage of judgment.

How many people fail to do the right thing because they’re worried about what someone else might say, think, or do? We all want to belong, but at what price? I don’t think God put me here to please you, but to please God. However, that doesn’t mean I can ignore you, injure you, or abuse you. My job is to love you. Full stop. 

Everyone’s a sinner, so God doesn’t say, “Hate the sin; love the sinner.” God says, “Love.” Period. I can do that – as long as I don’t try to stand up too quickly here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

To Dream is an Awfully Big Adventure

People think dreams aren’t real just because they aren’t made of matter, of particles. Dreams are real. But they are made of viewpoints, of images, of memories and puns and lost hopes. Neil Gaiman

I had a dream last night. Well, not so much a dream as a nightmare. I am sure I experience REM sleep like everyone else, but I don’t usually remember anything that happens during those sessions. I suspect my usual dreams are so boring they simply put me to sleep. But this one was different.

It was probably a typical “preacher’s” nightmare in that I found myself, first of all, late for church. For one who grew up believing that early is on time, on time is late, and late is inexcusable, the thought of showing up after a church service has already begun was absolutely horrifying.

Worse, was that it was apparently an important service and not the usual Sunday fare. The church was packed to overflowing; the air was filled with thunderous orchestral music emanating from a grand pipe organ combined with a symphony orchestra; the congregation was abuzz with great expectations as if, perhaps, Charles Dickens was in the house. 

My hands held a bit of drivel that was supposed to be my “sermon,” which meant I was apparently scheduled to be the preacher. I was mortified. The few words I could see scrawled on the tiny piece of paper clutched in my sweaty fists were complete pabulum compared to the grand oratory the gathered crowd was no doubt expecting.

I made my way down the side aisle. It was a tight squeeze due to the overflow-nature of the congregation. I tried to work my way up the right side onto the stage, but the door was barred by the organist and his symphony. That meant I had to traverse the front of the church (not a sin, but frowned upon by strict liturgists), and while the stairs to the dais were clogged, I was able to make my way up to my assigned place. 

Then I woke up, realized it had been a dream (or nightmare), and paused for a moment to give thanks to God it wasn’t real.

Or was it?

I am no Joseph, with or without a technicolor dream coat. I’m not trained in psychology or in the interpretation of dreams. I do know and I do believe God often speaks to us in our dreams, because it is in our sleep God can finally get a word in “wedge-wise” (to quote Archie Bunker). Dreams and nightmares are often personal and particular to the dreamer. What this night-time vision specifically means to me is mostly irrelevant to everyone else, but I can share what I would consider a key point that could be applicable in a more general sense, and that is ...

… Each of us is central to our own story, but few ever feel adequate for the role they’ve been given. I don’t think I have ever met a person who, on the outside, looks like they’ve got it “all together,” who doesn’t, on the inside, feel like a bit of a fraud or charlatan. And yet, each does his or her part as best they can. They know they’re highly unlikely to ever win a Pulitzer or Nobel Prize, or a Gold (Silver, or Bronze) Olympic medal. Their row of Sunday School attendance stickers may never come close to being as complete as those of their peers. And yet …

… while we see our own inadequacies, God sees us. Not our frailties. Us. Not our inadequacies. Us. Not our performances. Us. It’s not that our presence doesn’t matter, or that our preparation doesn’t matter, or that our presentation doesn’t matter. We’re here, so we may as well do our best, to do our part. But all of that aside, what matters to God is us. 

Motivational speakers urge us to dream big, or follow our dreams, but that puts the emphasis in the wrong place. I believe God dreams bigger than we ever could. We bring what we have in hand, and do our part when the time comes. God dreams of love and justice in the world. God makes what we bring more than adequate to accomplish that here in this, our valley. So wake up, sleepy-heads. Wake up.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

The joy of roaming without a gnome

"Don’t make change too complicated. Just begin.” Anonymous

For the first time since the pandemic, I’m finally free enough to roam about the country as I had hoped to before it began – by car. As I’ve said before, I don’t care for air travel. I’m not afraid of flying; it IS nice being able to take a trip that would have taken months or years by covered wagon down to a matter of just a few hours in conditions we may complain about, but about which our ancestors would consider an absolute marvel, bordering on the magical. 

But today’s flying experience leaves a lot to be desired. While air travel may be quicker and less expensive than moving about by automobile, I prefer to keep my feet on the ground and my rump cradled in a seat designed to conform to my form. I like being able to change my destination with a turn of a steering wheel, taking a road less traveled or discovering vistas I’d have missed if flying overhead at 30,000 feet and 500 knots in a titanium tube.

Besides, I enjoy driving. Cruise control makes it very easy, and GPS has come a long way since the early days of NAVMAN. I remember driving down California’s central valley to Paso Robles. My electronic navigator had a slight malfunction and was convinced I was about fifty yards off the highway. “Please return to the road,” she suggested. I ignored her, for I was already firmly cruising down the blacktop. “Please return to the road,” she said a second time. I ignored her. No tin-plated Dalek was going to be the boss of me. And then, I swear, the voice turned cold and icy, and through clenched jaw, bared teeth, and curled lips she snarled, “Puhleaze … re … turn … to … the … road!” So I turned her off, concerned she might have a phaser hiding amongst her assorted accessories.

Today’s GPS units are much more accurate and helpful. Not only do they know where you are and where you’re headed, they can suggest alternate routes when there are accidents; they alert drivers to “speed traps” (a feature I don’t approve of – just obey the legal limits, folks). They know where one can gas up, put on the feed bag, find a place to hole up when needing sleep, and so much more. They really are a useful bit of technology.

What they can’t do, though, is carry on a decent conversation. I know AI (Artificial Intelligence) is making great strides – significant enough to worry teachers and philosophers alike. There’s certainly reason for concern. Yes, kids (of all ages) may short-circuit the learning process and have computers do their homework. They may produce reports and essays that don’t reflect original thought, research, or understanding the processes involved in communicating what’s going on between their ears. What’s new?

New technology always creates uncertainties. People often find creative ways to utilize that which is novel in a manner that could be used for ill, as well as good. Pagers connecting doctors to hospitals also connected pimps and pushers to their clients; the film that can capture an Ansel Adams masterpiece can also capture lewd and disgusting images; computers that send essays and reports around the world via the world wide web also enable terrorists (both foreign and domestic) to coordinate countless acts of evil amongst like-minded nihilists. 

Viruses and malware infect so many devices, too. What’s worse, though, is how those same devices have become their own viruses. Traveling across the expanse that is America, I couldn’t help but note how many eyes are downcast, not out of sadness, but wrapped up in videos or posts streaming through their mobiles. The only people I could chat with were the motel desk clerks and restaurant servers (who were all very nice, by the way). We are prisoners confined by the bars on our cells.

I am guilty of this, too, of course, but this trip is helping me break that addiction. I don’t text and drive; I don’t browse the web while on the road; I have looked up and noticed the roses are blooming. All I need to do is stop to smell them. Change is as simple as that here in this, our valley. Thank goodness!

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)