Vintage

(Based on John 20:19-31)

 It’s been one week – one long, rancorous week.  I was out getting food for our little cast of outcasts, and upon my return I was greeted with great excitement.  The excitement wasn’t for the food and supplies I brought, or for the fact that I returned safely.  No, the excitement, so the others said, was because they had seen Jesus!  After they calmed down enough to tell me, all I could think was “This is a cruel joke to play on me!” They assured me it was no joke;  Jesus had appeared to them, in the very room in which we were standing!  And not only had he breathed on them, but he had given them the power to bind and release sin!  This was blasphemy!  Only God could forgive sins!  And they claimed that Jesus had breathed on them, likening themselves to the creation of Adam and Eve, who received God’s breath!  This arrogance was beyond understanding!

My name is Simon.  Or rather, it WAS Simon.  I was Simon back when life was simpler and all I had to worry about was getting enough fish in my net and avoiding the Romans whenever possible.  I love to feel the sunshine on my face and the feel of the net in my hands.  There is nothing like the feel of the lines as I cast the net over, hearing the lapping of the waves against the boat, and the flexing of my muscles as I pulled in a full net of fish.  But all those things have changed.

I have been watching in disbelief as our “leaders” in government try to fix our economic distress.  The Democrats are, once again, blaming it all on the “rich,” that elusive, unidentifiable group of madmen who are supposed to be bent upon the demise of our country as long as “they” manage to keep their money.

This is such a laughable proposition that I should be rolling on the floor, but the fact that there are actually people who belief this hogwash and vote based upon this belief keep my chuckles at bay. I cannot help but exclaim to myself, “Do people actually think that someone who is invested in our economy wants it to tank?  What the heckfahr are they supposed to gain from an economy that’s closing businesses right and left and draining our tax rolls?” 

Ah, but it’s not really economic dominance – nor even economic equality – that is sought here.  It is power, the power that is wrung from an uneducated and mostly apathetic populace.  For those who do not know better, it is easier to appeal to the lowest common denominator in the human condition rather than make educated arguments to persuade voters to understand your position.  It is easier to cry “The rich, they are out to get you!” than to work hard to provide equal opportunity to those less fortunate.  Indeed, if those “less fortunate” were to become successful, much of the power base of these sleazebag politicians would be lost.  Notice that “the rich” won’t be found in any list anywhere.  “The rich” is not merely those who are lucky enough to have incomes over a certain amount. (Note that the “luck” is often disguised by the years of hard work, sacrifice, and assumed risk.)  No, “the rich” are not evil unless they also subscribe to a certain political attitude, blaming their “fellow rich” of the opposite political spectrum for all of the evils.  I suppose dollar bills, like sand*, have a memory, and reflect the social mores of their last owner.  That evil, evil money!  Except the money from the likes of George Soros and his ilk!

It is more expedient for the power hungry politicians to appeal to the base emotions of the uneducated in order to gain their votes and keep their power.  One of those base emotions, and one of the Seven Deadly (or Capital) Sins, is Envy.  Envy keeps one from being happy.  Envy makes it easy to not achieve.  Envy lets the lazy offload their personal guilt over non-achievement to focus their frustration elsewhere.  You don’t have a lot of money?  Well, then, the rich people must have taken it from you!  They refuse to even think that accumulating wealth is not a zero-sum game, where if one wins it means another loses.  They think of wealth as coming from a finite pile of money, and if someone else grabs larger handfuls of the cash it means there is less for someone else.  Even with the wealth of information available in public schools and free libraries, it easier to blame someone else for their failures than to bootstrap themselves through self-discipline and a taxpayer supplied education.  Envy!  Be jealous of someone else’s good fortune!  Don’t be happy for the success of others!  Noooo, carry that weight of envy and anger and allow yourself to be manipulated into voting for those who would continue your plight, in order to retain their power.

I teach the pre-confirmation class at my church, and last week’s discussion was Sin & Virtue.  We talked about the Gifts of the Holy Spirit, the Three Theological Virtues, and the Seven Capital Sins.  When we got to envy, I asked if any of the students had heard about how to keep crabs in a bucket.  One of them had, and explained to his fellow students the best way to do it.  If a bucket holds only one crab, that crab will escape the bucket every time, unless a lid is used.  However, if two or more crabs are in the bucket, as soon as one crab starts making progress out, the other crab will reach up and pull it down.

The envious class is treated like a bucket of crabs.  They continually try to pull down those who are escaping their poverty bucket, and peer in awe at that godlike creature that put them in that position in the beginning.  That godlike creature has every reason to keep them in that bucket.  Little do the crabs realize that they are the main course for the godlike creature who wants to keep them right where they are.

*A reference to Al Gore’s book on the environment.  I refuse to supply the name.

Today I remember my friend, Dora.  I met Dora years ago through activities at my church.   This makes total sense, since she was one of those dependable servants of God who served in many functions over the years.  She and I were working as catechists during her last five years or so, and our paths crossed continuously for different reasons.  I always looked forward to her smile and that ever-so-constant twinkle in her eye.  We had a special relationship, she and I!  I always teased her about her accumulation of years, and she teased me for my lack thereof.  I was the only person allowed to call her an “old bat,” because it was always said with a smile and heartfelt love.  She always laughed and hugged me and then gave me back what I had just dished out. 

Dora was one of those dedicated people who spent her life serving others.  Her husband had died before I met her, so she had plenty of time on her hands and spent it well.  She worked with people going through bereavement, and often volunteered to say the rosary at the viewings of deceased parishioners.  She was a chaplain at a local hospital and served on various parish and community committees.  She and I shared a strong desire to educate our fellow parishioners about their faith, and we shared a lot of opinions.  I enjoyed our talks about our faith and how well (or not) certain students were doing.  Dora had accumulated, along with her abundance of years, an abundance of wisdom, and I was always ready to absorb some of what she knew.

The last time I saw Dora was several months ago, and I asked how she was doing.  Over the years she had undergone multiple medical treatments to unclog her carotid arteries, and she had survived breast cancer many years ago, before we met.  She had developed a dowager’s hump as well, but she always smiled and carried on her rather proper way.  I never saw her without her lipstick and make-up, and her hair was always done.  So there she was, dressed up for church, and her response to my question was that some preliminary tests indicated that she might have pancreatic cancer.  My blood ran cold and for once I was speechless.  What do you say at that time?  I wished her well and asked her to let me know if I could help.

Shortly afterwards, I stopped at her house, but she was not home.  I found out from a friend at church that she had moved in with her daughter on the north side of town during her treatment.  I also found out that she had brain cancer.  I knew, though I tried to deny it, that I would not see my friend alive again.  Those accumulated years that I had teased her about were not working in her favor anymore.  I sent her a few cards to wish her well, but I heard that she was tired and losing ground and spent much of her time sleeping and recovering from her chemotherapy and radiation treatments. 

My dear friend died on Christmas day.  We found out at mass the following Sunday, and when the announcement was made there was a sigh from the congregation.  When I went to church for the recitation of her rosary, I could not help but think back on her work in this area.  I did not go to see her in her casket, though I could make out the purple hat and its satin ribbon that she wore to cover the loss of her beautiful white hair, and I could see that she still wore her red lipstick.  I wanted to remember her as I had always seen her – with the knowing smile and that ever-present twinkle in her eye, bustling off to do some errand or other.

Good bye, my dear friend!  You will be missed, but I look forward to seeing you again someday. 

I was scheduled for jury duty this morning.  I’m one of those strange and wacky people who doesn’t mind my civic duty.  I figure that what goes around comes around, and someday – Heaven forbid! – if I am accused of a crime, I’d want someone like me on a jury.  Without people willing to inconvenience themselves periodically, our judicial system would crumble, and with it our society.

So, I found myself in a crowded jury room this morning, watching as the numbers appeared on the screen and listening to the announcements.  When we were released at mid-day, there was a stampede for the doors and sighs of relief for those of us who were not called.  Having been through this before, I just noted it as an event and left the building.

While I was downtown, however, I decided to indulge in a roasted eggplant sandwich at a little Italian deli that I used to frequent when I was a corporate soldier, so I began walking further into the downtown canyon to hunt down my lunch.  As I walked, I heard some drums and saw some street blockades and uniformed people.  “Ah, Veteran’s Day parade!” I thought to myself.  Not being much of a parade watcher generally, I thought that I would get my sandwich and watch the parade, and show our vets how much I appreciated them before heading back to work.

I bought my lunch and found a spot on the parade route.  I looked at the people around me, waiting for the parade to start.  Across the street was what appeared to be a Mexican family, consisting of a grandmother, her son, her grandson, and a little boy, who must have been her great-grandson.   I saw an Indian (as in the country India) mother and adult daughter.  I had followed a group of Middle Eastern men to the parade route.  There were several Anglo families with small children, clutching flags.  Near me were three vets – an African-American (in fatigues), a  Latino, and  an Asian man (Korean?).   I was surrounded by people of all nationalities, genders, and ages.  A golf cart came down the street and handed out flags.  The father of the small Mexican boy got several, and each member of his received their very own flag.  The little boy was jumping and waving his in the air.  I bought a flag for a little girl who was with her mother in front of me.

As I heard the bands begin to play, the excitement grew.  I cried several times during the parade, watching the aged warriors standing in the back of the trucks, with ramrod straight backs and eyes that always looked forward.  After all the years, they were still proud of their service.  I was momentarily saddened by the sight of a single veteran, carrying the black POW/MIA flag.  How many mothers and fathers are still missing sons and daughters?  There were the usual units, and then the special groups came by – the Korean vets, the Chinese-American vets, the Vietnamese, and even one Native American, with his feathered headdress and carrying a military flag.  Even the French were represented!  The disabled women’s veterans came by, one in a wheelchair.  Several other disabled veterans appeared, proudly pushing their chairs along, with flags and all.   I clapped for every veteran that rolled or walked down that street.  There Gold Star Moms and Blue Star Moms, and just Moms.  I was honored to honor them.

As I watched these men – the ones in the parade and the ones on the curb, I thought back to my jury duty dismissal.  I was ashamed of the people who had been so relieved to get out of the inconvenience of taking part in this great society for just a few days.  I could only imagine what these veterans had endured so that we could all stand together, in a street, because we wanted to. 

There’s a difference between duty and honor.  At times they overlap, at times they don’t.

For those men and women in the parade today, it overlapped.

And I was honored to witness it.