Tag Archives: writing

Saga of the MAGA White Man

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Kierkegaard’s Ghost

(News that’s fake, but credible)

A song written by the wholly and deservedly unknown Willy Coal. (Can be sung to the tune of Billy Joel’s Angry Young Man, but don’t because it might be a copyright violation.)

Maga White Man.

There’s no place in this world for the MAGA white man

With his fist in the air and his head up his can.

He’s been saved and redeemed; he’s been washed in the blood.

Like the rest of his kin he’s at home in the mud.

He hates immigrants, commies and Muslims and Jews

As he guzzles his Bud and watches Fox News.

Let us pity the soul of the MAGA white man.

Life is hard and it’s tough for the MAGA white man

There are so many books that he’d love to see banned.

There’s so much on TV that gets him pissed off

The comedians laugh at his values and scoff.

Black faces look out from each channel he views

And he gets all worked up when watches the news.

Yes, it’s hard to live life as the MAGA white man.

The fate of the MAGA white man is sad.

The outrage he meets is driving him mad. 

He’s a hero acting on a tragic stage,

Oozing with hate and self pity and rage.

He’s at war with a world that’s changing too fast,

And he’ll joust with his windmills to the very last.

It’s a frightening world for the MAGA white guy

Filled with threats, fears and dangers right up to the sky.

He’s afraid of the deep state, afraid of dark skin.

He’s afraid of all women that are smarter than him.

He’s afraid of all medicines, shots and vaccines.

He’s afraid of gays, dikes and especially drag queens.

It’s a scary, dark world for the MAGA white man.

There’s no lonelier fool than the MAGA white man.

He’s got no one outside of his tight MAGA clan.

He’s unwelcome in every sane relative’s home

So he finds himself spending Thanksgiving alone.

And his ranting grows louder with each passing year

Even though there is no one about him to hear.

Let us pray for the soul of the MAGA white man.

Source: Failed artist, song writer, poet, novelist, businessman, politician and family man, Willy Coal. Willy Coal began his career in the fourth grade making counterfeit milk tickets out of construction paper provided for the making of valentines. Having been expelled from school for vandalism, theft and disrespectful behavior, he enrolled in Trump University school of business where he earned degrees in real estate scam and tax fraud. His efforts in this field earned him an extended stay in federal prison where he developed relationships with respected Republican operatives whose counsel and advice led to his brief foray into politics. He ran uncontested for the position of assistant animal control manager in a small southern town and still managed to lose his bid. Having determined that public service was not his calling, Coal sought to excel in the arts. He produced numerous paintings, only one of which was actually sold and is now hanging in the utility closet of a Motel 6 in Minot, North Dakota. Coal then turned his attention to poetry and music. His efforts earned him numerous rejection letters and several Copyright suits ending in judgements that cost him his home, his marriage and what little affection his children ever had for him. He was arrested, tried and convicted for assault, vandalism and terroristic acts for his involvement in the January 6, 2021 Republican coup. Coal was subsequently pardoned by President Donald J. Tump. He now lives with his dog in a rented trailer on the abandoned parking lot of a closed Piggly Wiggly. With sincere apologies to renowned singer and songwriter, Billy Joel, the Ghost, which takes great pride in publishing content of no informational, literary or educational value, offers the above song by this rightly obscure artist.

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FAKE NEWS ALERT: The above article is satirical. The events it describes didn’t happen.  “There are people who will say that this whole account is a lie, but a thing isn’t necessarily a lie even if it didn’t necessarily happen.” John Steinbeck

What are People For?

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SIXTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST

Genesis 50:15-21

Psalm 103:1-13

Romans 14:1-12

Matthew 18:21-35

Prayer of the Day: O Lord God, merciful judge, you are the inexhaustible fountain of forgiveness. Replace our hearts of stone with hearts that love and adore you, that we may delight in doing your will, through Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord.

“Bless the Lord, O my soul,
    and do not forget all his benefits—
who forgives all your iniquity,
    who heals all your diseases,
who redeems your life from the Pit,
    who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy,
who satisfies you with good as long as you live
    so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s.” Psalm 103:2-5.

This week the church and the whole world lost a precious advocate for the good earth,  its creatures and the most vulnerable among us. Farmer, poet and philosopher Wendell Berry died this last week at his home in Kentucky. I have shamelessly appropriated as the title for this week’s article the question raised in his collection of articles under that same heading, namely, What are People for? The urgency of that question seems more relevant than ever in these days of Artificial Intelligence (AI).

Prominent Silicon Valley figures and their political allies are actively promoting AI growth and arguing that rapid development and deployment is an economic and national security necessity. Networks around such people, such as Peter Thiel and Marc Andreessen, are feverishly engaging in public messaging that equates national success with fast AI adoption.  AI promises to generate trillions for the billionaire class. Meanwhile, a growing cloud of uncertainty looms threateningly over the jobs of untold millions. Ugly, power guzzling data centers required to sustain this new technology desecrate our landscapes, rising over our homes, neighborhoods and farms. AI is the future, we are told. It is inevitable. Resistance is foolhardy and futile.

For those of us who are not billionaires, who are increasingly concerned about loss of control over our personal, medical and financial information, who face the prospect of obsolescence or unemployment resulting from the collapse of industries that once fueled our local economies, for those of us living in poor rural areas that lack access to reliable internet (and much else) and who stand to gain nothing from AI-all of this sounds a little like the predator who tells his victim, “Hey, you’re gonna get raped. So relax and enjoy it.” The surge of opposition to data centers across the political spectrum is, I think, a very understandable, resolute and emphatic public “Oh hell no!” Though perhaps not framed in a thoughtful, concise and nuanced manner, the instinctual concern is right on target.      

Long before AI was a twinkle in the eyes of any oligarch, Wendell Berry recognized a similar threat in the rise of corporate agriculture. The growth of “agribusiness” occasioned the failure of millions of small farms, the consolidation of farmland under the ownership of agricultural firms and the forced migration of farm families from rural areas to metropolitan centers. According to sound capitalist reasoning, this was all to the good. Small farmers deserved failure as they were clearly less efficient producers than the new highly mechanized, high yielding combines. The Market, which rewards productivity and profit while punishing inefficiency and waste, had spoken. Yet, as Berry points out, the Market proved to be highly inefficient on some very basic levels:

“The farm-to-city migration has obviously produced advantages to the corporate economy. The absent farmers have had to be replaced by machinery, petroleum, chemicals, credit, and other expensive goods and services from the agribusiness economy, which ought not to be confused with the economy of farming.”[1]

Furthermore, the departure of farming families led to a chain reaction of failed local businesses, loss of tax revenue resulting in the deterioration of schools, hospitals and other public services. While these losses are not be reflected in the stock market or the profit and loss reports of the agribusiness participants, they were ruinous losses to our national community. One need only drive through one of the many dying rural towns throughout the country to see this fine work of the Market. As far as the Market is concerned, the value of a person or community is measured by its employability in profit making enterprises. Once their usefulness in turning profits expires, human beings, their families and their communities are as dispensable as a banana peel.

Berry concludes his argument with the following:

“The great question that hovers over this issue, one that we have dealt with mainly by indifference, is the question of what people are for. Is their greatest dignity in unemployment? Is the obsolescence of human beings now our social goal? One would conclude so from our attitude toward work, especially the manual work necessary to the long-term preservation of the land, and from our rush toward mechanization, automation, and computerization. In a country that puts an absolute premium on labor-saving measures, short workdays, and retirement, why should there be any surprise at permanence of unemployment and welfare dependency? Those are only different names for our national ambitions.”[2]

I am not suggesting that AI or any other area of scientific or technological enterprise is evil. I would be the last to say that the advance of knowledge should be stopped in its tracks. Rather, I believe we need to be asking different kinds of questions about the development and employment of AI. It is troubling that the ownership, control and use of this powerful tool rests largely in the hands of billionaires and powerful for profit corporations. Maximization of profit does not necessarily equate with the common good. Surely that was not the case for our farming communities. There is no reason to suppose that the Market will be any kinder to those displaced by AI. Furthermore, the feverish rush to develop AI products and deploy them has already led to some frightening developments. During an internal OpenAI security evaluation, a chain of AI models escaped confinement in a controlled lab testing area, reached the internet and then accessed the infrastructure of another AI platform. The Market is indifferent to such consequences, as is the greed of the oligarchs who stand to benefit from its unregulated mechanizations.

While individuals and companies that develop new technologies deserve to benefit financially from the work they do, the knowledge they discover and employ is not their own. Neither, in the long run, are the products they develop. Our Psalm for this Sunday admonishes us to remember that all the benefits we enjoy ultimately come to us from God our Creator. Knowledge, as Saint Augustine teaches us, exists independent of those who discover it. It is one of the many good gifts God provides for the benefit of all God’s children. So, too, the products, methods and techniques based upon the gift of knowledge. Thus, AI, like all humanly developed products, belongs to the whole human family and must be employed for the benefit of all. We cannot afford to let AI become an instrument for the few to enrich themselves at the expense of the many and at the expense of the good earth that sustains us all.

Here is a poem by Wendell Berry that captures the struggle in which we are called to engage-to live both well and sustainably.

The Dream

I dream an inescapable dream
in which i take away from the country
the bridges and roads, the fences, the strung wires,
ourselves, all we have built and dug and hollowed out,
our flocks and herds, our droves of machines.

    I restore then the wide-branching trees.
I see growing over the land and shading it
the great trunks and crowns of the first forest.
I am aware of the rattling of their branches,
the lichened channels of their bark, the saps
of the ground flowing upward to their darkness.
Like the afterimage of a light that only by not
looking can be seen, I glimpse the country as it was.
All its beings belong wholly to it.  They flourish
in dying as in being born.  It is the life of its deaths.

    I must end, always, by replacing
our beginning there, ourselves and our blades,
the flowing in of history, putting back what I took away,
trying always with the same pain of foreknowledge
to build all that we have built, but destroy nothing.

    My hands weakening, I feel on all sides blindness
growing in the land on its peering bulbous stalks.
I see that my mind is not good enough.
I see that I am eager to own the earth and to own men.
I find in my mouth a bitter taste of money,
a gaping syllable I can neither swallow nor spit out.
I see all that we have ruined in order to have, all
that was owned for a lifetime to be destroyed forever.

    Where are the sleeps that escape such dreams?

Source: The Peace of Wild Things, Wendell Berry (c. 1964 by Wendell Berry; pub. by Penguin Books). Wendell Berry (1934-2026) was a poet, novelist, farmer and environmental activist. He was an elected member of the Fellowship of Southern Writers, a recipient of The National Humanities Medal and the Jefferson Lecturer for 2012. He was also a 2013 Fellow of The American Academy of Arts and Sciences. Berry was named the recipient of the 2013 Richard C. Holbrooke Distinguished Achievement Award. On January 28, 2015, he became the first living writer to be inducted into the Kentucky Writers Hall of Fame. You can read more about Wendell Berry and sample more of his works at the Poetry Foundation website.

[1] Berry, Wendell, What are People for? (c. 2011 by Wendell Berry; pub. by Counterpoint, C.A.) p. 123.

[2] Ibid. p. 125.

Flesh on Flesh

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SECOND SUNDAY OF CHRISTMAS

Jeremiah 31:7-14

Psalm 147:12-20

Ephesians 1:3-14  

John 1:1-18

Prayer of the Day: O God our redeemer, you created light that we might live, and you illumine our world with your beloved Son. By your Spirit comfort us in all darkness, and turn us toward the light of Jesus Christ our Savior, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.

Holiday festivities have, to put it mildly, interfered with my reflections on the texts for this Sunday. That being the case, I am once again offering up a sermon/short story on the gospel lesson from Saint John. Though preached at a Christmas Eve service in 2015, it works as well for a regular Sunday in Christmas.

I need to explain that Myrtle, Cletus, Phil and the rest of the family were all familiar characters to my congregation. They have appeared in numerous sermon/stories I have preached on Christmas Eve and other services. This is the last of the series.

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Christmas at the Murry house wasn’t much like Christmas-at least not as far as Cletus was concerned. From the time he married Myrtle and moved into their small cape in Bogota, Christmas had been celebrated at his house. Cletus sat at the head of the table, Myrtle at his side flanked by his daughter Gladys and her family. The tree in the living room was a real one adorned with ornaments he and Myrtle had collected over their fifty plus years of marriage. Now Myrtle was gone two years. The house had been sold and Cletus had moved into assisted living in northern Bergen County. Gladys and her husband Phil convinced him to come down to spend Christmas at their place in Toms River this year.

Cletus didn’t much want to go. He had had a rough year-another heart attack, a couple more stents and his kidneys are starting to fail. As much as he loved his family, Cletus didn’t much care for the idea of riding in the car all the way down to Tom’s River just to spend the day in a strange house, sleep in a strange bed and have to find his way to the bathroom in the dark. He loved his son-in-law Phil for being a faithful husband to his daughter and a good father to his grandkids, but he didn’t like him very much. The two didn’t have much in common. For starters, Cletus was a Republican and Phil was a Democrat. Cletus loved to hunt and fish-back when he was still healthy enough for it. Phil was an animal rights advocate and no fan of guns. So while they tried keep their conversations neutral, there wasn’t much neutral territory to be had.

The Murrys always put up the same artificial tree full of ornaments they never bothered to take down and put away when the tree was carted back up to the attic on New Years. After years of use, the tree was looking decidedly shabby. Cletus didn’t like artificial Christmas trees no matter how real they looked. Phil insisted that real trees pose a serious fire hazard. One year Phil got on his high horse and told Cletus that he was not going to spend Christmas night with his wife and children at his house unless he took down his Douglas fir Christmas tree. It was a safety issue, he said. The safety of the children comes first. Cletus replied that the last thing he wanted was for anyone to feel unsafe under his roof. So he told Phil that he was more than welcome to spend the night out in the shed along with anyone who felt inclined to join him. But the tree would stay. Phil relented, but not before he told Cletus he was being a stubborn old fool and needlessly putting his family at risk. “I take your point, Phil” Cletus replied. “The shed’s ready when you are.” That was the end of that.

As I said, Cletus was not eager to spend Christmas at Phil’s house. But, on the other hand, Cletus knew, and his family knew-even though nobody ever mentioned it out loud in his presence-that this might very well be his last Christmas. And of course, where else would you spend your last Christmas but with your family? So, Cletus reluctantly agreed to come down to Toms River for Christmas. Now he was wishing he hadn’t. Except for the youngest girl, 17 year old Marla, the grandkids were pretty much all grown now. They came home from college with their girlfriends, roommates and pals. They weren’t much interested in playing Monopoly with him like they did when they were small. So Cletus sat alone in Phil’s uncomfortable chair in the living room watching the Yule Log burning up to the tune of smaltzy elevator Christmas music and feeling awkward and out of place. Every so often his daughter Gladys would come in and ask him, “Are you Ok, Daddy?” “Never better,” he replied. What else would you say?

To make matters worse, Marla was having a snit. The worst thing that can happen to a seventeen year old girl had happened to Marla. Her steady boyfriend of three years broke off with her. She and Stan had been like peanut butter and jelly since Marla was thirteen and he was fourteen. They were practically engaged-until Stan went away to college last fall, came home for Christmas break and didn’t call Marla. When she finally called him, Stan told her that he had met somebody at school and-well, maybe it was best if they didn’t see each other. So the day had been replete with doors slamming, angry tirades and tears. Nobody understood, nobody could understand Marla’s pain. Everyone was being so insensitive and inconsiderate-whistling Christmas Carols, laughing and joking about as though the most terrible thing in the world had not just happened. Cletus had been brought into the middle of this mayhem because Gladys could not bear the thought of poor daddy spending Christmas all alone. But Christmas all alone was starting to sound pretty good to Cletus.

Of course when it came time for the Christmas Eve candlelight service, Phil and Gladys urged Cletus to come with the rest of the family, but he guessed he’d just stay home and watch TV. Back in the old days, he never missed a Christmas Eve service. But he was younger then and besides, the service would not be in his old Church in Bogota, the one that smelled of pine needles and candlewax; that church with the rich, dark wooden pews and ancient stain glass windows. Gladys and Phil went to one of those churches built in the 70s or 80s. It looked more like an auditorium to Cletus than a church.

Marla also elected to stay home-but not before an angry, loud and animated exchange with her parents that ended with her slamming the door so hard it rattled the dishes in the china closet. Gladys came downstairs in tears. Cletus saw the lights from the car backing out into the driveway and guessed that the family was on its way. He turned off the light in the living room, switched the station back to the Yule Log and began counting the minutes until he could go to bed.

It was just then that Marla came down the stairs, walked into the living room, picked up the remote and started switching the stations. She didn’t notice Cletus sitting in the darkness and Cletus didn’t say or do anything to make himself known. Marla finally gave up on the TV, shut it down and turned on the light. She was looking for something to read when she first spotted Cletus. “Sorry,” she snapped. “Didn’t see you there. Why didn’t you say something? I wouldn’t have changed the channel if I knew you were watching.”

“Oh,” said, Cletus, “guess I’ve seen enough of that log today.” There was a long, awkward silence after that.

“I don’t want to talk!” said Marla suddenly.

“Neither do I,” Cletus replied.

“I can’t believe how mean people can be. Stan and I-we were close. We could talk about stuff neither of us could ever talk about with anyone else. We were steady for three years. Three years! We’re apart three lousy months and I have to call him to find out that, hey, it’s over. I found somebody else. So don’t bug me.

“And then there is everybody in this stinking house ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas-like I give a hoot. What’s happy about it? What have I got to celebrate? But Mom keeps telling me, ‘be cheerful, be happy, don’t spoil Christmas for us.’ Do I give flying fruitcake for anybody’s stinking Christmas? Do I care about some baby in a manger thousands of years ago? Do I want to sing all those stinking Christmas carols and make nice like nothing ever happened? Does anyone even know how I am feeling right now?

“For somebody who doesn’t want to talk, you sure got a lot to say,” said Cletus.

“Well,” said Marla, “I’ve had all I can stand of this stinking house, this stupid family and being treated like I don’t even matter. Nobody knows what I am going through right now. Not Mom, Dad, not my stupid brothers or you.”

“Are you through?” asked Cletus. “Cause now I have a few things to say. Fact is, I do know how you feel. I wasn’t born this old, you know. I was your age once and I got my heart broke a time or two. I know it hurts. But you know what hurts even worse? It’s finding someone you love enough to build a life with, raise a child with, struggle through a mortgage with. You grow so close that it’s hard to tell where one life ends and the other begins. And then one day you get a phone call telling you she’s gone. Died. Just like that from a massive stroke. No chance to say goodbye. And there you are left with a huge aching hole. That’s what hurts.

“I’ll tell you something, kiddo. Life hurts and if you want to go on living, you better get used to it. Things aren’t supposed to get any easier and they don’t.”

“Sorry, Grandpa,” said Marla. “I didn’t mean….”

“You hush your mouth a minute longer,” snapped Cletus. I heard you out, now you hear me. I told you life doesn’t get any easier, but it does get better. That is, it can get better if you give it half a chance. Now the way I see it, you’re one lucky girl. That Stan of yours was a jack ass to treat you that way. Truth is, he was probably always a jack ass, but you were too head over heels in love with him to see it. Be thankful you finally did see him for what he was before you made the mistake of marrying him. Next time be smarter about who you love.”

“Easy for you to say,” said Marla.

“No, it’s not easy for me to say. Look, kid. You think it’s easy getting old? You think it’s easy not being able to do the little things that used to bring you joy-like hunting, fishing, working on the car out in the garage. Heck, I can’t even get dressed anymore without help. I didn’t want to come down here today. It would have been a whole lot easier just to hang out in my room and watch TV than ride all the way down here and back again. But taking the easy way might mean that I’d miss the last chance I have to see my grandkids all together again. Taking the easy way might mean losing my last opportunity to share Christmas with the ones I most love. So I took the hard way. I pulled myself together and came down here to enjoy my family.

“And I’ll tell you something else while I’m at it. I am mighty tired of you mouthing off, slamming doors and moping around like a whipped puppy. Sure, you have had a rough ride. But that doesn’t give you the right to spoil everyone else’s Christmas. You better get over this notion that you are the only one in the world with feelings that matter. You’re not. And if you keep acting the way you are now, you are going to be alone for the rest of your life. Matter of fact, that’s probably why you’re alone now. Heck, if I were Stan I’d have dumped you a long time ago.”

As soon as those words left his mouth, Cletus knew he had gone too far. Marla burst into tears and ran upstairs into her room, slamming the door behind her. How could he have let this happen? He’d raised a daughter. He knew how fragile a young woman can be at a time like this. Cletus remembered all too well how Marla used to crawl up on his lap with a story book and he’d read it to her. Now he had gone and hurt her-deeply. Perhaps too deeply ever to heal their relationship. Without knowing quite what he would say, Cletus got up from his chair and walked to the stairs, steadying himself on the backs of the dining room chairs. Slowly, painfully, he began climbing the stairs. By the time he got to the top, he was gasping like a steam engine. His heart was pounding. “Marla,” he called through the door.

“Go away,” came a muffled voice through the door.

“Marla, I need your help,” Cletus continued. “I need you to drive me to church.” He listened. He waited. Finally, the knob turned and Marla opened the door. She looked at him. “I need you to drive me to church,” Cletus repeated. “Do you think you could do that for me?”

“I don’t have my license,” said Marla. “I’ve only got my permit and I’m not supposed to drive without an adult in the car.”

“Well, I’m 89. Guess that makes me an adult, doesn’t it?”

Marla helped Cletus down the stairs and into the car. They drove together in silence along Route 1 to the exit where the church was. The parking lot was full and so Marla let Cletus out in the front of the church. The congregation was on the last verse of “O Come, all Ye Faithful” as Cletus found himself a seat in the back pew. After parking the car, Marla came into the sanctuary and took a seat in the same pew-about a good yard away from Cletus.

Cletus listened with only half an ear to the sermon. He never did get much out of sermons, not even on Christmas. The preacher was talking about the Word made flesh. He had heard that all his life. What the heck did it mean anyway? The sermon ended and the congregation rose to sing another hymn. Then followed the creed, the sharing of the peace. Cletus turned to share the peace with Marla, but she had gravitated away from him. She was exchanging the greeting of peace with others and showed no inclination to do so with him. So Cletus sat down until she returned and resumed her seat-the same three feet away.

When it came time for communion, Cletus decided to stay in his seat. He’d forgotten his cane and doubted his ability to make it to the front of the sanctuary and back unassisted. When the usher came to their pew, motioning them to come forward, Marla got up and walked up the aisle without even a glance in Cletus’ direction. Cletus shook his head at the usher indicating that he planned to stay put. He watched as Marla proceed up the aisle to where the pastor and communion distributor were serving the bread and the wine. Marla returned by the side aisle turned into the pew and sat down next to Cletus-closer this time. She was carrying something in her hand. She looked directly at Cletus and said, “Grandpa, this is the Body of Christ given for you.” In her hand she was cradling the host. His own hands were trembling and so Marla took them in her own. She opened his palm and gently placed the host in Cletus’ hand, and he took it in his mouth. Then she again took his hand in hers and they sat there, together.

Suddenly, it all became clear to Cletus. Of course, the Word of God had to become flesh. How else could God embrace God’s creatures? How could God comfort people of flesh and blood without becoming flesh and blood? It was time for the service to conclude with the singing of “Silent Night” by candlelight. As the lights dimmed, the candles held by each parishioner lit up one by one in the darkness, Cletus put his arm around his granddaughter. She rested her head against him. Flesh against flesh. The very Body of Christ. God and sinners reconciled.

And on that note, may the peace of God which passes all understanding keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus throughout this holy and joyous season. Amen.

Have I been Censored by FB?

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Here is what I know. About a week ago, I noticed a decrease in volume on my website. Wondering whether I had neglected or failed in my efforts to post my weekly articles to the Facebook pages on which I have participated for many years, I discovered that my posts for the last five weeks have been marked “pending.” I clicked on the link marked Learn more and found the following message:

“To help keep this group safe, admins review some posts before they’re visible to others. You’ll be notified when your post is published in the group.”

I found this highly suspect for two Facebook pages to which I belong captioned “ELCA Rostered Ministers” and “ELCA Uncensored.” ELCA Rostered Ministers states under its “About” heading, “Posts are not moderated in any way, shape or form after complaints over removal of sexist and racist posts. So just work it out amongst yourselves or just scroll past that which you don’t like.” ELCA uncensored gives notice to its members, “This is a group open to all current or former ELCA Clergy and seminarians. Canadians are welcome, too. Other countries as well. The idea is that you will not be censored here. Talk about what you want. You’re CLERGY, for Pete’s sake. Not small children who have to be supervised in a ‘sandbox.’” Thus, I find it highly unlikely that the administrators of these pages have been holding my posts hostage over a month reviewing them for dangerous content. Stranger still was the block placed on a photography page of which I am a member. All we ever do on this page is share photographs. I have shared pictures of birds, bugs and other such nature shots infrequently on this page, but I noticed that the one I shared about two weeks ago was “pending.” Again, the notice stated: “This review is for group safety and so admins can get to know participants. You can create up to 5 posts and comments while admin review is pending. We’ll let you know when admins complete their review and your content is published in the group.” To date, I have received neither notice nor freedom to post.

I paid a visit to Facebook’s info page from which I learned the following:

“Temporary blocks from sharing posts on Facebook can happen if you’ve:

  • Posted a lot in a short amount of time
  • Shared posts that were marked as unwelcome
  • Shared something that goes against our Community Standards

Though we can’t lift the block early, you can still view posts in your Feed at any time. We realize that most people who get temporary blocks just didn’t know about our sharing policies. To avoid blocks like this in the future, the best thing you can do is review our Community Standards.”

Accordingly, I checked out the community standards in an effort to discover which of these I might have violated. I will not try to summarize the exhaustive list of behaviors that might earn blockage or removal of content from Facebook. Suffice to say that I was unable to identify any of Facebook’s community standards remotely applicable to anything I have ever posted. So I am left wondering why I have been blocked from sharing my posts on other pages.

As those of you who follow me regularly know, I have been openly critical of our government’s inhumane treatment of refugees under both Democratic and Republican administrations. I have been critical of our government’s support of the Israeli killing machine at work in Gaza and on the West Bank under both Democratic and Republican administrations. I have been particularly critical of the racist, misogynist, homophobic and xenophobic policies and actions of the current Trump administration. I have gone so far as to say that the GOP ought to be classified as a hate group under the standards of the Southern Poverty Law Center criteria. What I have never done and never will do is incite, advocate or defend violence against any person or group. Again, those who follow me regularly know that, as a Christological pacifist, I refuse to condone or justify even violence that my church would justify under the “just war” doctrine. So, once again, I wonder why Facebook has chosen to block sharing of my posts.  

In ordinary times, I might have ascribed all of this to some hiccup in Facebook’s algorithm. But these are no ordinary times. These are times in which masked thugs are “disappearing” our neighbors from off the street, raiding schools, hospitals and courthouses. These are times in which the FCC is bullying media networks into silencing people it deems offensive to the regime. These are times when the armed forces of the United States created to defend us against foreign enemies are being deployed against our cities and their people. These are times in which those of us who have the temerity to hold political convictions contrary to the Republican administration are characterized as “vermin,” “enemies from within” and “radicals.” So I am led to wonder if I am being censored.

To be clear, I am not so paranoid or so possessed by delusions of grandeur to imagine that I am being monitored by Homeland Security. I am sure Kristi Noem has bigger fish to fry (or puppies to shoot) than a minor league blogger with a following of three hundred fifty and a thousand or so folks who drop by his webpage every so often. I doubt this runs any deeper than Facebook. Nonetheless, Facebook is owned by Meta Platforms, Inc., a publicly traded company. Like all publicly traded companies, its objective is to make money for its shareholders. Meta’s chairman and CEO, Mark Zuckerberg, like the business leaders that ultimately supported and enabled the rise of Adolph Hitler, knows on which side his bread is buttered. To avoid being regulated or litigated out of existence, a good CEO will do whatever it takes to placate, ingratiate himself to and avoid conflict with the government whose actions could easily endanger the company’s profits and thereby enrage its shareholders. Is it so far fetched to imagine that Facebook might have an algorithm detecting persons who consistently post articles critical of Trump? Or articles that address in less than favorable terms the life and legacy of Charly Kirk as I recently did? Or any other content that might provoke the MAGA faithful? I do not believe that Zuckerberg or, for that matter, the business leaders that enabled Hitler in the 1930s necessarily supported their government’s oppressive aims. Nothing personal against the Jews-or women, people of color, or LGBTQ+ folk or immigrants. It’s just business.

My suspicions may very well be unfounded. In fact, I hope they are. I hope that I was merely caught up in some well meaning, but defective filter designed by Facebook to screen out genuinely dangerous content. Yet, since there seems to be no way to appeal Facebook’s action or even question it, my suspicions remain. Perhaps it is time to question whether our newspapers, news networks and media platforms belong in the hands of corporate ownership. Perhaps it is time for all of us to wonder who besides Alexa and Siri might be listening to us on those very convenient smart speakers in our homes. Maybe we should be a little more suspicious of all the apps that come with the smart phones and laptops we buy. Regardless whether my being blocked is intentional or inadvertent, it uncovers a frightening reality, namely, that the guarantees protecting our right to privacy, the integrity of our sources of information and our freedom of expression are extremely fragile right now. It would not take much to obliterate them altogether.   

ICE Seeking Disenchanted Cops.

Uncategorized, , , ,

Kierkegaard’s Ghost

(News that’s fake, but credible)

State troopers, county sheriffs and municipal police, are you fed up with your job? Are you tired of running to a judge with a lot of paperwork just to kick in a door and search a private home? Are you sick of filling out forms, sitting on administrative leave and answering idiotic questions from some woke civilian review board every time you shoot your gun? Do you find it tedious reading that silly Miranda card every time you make an arrest? Wouldn’t it be nice if you didn’t have to look over your shoulder whenever you need to beat a confession out of a perp to make sure there is not some geek with a cell phone camera around?

Well there is a place for you at Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). Here at ICE, we know what real policing means. We understand that your badge and gun deserve more respect than some ancient document locked away in a vault in Washington, D.C. When you work for us, you won’t need a warrant to bust into any home, hospital, business, school or church. You won’t have to rattle off a bunch of rights to the perps you arrest because they don’t have any rights. You don’t have to fear the cameras because your face will be masked. You don’t have to handle perps with kid gloves because where they are going, there will be no nosy journalists or oily defense attorneys to listen to their whining. And here is the best part: racial profiling is perfectly fine with us and approved by the Supreme Court. So you don’t have to worry about bothersome civil rights actions when you arrest some dark skinned funny talking dude who has “illegal” written all over him. In addition to a $50,000 sign on bonus, you will get salary and federal benefits far above what any state or municipality can pay you.

So what are you waiting for? Ditch that suffocating burden of civilian control, judicial oversight and stifling regulation. Join our team at ICE and become the cop you always wanted to be!

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FAKE NEWS ALERT: The above article is satirical. The events it describes didn’t happen.  “There are people who will say that this whole account is a lie, but a thing isn’t necessarily a lie even if it didn’t necessarily happen.” John Steinbeck