This just in…

Actor and NRA activist Charlton Heston has died. Would somebody please help me pry this gun out of his cold, dead hands?

Context

The Easter season is a a good time to reflect on the importance of context. On Friday, a nailed-up Jesus looks pretty helpless. On Saturday, a dead-in-the-grave Jesus looks pretty hopeless. But on Sunday….my, my. Sorta like when you take the time to watch the excerpted sound bites of Jeremiah Wright’s sermons in their actual sermon. When you hear the pastor’s message in its actual context. When you hear what the Reverend is actually saying. And who he is actually quoting. My, my. You see, it wasn’t a sermon full of hatred and violence. It was, in fact, a sermon AGAINST hatred and violence. Funny, the difference context makes. Funny, how FOX News doesn’t seem to care much about context. Funny, how 2,000 years after Christ’s resurrection, some people are still more interested in crucifying than in rising again.

I am woman

One Democratic candidate has insisted this presidential campaign is not about race or gender. The other has insisted that it very much is. And her palpable insinuation is, “Girls, you know what you must do.” The results have been pretty predictable. The candidate who reaches across the racial chasm, across the gender gap and across party and regional lines is starting to see that he can attract voters of all races, all genders, all ages and all stripes. Today in Virginia exit polling, he’s even shown that he can reach that most narrow-minded and stubborn of niches: the left wing female baby boomer. The group who have fought their whole life for equal opportunity, equal pay and a sort of equal consequences for reproductive activities. The group who came into this political cycle believing that the 2008 election was about crashing through the glass ceiling and putting someone with ovaries in the Oval Office. But then something happened. These feminist stalwarts––these pioneers of female liberation–– got over the initial euphoria, the momentary giddiness, of knowing they had a bona fide, qualified, sure-thing candidate and looked at a bigger world torn apart by sectarian hatred and a country torn apart by partisan bickering. They looked at how a planet where every group thinks only in terms of their own race, their own clan, their own class and their own creed ultimately implodes upon itself. And maybe they recognized that it is that sort of thinking that is root of the problem. And certainly not the solution. And perhaps, they looked at the last seven years of a narrow-minded administration and realized that this is not the time for more narrow thinking and mindless, lockstep solidarity. It is time that all good women do what all good women have always done best: Set aside their personal agenda and effect the greater good.

Cry me a victory

There is nothing like a good cry. Especially, if you are Hillary Rodham Clinton. The ice queen wept herself a major win. When others would have choked, she choked up. Of course, some of us weren’t so sure those were really tears. (I simply thought the icy Senator from New York was melting.) But apparently it was the real deal. And frankly, I’m alright with that. I seem to remember the occasional male President getting all misty-eyed. “I did not have sex with that woman!” Spritz. Spritz. Tears can come in handy when you are trying to win over your audience. Benazir Bhutto might be with us today if she had only turned on the waterworks. Iron lady Margaret Thatcher might have increased her reign if her British upper lip hadn’t remained quite so stiff. The current President could very well seal these Mideast peace talks with just the quiver of his chin. In fact, teardrop diplomacy might just be the key to a lasting world peace. It could happen. But one thing at a time. Right now, we must take stock of the remaining White House hopefuls. We must examine their records, take note of their experience and determine which weepy-eyed candidate is worthy of the awesome responsibilities of Blubberer-In-Chief.

Party with the People’s Party

Bilawal Bhutto Zadari. He’s just your average freshman teenage boy. He has a Facebook page. He attends a prestigious rich kid university. And bottomline: he just wants to have fun. Oh…and did I mention…he’s the new joint leader of the Pakistan’s People’s Party. And, well, it’s putting a major cramp in his style. I mean, most teens come back from Christmas break with a new iPod… young Zadari comes back with a martyred mom and a new part time job making Pakistan safe for democracy. Major bummer. I mean, really! This kid should be throwing keggers, texting hot coeds and pledging a fraternity. But the media is all “Can I quote you?” and “Are you satisfied with the investigation of your mother’s death?” And Bilawai is all like “Whatever.” And it is just wrong. I mean, look at this kid. He’s wearing a fuzzy hoodie! Find Pakistan another savior. This kid needs to study for mid-terms.

Bon Voyage

I have a confession to make. I have a hard time taking anybody seriously who wears a tablecloth on his head. So when this Southern Californian dude sent out his tape calling for Muslims to greet our President’s first trip to the Middle East with bombs and booby traps, I’m like “This has got to be one of those YouTube prank tapes.” Just a kid blowing off steam. But apparently, this diaper-headed prankster has a price on his head. He’s a wanted man. He’s a member of al-Qaeda, for crying out loud! Well, now I’m all like:”Bring it on, al-Qaeda boy!” And then it hits me. This Administration’s war of terror is working. Even our homegrown al-Qaeda jihadists think this global war should be waged on Muslim soil. They are cooperating in this “we’re fighting them over there, so we don’t have to fight them over here” hooey. Want this American President dead? “Well, we’re not hijacking any more planes to D.C. He’s got to come to us.” Well, Mr. President, I never thought I would be saying this, but, Mission Accomplished.

When dreams die

Seems like no one is satisfied with the explanation of Benazir Bhutto’s death. Odd, when you think about it. I mean, there are so many explanations to chose from. Something for everyone, really. She was killed by an assassin’s bullet. She was killed by a bullet-proof limo. She cracked her noggin. She had cracked the code on underhanded political shenanigans Even Pakistan’s President Pervez Musharraf isn’t satisfied. And he’s the calculating S.O.B. who engineered the whole thing––at least that’s one of the explanations. Now, maybe I sound a little callous. My apologies. But I come from a city that rather famously gunned down a President. And we are still trying to sort that one out. There’s the lone gunman theory. The two gunmen theory. The Mafia hit theory. The CIA hit theory. I think that there are even one or two that implicate LBJ, the Klu Klux Klan, Jackie and the Freemasons. It seems nobody likes it when visionaries die. We are afraid that the dream will die with them. And we are just not satisfied with lone gunmen and exploding people. We certainly take umbrage at the thought that a nasty fall could be the lethal culprit. Something big had to be afoot. So we conduct extensive investigations, convene our commissions, file our reports, then write our conspiracy books. Visionaries deserve nothing less. And the personal vanity of our collective dreams can’t possibly be so fragile that they can be ended so easily, so randomly. Dreams and dreamers deserve better.

The City of Man

St. Augustine didn’t have all that many bullets in his gun when he wrote The City Of God. Everyone was pointing fingers at the Christians, blaming them for the fall of Rome. But one thing was clear to this African bishop: when the Visagoths sacked Rome, that blood-thristy army spared all those who took refuge in the Christian cathedrals. This, Augustine argued, was unprecedented in ancient warfare. This was evidence that even when the wrath of God is on display, His power is also shown in His goodness. Christianity wasn’t the enemy. But things in Kenya look bleaker. Hundreds have died over the past few days–– fifty of which were torched to death as they sought refuge in a Pentecostal church. This violent mob gave them no quarter and burnt the church––women and children included–– to the ground. It appears that in the aftermath of rigged elections, it is not so much the wrath of the Almighty we are witnessing, but the wrath of man. And here, it isn’t some invading horde that is sacking the cities, but the residents themselves. Like Pogo said, we have seen the enemy and it is us. For one thing remains true. As inscrutable as the City of God may seem, the city of man has always been the harder to figure.

The Zeitgeist Conspiracy

Zeitgeist the Movie–– coming to a computer near you. It’s a 2-hour YouTube extravaganza all about how 9/11 is a shadowy government conspiracy. And how Christianity is nothing more than a rehashing of Egyptian astrology. And how Jesus is simply a retread of the Sun god Horus. The net-net of “movie” is that the Man (be he the Roman Emperor Constantine, the Illuminati, or the Federal Reserve) is ingeniously conspiring to keep us down. Among his methods are myth-based religions, human suffering and a group of clever Masons. When does Lara Croft come in and save the world? But I digress. Which is why I love the Internet. The crazies get equal time. I can blog that Muhammad was really a sock puppet and upload a video warning that implanted microchips are the apocalyptic mark of the Beast. And the crazies beget more crazies. And those crazies get followers. And those followers beget more fear and suspicion. Why, it almost sounds like a …what’s the word?…Conspiracy. Freaky!

Birth pains

The pro-life movement has had a fascinating character arc in it’s thirty-some years of gestation. We’ve all watched as embryonic placard-wavers and zygote-like sidewalk counselors morphed violently into vitriolic megaphonists and action-packed abortion clinic bombers. Then in its later trimesters, we saw the cause sprout suavy political action groups and kinder, gentler crisis pregnancy centers. Then something happened––an unplanned birth. Science and technology accidentally hooked up and, haplessly, unwittingly, brought forth a bundle of joy: the Ultrasound. The pro-lifers quickly drew up the adoption papers and seamlessly transformed their fledgling counseling centers into full-blown medical clinics. Suddenly, that proverbial lump of fetal tissue grew arms and legs right before our very eyes. And the pro-life movement grew wings. So when my wife and I saw the hysterically funny, deeply touching indie film, Juno, I hardly noticed that we were imbibing inadvertent, pro-life propaganda. Because there is only one thing more persuasive––more strangely heart-nagging––than some whizbang sonogram snapshot of a glob of radiant, unborn life. It’s a glimpse of human truth; and you’ll find it right up there on the screen.