Tag: bible

Love Wins in the End

October 5th, 2026

Karin and I took Asher to Mass yesterday. We do that most Sundays. Asher generally does not like to go to church (really, how many five-year-old boys do?). However, he is okay with attending the service if Miss Jenny is there to teach the children’s liturgy. Yesterday she was at Mass to talk to the little kids about Jesus, so Asher was willing to go with us without too much grumbling. When we take Asher to church, always pack a bag with snacks and art supplies for him. During the liturgy, he eats something and draws pictures. This is not to say that he is inattentive to what is occurring during the Mass. He really does pay attention to what is happening, but as I mentioned before, he is a five-year-old boy, and the service is geared for an adult population.

Father Michael celebrated the Mass yesterday. He was filling in for our pastor. Father Michael used to be the pastor of our parish, but he got transferred a few years back. He baptized Asher and he still seems to have a soft spot for our grandson. Father Michael was extremely ill a while ago, and he did not entirely recover. Although he is younger than me, he is retired now, and that is why he can fill in for other priests. He is disabled to a certain degree. His hands are crippled up, and he walks slowly and haltingly. Still, he comes to us to celebrate the Mass. Despite his physical problems, he still follows his calling. He is still loyal to his vocation as a priest. I have to believe that he does his work out of love; love for God and for us. I admire him for that.

Just before the Scripture readings, Father Michael blessed the children who Miss Jenny had summoned for their catechesis. There were only a few kids there, and Asher was among them. Jenny took the children to another room to talk to them about God. Asher apparently likes how she does that.

The deacon gave the homily (sermon) at the Mass. He described a vision he had a long time ago. Jesus spoke to him in the vision and asked the deacon what he had done with all the time Jesus had given to him. According to Deacon Greg, the vision was brief but intense. God was asking Greg how he was using his life. In Greg’s homily he asked the congregation the same question.

While he spoke, Karin and I looked at each and then at the empty space in the pew where Asher had been sitting. We nodded to each other. We know what we are doing with whatever remains of our lives. It all revolves around a little boy.

Sometimes, I envy the people at Mass who have a firm and unwavering faith in God. I don’t. The preaching is almost always about God’s love and mercy, and I see precious little of that in the world outside of the church. I often think about Asher’s situation. He has no father in his life, and it is unlikely that he ever will. His mother is available to him for only a few hours each week. Asher has been traumatized, and God has seen fit to allow that to happen. The standard theological answer to my concerns and doubts is that it is all due to human sinfulness, and Asher is collateral damage. Maybe so, but I also know the parents of a family from Asher’s school, and their little girl has leukemia. Does a kid get cancer because of somebody’s sin? I pray for that family (they asked for our prayers), but I often feel like I am praying to God to protect people from God. Still, I pray anyway. I learned in the synagogue that prayer is our default mode. We can doubt God or be angry with Him/Her, but there is still nobody else to turn to.

I wonder sometimes if it worthwhile for Asher to go to religious education. What does he gain from it? Does it matter if he grows up Catholic, or Christian at all? Most of my closest friends are not Christian. During the last month, I have spent more of my free time with Buddhists, Muslims, and Jews than with my coreligionists. When I recite the Credo at Mass, the prayer that starts with, “I believe”, I have my doubts. When I say “I believe”, it is more like, “Yeah, sure, why not?”. I have been both a wounded person and a person who wounds others in my life, and I can no longer trust like a little child. I know Asher trusts me. Does he trust God? Can he trust God?

After the Creed, the children came back from their class. Most of them walked quietly back to their seats. Asher skipped all the way up the main aisle of the church to get to our pew. He was smiling and happy. The deacon smiled back at him. Asher showed my wife a hand stamp that he had received from Miss Jenny. I have no idea what he learned in class, except that Jenny loves him. That is probably enough.

When the service was over, we stopped in front of the altar to show our respects. There is a large crucifix hanging over the altar. Asher bowed like we did, and then he waved to Jesus to say goodbye.

A friend of mine from Asher’s school talked with me about his faith. I told him about mine. I said,

“I believe that love wins in the end. Everything else is peripheral to that.”

Feed the Hungry

September 15th, 2026

There are millions of people in the world who starve every day. There are reasons why this population lacks food. Wars, droughts, floods, and political turmoil all play a role. So, do we do anything about famine? Governments and NGOs get involved, but what are individuals supposed to do?

In the Catholic tradition there are the seven Corporal Acts of Mercy. These actions are derived from the Christian scripture (Matthew 25:31-46). Catholics are supposed to perform these acts to satisfy the physical needs of others, and to alleviate their suffering. The first act on the list is to feed the hungry. It would seem like a simple thing to do, but apparently, it isn’t because people still don’t have enough to eat. There are many ways to feed the hungry both locally and far away. It doesn’t matter much how a person fulfills this obligation. What matters is that a person does something.

Over the years, my wife and I have tried to alleviate hunger in our community. For a long time, we helped serve meals at a soup kitchen run by the St. Vincent de Paul Society. During Covid, we delivered meals to folks who were isolated and homebound by the pandemic. We have donated to food pantries. I have taken a homeless person to a sandwich shop and bought them lunch. We have tried to do small acts of mercy.

The primary objective with feeding the hungry is to give them something to eat. That should be obvious. A person who lacks food may not care that much how you feed them. They probably don’t care a lot about why you are feeding them. They just want to eat. So, give them something.

However, feeding the hungry is not just about giving food to people who are literally starving. There is more to it than that. We have to first fill their stomachs and then fill their hearts. It actually does matter how you do this, and it matters why you are feeding them. The spirit of the act matters.

Kahlil Gibran wrote,

“For if you bake bread with indifference, you bake a bitter bread that feeds but half man’s hunger.

And if you grudge the crushing of the grapes, your grudge distils a poison in the wine.”

When Karin and I helped out at the meal program that fed the homeless population in Milwaukee, the folks from the St. Vincent de Paul Society were adamant that we do more than just serve them food. We were strongly encouraged to sit and eat with them. We were there to share a meal with our guests. It took me a while to understand, but eventually I figured out that the people coming to the soup kitchen for supper wanted more than just food. They wanted respect and companionship. They definitely didn’t want our pity. They needed to enjoy a sense of human dignity that they couldn’t find anywhere else. For maybe an hour or so, they wanted to know that they mattered.

When Karin and I first became Asher’s foster parents, we were overwhelmed. We were both retired persons, and suddenly we were new parents again, trying to care for a baby only a few weeks old. Somehow, we managed, but it was a drastic life change for us. We got some help from people in our church. One man in particular comes to mind.

Jim is our age, or older. He is active in the St. Vincent de Paul Society, and when Karin and I began to raise Asher, Jim was involved with a meal program several miles from where we live. Jim volunteered at that soup kitchen every Tuesday evening. He decided to make sure that we got meals from that site. So, every Tuesday night, for a year, Jim brought us meals. We ate whatever the homeless people got for supper at the meal site. It was wonderful. Jim filled our bellies, but he also filled our hearts.

Could Karin and I have cooked something for ourselves? Or could we have ordered takeout? Sure, we could have done those things. But Jim knew how busy we were with that little baby, and how heavy a load we carried. He brought us food, but he also brought us love and compassion.

Yesterday, I cooked a meal for some friends of ours. Their daughter was a classmate of Asher’s last year in school. The little girl was very recently diagnosed with leukemia. Karin gave the meal to the family when she picked up Asher from school. It was a small thing for us to do, but we wanted to help them in some way.

What did we actually give this family? Yes, we fed them. We gave them food. We also made it clear that they are not alone in their struggle. We let them know that we care. We gave them love. We fed their hearts.

Fathers and their Children

June 21st, 2026

“And I divvied up my anger into 30 separate parts
Keep the bad – in my liver and the rest around my heart
I’m still angry at my parents for what their parents did to them
But it’s a start”

lyrics from Growing Sideways by Noah Kahan

It’s Father’s Day again. This particular holiday carries a lot of baggage. It always seems to remind me of TV shows like Little House on the Prairie or The Waltons where the father is always firm but fair, strong yet compassionate. I’m not sure that I have ever met a guy like that. I’ve only met good but flawed men. Most of them try to be decent fathers but frequently fail in some way.

I know guys who describe their fathers as if they were philosopher kings. Their stories of their dads depict these men as being consistently wise and noble. Perhaps such men exist, but I don’t know where they are, except in the selective memories of their adult children.

On this particular Father’s Day, none of our three children came to visit me. One lives over a thousand miles away in Texas with his family. One of them is currently unavailable due to a court decision. One of them has made it clear that he never wants to see me again. This situation is depressing, but probably not all that rare. Relationships between fathers and their kids tend to be fraught. None of this is new.

The Bible, in particular the Hebrew scriptures, has numerous examples of fathers struggling with their offspring. Adam had issues with his two boys, Cain and Abel. Adam had no clue how to raise children, and his sons didn’t know how to play nice. Abraham certainly had a tense relationship with Isaac, especially after he tried to kill his son. If Abraham had tried that in our day and age, the police and CPS would have been involved immediately. Isaac had to deal with Jacob and Esau. Those two were trying hard to replicate Cain and Abel’s death match. Jacob had twelve boys and he decided to favor Joseph over all of his siblings. Once again, there was almost a fratricide. David and Absolom come later in the narrative. David wept too late for his dead child. It just goes on and on and on.

Are there any lessons from these grim tales? Well, fathers are mere mortals. We sometimes forget that, especially on Father’s Day.

Karin, Asher, and I went to Mass this morning. Asher was restless in church, which is not at all unusual. He’s our grandson, and he’s a five-year-old. Asher needed to go to the bathroom just as the priest was starting his homily (sermon). That was excellent timing on Asher’s part. Unfortunately, the pastor was still preaching when we returned to the pew.

Asher seemed tired. So, he sat on my lap in the pew, and he rested his head in the hollow of my right shoulder. The priest was talking about how Jesus told his disciples to not to fear, and then he went into a story about how when he was a child, he and his siblings always felt safe when their daddy was at home. The implication was, since God is the ultimate Daddy, then when we are close to God, there is nothing to fear.

This line of thinking makes sense to people whose father was a man who provided a safe and secure home environment. What about people who grew up with a father who could go from a smile to an outburst of rage in the blink of an eye? What about growing up with a dad who was paranoid and always distrustful? What about living with a man who was in some way utterly terrifying at times? For the people in the pews, like me, who experienced that kind of upbringing, imagining God as a father is not a good idea.

I passed on the damage to our kids. I did some things to them that my father did to me, and I drank too much. I tried to do the right things, but I fell short. Noah Kahan had it right. My kids are still angry with me for what my parents did to me. Trauma is the gift that just keeps giving.

Asher sat on my lap and dozed during the rest of the Mass. I held him and rubbed his back sometimes. At the end of the service, the priest asked all the fathers to stand up for a blessing. I didn’t. I thought to myself,

“Just shut up. I’m busy.”

I didn’t want the blessing. It doesn’t sit well with me when a man who has never raised a child decides to tell some other guys what great role models they are. Also, I didn’t feel like I deserved a blessing. I just want to do my job. I love Asher, and even after so many years, I still don’t really know how care for a little kid. Every day is a new adventure. Every day he is a new boy, in some way a stranger to me.

Maybe I can do right by Asher. That’s all I really want to do.



The Fall

February 28th, 2026

The story of the Fall in the Bible is read during the season of Lent in the Catholic Church. It has always irritated me. Before I start ranting, allow me to post an abbreviated version of the narrative.

“The Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to work it and take care of it.  And the Lord God commanded the man, “You are free to eat from any tree in the garden; but you must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, for when you eat from it you will certainly die.” Genesis 2:15-17

“Now the serpent was more crafty than any of the wild animals the Lord God had made. He said to the woman, “Did God really say, ‘You must not eat from any tree in the garden’?”

2 The woman said to the serpent, “We may eat fruit from the trees in the garden, 3 but God did say, ‘You must not eat fruit from the tree that is in the middle of the garden, and you must not touch it, or you will die.’”

4 “You will not certainly die,” the serpent said to the woman. 5 “For God knows that when you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”

6 When the woman saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom, she took some and ate it. She also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate it. 7 Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized they were naked; so they sewed fig leaves together and made coverings for themselves.” – Genesis 3:1-7

The story attempts to explain the effects of sin and the why there is evil in the world. To my mind, it explains very little, and it produces more questions than answers to the fundamental problems of life.

I am looking at the text as somebody who is responsible for raising a small child, namely our five-year-old grandson, Asher. As caregivers, my wife and I have to teach and protect our grandson. In the story God doesn’t really do much of that. Since, prior to eating the forbidden fruit, Adam and Eve do not know good or evil. They essentially have the moral consciousness of toddlers. They know that “Daddy” told them not to eat the fruit of the tree because they will die if they do. However, at that point nobody in the world has ever died, so what does it mean to them when God talks about death? They apparently have adult bodies, but they are literally babes in the woods (or garden).

To phrase it modern terms, it is like God telling Adam ,

“Hey, Adam, go ahead and eat any fruit you like, but not from that tree in the center of the garden. Yeah, you know the beautiful tree with the really cool looking fruit. Leave that one alone! If you eat, you are going to die. Let Eve know too. Okay, I have go away for a while. I’ll be back in the cool of the evening. Be good! You hear me?”

That would be like me telling Asher not to play with the power saw in the garage while I go shopping. It’s a recipe for disaster. In the human world, God would be charged with gross negligence. Now, God’s instructions are exceedingly strange seeing as he already knows what will happen. He is omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent, and a bunch of other omni things. This clearly a set up. God, for some reason, wants to get the kids out of the garden. We can blame the serpent or Eve or Adam, but God is still in charge.

Does any of this even matter? I guess it does if the Church insists on reading this story every year. The Church tells its followers that all humans tend to sin because of the disobedience of our first parents. How is fair to punish the children for the sins of the fathers? Why would God want to have endless generations of flawed people? Where is his quality control? The official answer to my questions is that it is all because of our gift of free will, which we continually abuse. Depending on who you read, be it St. Augustine or John Calvin, the basic Christian message seems to be that we all suck.

During the Easter Vigil Mass, the holiest liturgy on the calendar, the priest recalls the Fall and speaks of it as the “felix culpa”, the happy mistake. I find that remarkable and encouraging. The message is that God would not have fully entered the world without Adam and Eve disobeying the Lord. History did not start until the Fall.

Why did God allow the Fall to occur? Genesis doesn’t say. If the act of creation did not end after six days, if it continues even now, then maybe God wanted cocreators working with him. Maybe he wanted some apprentices that He could train. Maybe God is still working on the ultimate work of art, and he wants us to participate in it, even if we are like kindergarteners fumbling with our finger paints. Maybe it’s not such a terrible thing to struggle and suffer if we are helping to build the universe. Maybe it’s actually all okay.

A Midrash

January 29th, 2026

I have a friend from our old synagogue named Jakob. He is an elderly gentleman. He is hard of hearing, but his thoughts run deep, and he is a very perceptive person. Jakob has taken a shine to my five-year-old grandson, Asher. He has in the past baked cookies for the boy. They were good. I had some of them. Recently, Jakob bought Asher a book. This is interesting because Asher doesn’t read yet, although he is quite competent at writing his name. My wife, Karin, read the book to Asher. It is a very short tale, and quite funny. Asher laughed a lot while Karin read to him, although he also found a couple parts to be rather sad.

The little book qualifies as a midrash about Noah’s ark, at least it does to me.

According to My Jewish Learning, a midrash is defined as:

“Midrash (מדרשׁ) is an interpretive act, seeking the answers to religious questions (both practical and theological) by plumbing the meaning of the words of the Torah. (In the Bible, the root d-r-sh [דרשׁ] is used to mean inquiring into any matter, including occasionally to seek out God’s word.) Midrash responds to contemporary problems and crafts new stories, making connections between new Jewish realities and the unchanging biblical text.”

The book is titled Meet at the Ark at Eight! by a German author, Ulrich Hub. The story is packed with absurdity and sprinkled with running gags and sly humor. There are very few characters in the tale. There are three rather clueless penguins whose antics somehow remind me of the Marx Brothers. There is an overweight, overworked, and overbearing white dove. Finally, there is Noah, who only makes a cameo appearance at the end of the story. As I mentioned, the book is hilarious, but it also delves into some serious questions.

There are people, especially among my Christian brethren, who are convinced that every story in the Bible holds a clear and concise moral lesson. This is of course nonsense. In the Torah the narratives are terse using a minimum of words. There is no extraneous verbiage. In fact, the person reading or listening to one of the stories will often have more questions than answers when it is over. The stories in the Hebrew scriptures tend to be a lot like life: confusing and ambiguous. They cry out for interpretation and additional details. Hence, the existence of the midrash, and of a little book about penguins on the ark.

Anybody who has read the story of Noah and actually pondered it, ends up with a kind of queasy feeling about God. The Lord does not come out looking good. Bad optics. Sure, He places the rainbow in the sky at the end of the show, but that is after He has totally trashed his creation. There is an unsettling question of justice in the Bible narrative. God decides that all of humankind, except for Noah and his kin, are irredeemably evil and worthy of destruction. Okay, God is omniscient, so He probably knows the moral standing of his creatures. But why kill almost all of the animals? What did they do wrong? Can a penguin sin? This topic comes up in the book. There are a number of odd theological questions that get broached in this modern midrash. Almost all of them make the reader smile.

I have time before Asher wakes up for school this morning. I am going to read the book again. It’s good. Asher recommends it.

Incarnation

December 24th, 2025

Karin, Asher, and I attended the Christmas Vigil Mass at St. Rita’s yesterday evening. Asher went with some reluctance. We had to threaten him with a loss of possible Christmas gifts to get him to go. Karin, being a German, has been telling Asher that “Christkind” (the Christ child) won’t bring him presents unless he is a good boy, which means he needs to be at church to celebrate Christkind’s birthday. Asher was fine once we got there. Upon our return home, he was happy to learn that Christkind kept his part of the bargain.

I was uneasy during Mass. A lot of people were in the church. I am certain that the increased attendance was because of families coming together to worship. Our own family is fractured, so only the three of us were at Mass. The Christmas service is designed to stimulate love and joy. For some of us, the music, decorations, and ritual of the celebration only highlight an intense feeling a grief.

The deacon offered the prayers of petition to the congregation. One prayer hit home. The deacon told the parishioners,

“For those who have difficulty with Christmas, may they see how much God really loves them.”

He was talking to me there. I always struggle with Christmas. Karin knows this and she doesn’t expect a lot from me. Christmas comes with a lot of baggage. My version of the ghost of Christmas past likes to conjure up painful memories. The ghost of Christmas present doesn’t offer much to inspire me, and the ghost of Christmas future shows me a blank screen. I don’t enjoy Christmas as much as I endure it.

The priest preached about the Incarnation, which is what the holiday is all about. “The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us.” The whole notion of God taking human form is astounding. There is a laser like focus on the birth of Jesus, which is completely understandable, but also a bit unfortunate. The priest did say that one reason for God becoming human was to allow humans to be more like God. We have the opportunity to share in that divinity.

Why do we love the image of the Christ child? What is so attractive about the crèche? Why do we want to hold the baby Jesus in our arms, and have God hold us as well?

Asher is asleep in bed right now. I held him until he dozed off. He cuddles up to me for security and warmth. When I hold him, I hear his breath and feel his heartbeat. Asher brings me closer to God. When I have Asher in my arms, I am embracing the Christ child as well.

William Wordsworth wrote,

“Not in entire forgetfulness,

                      And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

                      From God, who is our home.”

We love small children because they are still so close to God. Even a five-year-old like Asher trails clouds of glory. He still exudes love and joy, not all the time, but enough. His birth is part of the Incarnation of Jesus.

Another English poet, William Blake, contemplated that essence of divinity within each person. He was once questioned about it by a scholar named Crabb Robinson.

Crabb Robinson reported: “On my asking in what light he (William Blake) viewed the great question concerning the divinity of Jesus Christ, he said, ‘He is the only God;’ but then he added, ‘And so am I and so are you.’”

Blake may have taken that a bit too far, but he was essentially right. We all have a piece of God within us. In the East, they would refer to that as Buddha nature. St. Francis of Assisi embraced the leper because he recognized God within that suffering individual. Dorothy Day saw Christ when she served the poor and the homeless. There is that divine spark in every person. In my case, I’ve buried it pretty deep, but it still flickers. It’s still there.

Any child born at any time anywhere shares in the Incarnation of Christ. True, Jesus was born two thousand years ago in a backwater of the Roman Empire. But he’s still being born now, each and every moment.

I look at Asher and I know that. Then I rejoice.

Empty Seats

December 12th, 2025

I took Asher to Mass last Sunday morning. My wife was not feeling well, so she stayed home. Asher usually balks at going to church, but twice a month Miss Jenny offers “Liturgy of the Word for Children” during the service. Her program is a Bible lesson for the little kids about the scripture readings that are being proclaimed during the Mass. She apparently makes the session fun, because our grandson is eager to be with her and the other children. I like it because for a few minutes I can focus on the Mass as opposed to watching whatever mischief Asher is making.

When the priest called for the children to come forth and meet up with Miss Jenny, I noticed once again how few kids were in the church. The weather that morning was bad, so some families probably stayed home to avoid the snow-covered roads. But still, there were only a handful of children at the Mass. Of those in attendance only six kids went to Jenny’s program. Six kids. That’s pathetic, and it’s a bit scary.

Keep in mind that the vast majority of the people going to the one and only Sunday service at our parish is old. I am a mere stripling compared to some of the other parishioners. There are very few families at Mass even on nice days. I make a habit of counting the number of children when we go to church. Generally, there are maybe a dozen. That’s it.

The scary part is that this small group of children represents the future of our church. The upshot is that there really isn’t a future there. In ten years, most of the people in the pews will be dead. There is not a new generation coming up to replace them. There will be a lot of empty seats. Even now, our parish is in the process of combining operations with three other parishes. That is partly due to a lack of priests, but also due to a vanishing flock. It’s just a matter of time before the whole congregation folds up and the doors of the church are permanently locked.

Our parish is not unique. Most churches lack young people in their ranks. I am not entirely sure why that is. It is clear to me that the Catholic Church in our country does not meet the spiritual needs of the new generations. My wife and I did everything we could to raise our three children to be Catholics. Maybe in some sense they are, but none of them go to Mass. Our kids are good people, but they can find nothing of value in the sanctuary. It makes me sad, truly sad.

I take comfort in the fact that the Church has survived and often thrived during the last two thousand years. The history of the Church is one of cycles: vitality, decay, and then renewal. I just finished reading a science fiction novel about a time in the future when the Church is moribund but suddenly discovers a new way of fulfilling its mission. There are growth and strength in the Church elsewhere in the world. Sub-Saharan Africa and parts of Asia come to mind. For instance, our pastor is from India. In America and Europe, the faith is faltering. That does not mean it’s dying. Or if it is dying, that just means there will be a rebirth, something new and unexpected.

There will be a resurrection. There always is.

WITS

September 7th, 2025

My friend, Ken, took me to WITS yesterday for the first time. WITS is the acronym for Wisconsin Institute of Torah Study. We walked there early on Shabbat to participate in Shacharit, the main religious service for the day. WITS is a yeshiva; in this case it’s kind of a Jewish prep school. Most of the students are of high school age. There are also some post-high school programs at WITS. According to the website, students come from all over Canada and the Midwest of the United States. This means that these young people live at the yeshiva as well as studying there.

By the way, the school is exclusively male.

That fact is obvious from the moment a person walks through the front door. I don’t know how to exactly describe it, but a place that allows only men and boys to be there tends to have a severely masculine vibe to it. I’m not talking about macho, although that might be part of this particular culture. I only got a glimpse into this world. However, in a universe defined by yin and yang, an organization like WITS is all yang.

I’m at an age where something new always reminds me of something old. WITS reminds me of two other places: Subiaco Abbey in Arkansas and the United States Military Academy at West Point, New York. I’ve spent time at both of those places, but mostly at West Point. I only visited Subiaco a few times, but I studied at West Point for four years. Subiaco Abbey runs a Catholic prep school, and West Point is an institution to train Army officers. Both Subiaco and USMA deal primarily with the education of boys on the cusp of manhood. Subiaco, like WITS, has an entirely male population. West Point started allowing women to join in 1976 when I first showed up there. Still, West Point is a majority men’s school. Only 24% of the student body is currently female. Fifty years ago, the percentage was much less.

The architecture at WITS bears a striking resemblance to the structures at Subiaco and West Point. The buildings are massive stone constructions. There is a heaviness at all three locations: the weight of long tradition. A sense of solidity and physical strength. There is a feeling of permanence. When a person arrives at any of those three campuses, they get the impression that these institutions have always been there, and they always will. The buildings seem to be both schools and fortresses, and maybe they are.

The synagogue at WITS looks like a study hall, which of course it is. The ark for storing the Torah scrolls is at the far end of the hall. The bimah, the table where the scrolls are laid for the reading of the parsha, is in the center of the room. The rest of place is filled with tables and chairs, and books. There are books everywhere. Somehow, when I first walked into the hall, it reminded me of a mosque. I’m not sure why. Mosques are places of study, and the main halls are only for men. Also, both mosques and synagogues eschew most visual art. In particular, images of human beings are shunned. A mosque may have calligraphy and geometric designs. This synagogue had stained glass pictures, but there were no renderings of people.

Ken and I sat at a table, and I looked at the stained glass. One picture immediately caught my eye. Actually, the Hebrew writing is what I noticed. Under an image of an olive tree was written אשר, which translates to Asher, the name of my little grandson. I have only a minimal understanding of Hebrew, but I figured out that the series of pictures on the wall all referred to the twelve tribes of Israel. Each image was a symbol for a tribe. The easiest one to identify was יוסף, Joseph, because it was a picture of his coat of many colors. After a struggle with my memory of the Hebrew alphabet, I recognized Gad, Dan, Benjamin, and Issachar.

During the service, the prayers were said rapidly, way too fast for me to follow. I have been going to Shacharit services for a long time, but at the old synagogue, things were done at a more leisurely pace. At WITS everybody is fluent in Hebrew, so they run with it. Most of the time I knew where we were at in the service, but often I just sat and listened to other people pray. Sometimes, words get in the way of prayer. I have found that listening to others pray in languages I don’t quite understand, like Latin or Arabic or Japanese, brings me closer to God than if I could comprehend the meaning of what is said. Just hearing the sound of Hebrew is a blessing to me. I love the language, although I cannot explain why.

The boys and young men in the synagogue were all in uniform. That was another throwback to my past life. They all wore dark suits with white shirts and ties. They all wore black fedoras. Their tzitzits stuck out from under their shirts. Maybe they were dressed up for Shabbat. I think they are a bit more informal during the week. Also, they were all cleanshaven, even though many of them could have sported beards. When I was a cadet at West Point, I was always cleanshaven. It was a rule.

Why wear uniforms? It is a way of maintaining discipline. I looked at the boys and I tried to remember what I was like back then. I’m sure that they are generally well-behaved, but they are teenagers. How much time do they spend on pondering the wonders of the Torah, and how much time do they spend pondering the mysteries of other gender? I was probably sitting in room full of devout young men with raging hormones.

At one point, I noticed a little boy standing near to us. He was Asher’s age, or maybe a bit older. The boy had sandy hair partially covered by his kippah. He was dressed in a suit like the older boys. The lad was looking confusedly at an open siddur. He seemed uncomfortable as I watched him. That’s understandable as I seldom smile. I suspect he was the son of one of the rabbis and was coerced into being at the service. He was probably eager for the prayers to end so that he could run around and raise hell like any other little boy.

The rabbis sat up front. They all had beards. Each one wore his tallis, his prayer shawl, over his head as he prayed. Each one nodded as he prayed. Some of them had their eyes closed. It felt like they were with us but also somewhere else.

There were many prayers during the service where each individual was praying more or less on his own. At those times, the spoken prayers were like a murmur in the background, audible but not necessarily understandable. At other times, the boys and men suddenly prayed loudly in unison, and that was like the roar of waves of the sea crashing against rocks on the shore. The prayers were powerful, and for me, deeply moving.

The service lasted for two hours. The time went by quickly. There was much that I did not understand.

I will have to go back again.

Martyrdom

August 17th, 2025

“In your struggle against sin you have not yet resisted to the point on shedding blood.” – Hebrews 12:4

The priest gave a homily (sermon) today based on the verse from the letter to the Hebrews that is shown above. Our pastor is originally from India and wanted to talk about Christians in various parts of the world whose lives are in danger because of their faith. He mentioned that there are some parts of India where being identified as a Christian can be life-threatening. He seemed to indicate that he had some personal experience with that kind of persecution. I would suppose that under Modi’s Hindu centric regime threats against any non-Hindu group would be common.

Our pastor emphasized that numerous Christians have in recent years chosen death before renouncing their faith. He summed up his sermon by pointedly asking the members of the congregation what they would do in such a situation. Would they abandon their religion or would they become martyrs. A “martyr” is by definition a “witness”. That is the original meaning of the word. So, a martyr is one who bears witness.

I had to think about the priest’s question. I feel like his choice is simplistic. So, what would I do if somebody was ready to kill me? The answer is, “I don’t know.” I have trouble even imagining that scenario. I doubt that, if I was threatened with death for being a Christian, I would raise my eyes to the heavens and make a noble and inspiring profession of faith. It is more likely that I would tell the persecutor to fuck off and let him or her do their job. Or maybe, I would tell them whatever they wanted to hear. I really don’t know what I would do, and I don’t want to find out.

I thought some more about it and, if somebody was ready and willing to kill me for my beliefs, I would probably first think about Asher, my little grandson. I would be asking myself, “Who will care for the boy if I die?” It’s one thing to surrender my life if I have no responsibilities toward others. It’s whole different matter if my grandson would be an orphan if I chose the martyr’s route.

Taking the thought experiment a step further, “What would I do if the persecutor told me, ‘Abandon your faith in Christ, or I’ll blow this kid’s head off’?” I am pretty sure that I would give up my religion to save Asher.

Jewish tradition deals in depth with the reality of martyrdom. Jews have lots of experience with that. The rule for Jews is that they should forfeit their lives if the alternative means committing idolatry, sexual immorality, or murder. To die instead committing those sins is kiddush hashem, meaning ‘sanctification of God’s name”. In all other cases, a Jew should do whatever is necessary to stay alive. Historically, during forced conversions, many Jews allowed themselves to be killed, others committed suicide, and some renounced Judaism to save themselves and their families. The rabbis and the scholars are divided on what is the best course of action.

The question that comes to my mind is: “What is more important? Dying for your faith or living it? Or are they two sides of the same coin?”

Scenes in religious movies usually show martyrdom in a heroic and dramatic fashion. The images are violent and bloody. People literally go out with a bang. What films don’t show are the people who give up their lives a little bit at a time. I know loving individuals who care for sick or disabled family members, and they do this work for years or decades. These folks are giving away their lives as a trickle of blood, a few drops every day until there is nothing left. They may not get recognized for it, but theirs is a slow-motion martyrdom. They die for God in the service of others. They will never get into a stained-glass window, but they are sacrificing just as much as the person who has “Jesus” on their lips just before they get a bullet in the head.

These people also bear witness.

Too Tired to Live, Too Busy to Die

August 5th, 2025

I have a t-shirt with a picture and quotation on it from Hunter S. Thompson, the gonzo journalist who wrote Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I have always been a fan of Thompson, especially since I did a short stint in the Las Vegas jail back in 2017. I won’t describe that episode in this essay. I have written extensively about it elsewhere in my blog. You can find those articles if really look for them. Instead, look at the quote on the t-shirt. (See above).

I was wearing this t-shirt a couple days ago. I was sitting at the dinner table with my wife, Karin. We were both exhausted from a busy day. She stared at the t-shirt for a while, and then she said,

” ‘Too tired to live, too busy to die’. That’s us.”

Indeed it is.

We care fulltime for our grandson, Asher. He’s four-and-a-half years old. He is smart, active, and bursting with energy. Karin and I are not. Karin is seventy years old. I am sixty-seven. There are many days when we feel our age quite clearly, especially if we have been chasing Asher around nonstop. We can keep up with the boy, but just barely. As is fitting for his age, Asher is headstrong, and he tends to oppose our wishes. We grow weary of fighting with him. We were able to deal with willful kids thirty years ago, but now it can be an overwhelming challenge.

I pray each day. I don’t long recite prayers from a book. My petitions are straight and to the point. God literally placed the Asher in our home. As far as I am concerned, God gave us the job of raising him. Karin and I made an open-ended commitment to do just that when Asher was just a little baby. It is our spiritual calling. We have been conscientious about fulfilling our duty as his guardians, but it gets tough at times. I figure if God wants us to do the work, He/She better give us the strength to do so. When I pray for strength, it is often more of a demand than a request. I need the resources to keep going.

I also need the gift of discernment. I am a mere mortal. I can only do so much. I need to know my limits. God is only going to give me the strength that I need, and maybe not even that. If what I think I need exceeds that allotment, then I have a problem. I have to understand what I need to do, as opposed to what I want to do. I have to know how hard I can push myself.

I have a friend, Ken, who I know from the synagogue. He’s an Orthodox Jew. I go to his house almost every week for beer and conversation. We discuss our respective struggles. Ken likes to say that each person has a “peckla” (that’s a Yiddish word that could mean a backpack or a burden. Imagine a “peckla” as a load that a person carries on their back). Each person has a particular peckla that is specific to them. God knows every person’s strength and each individual carries a load that only they can manage. The burden I carry might crush another man, and the load he bears might be beyond my strength. I sometimes think of this load as a cross that I carry. Ken probably would not use that analogy.

The peckla that I carry is like my wife’s. We bear the burden of caring for Asher and bringing him to adulthood. We carry this weight voluntarily. We could set it down and say, “That’s enough. No More.” But we don’t. We won’t get rid of the peckla until we are unable to walk any further with it. We carry it because we love Asher, and he needs us. Love gives us the power to continue the journey with the peckla on our backs.

Love is sacrifice, and it is also strength.