Mack Hall
Last week a pet whale killed its third human at about the same time the Canadian women’s hockey team won a hockey match, which hockey teams have been known to do. This hockey match, though, was for the Olympic championship.
Curiously, the girl-eating whale enjoys a better chance at praise, honor, and a picture on a cereal box. The Canadian girls (I can call them girls; I’m old) are in BIG trouble for excessive merriment, which must not be tolerated.
No, not everyone was happy to see those young Canadian women sing their national anthem with joyful tears in their eyes. American hockey fans, for instance. And a number of Canadians in the audience didn’t even bother to take off their obligatory baseball caps during “O Canada,” while Prime Minister Harper looked as if he had lost a particularly beloved looney in a wager with his driver.
Things got worse for the plucky pucksters when, later in the evening, after the fans and almost everyone else had gone home, they returned to the ice to celebrate with champagne and cigars. The photographs of this innocent jollification outraged the oh-so-easily outraged. The public relations would have been worse only if Canada’s gold medalists had killed and eaten a baby harp seal in front of a kindergarten class.
According to the BBC, the International Olympic Committee, that unimpeachable role model to the world in matters of probity, is “looking into the incident.”
Incident? The Canadian equivalent of an end-zone dance is an “incident?” Horrors.
An organization styling itself Hockey Canada apologized for the offense given by Team Canada to a frail and delicate world heretofore innocent of the lurid knowledge of champagne and cigars. Perhaps Team Canada will be required to dress in white pinafores and stand meekly before some rubbishy EuroCourt and sing “I Am Sixteen, Going on Seventeen” as penance.
In contrast to the shabby treatment given Canada’s merry hockey players, the orca (“orca” sounds so much more, like, y’know, environmental and, like, stuff than “large stupid fish”) who kills folks will enjoy a continued career in show business with Sea World, whose corporate heart is colder than Viking DNA mouldering beneath the frost at L’Anse au Meadows. Hey, so what if a loyal employee is drowned and partially eaten by a cetaceous carnivore? Such must not interfere with profits, though the Dinner with Shamu concept may need a little re-working.
Some have asked what made the critter snap? Snap? What are they going to do, give the varmint therapy? A gold medal for killing the most humans?
Others blame the victim, suggesting that her ponytail provoked the animal. Ah, yes, the ponytail defense. And will they say that the victim’s clothes were too tight?
Perhaps even now Sea World lawyers are investigating the victim’s past to determine if she once smoked a cigar or drank a glass of champagne, or was taking secret orders from Ottawa.
How curious it is that women’s honor and even their lives are less important than profits from a freaky fish show for tourists in knee-pants and Avatar tee-shirts.
God bless Canada’s women’s hockey team. They know who they are and how good they are, and so do we, and so do their truest fans: this week in Windsor, Nova Scotia, and all over Canada little girls are slipping Bambi-like on the ice with their half-litre-size hockey sticks, dreaming of Olympic gold, not of being eaten for profit and amusement. To paraphrase Mr. T, I pity the poor fish that gets in their way.
As for the stupid whale, let it be rendered into fish sticks, and soon.
-30-
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Buddhists and Tradesmen Kindly Use Side Entrance
Mack Hall
Last week the King of Sweden wore a baseball cap and Tiger Woods didn’t, pretty much altering everyone’s perception of reality to the point that some geologists fear a shift in the planetary poles.
Baseball caps are the sort of thing Europeans sneer at for being, well, American, but there His Majesty was, in all his plebeian non-glory. One wonders what “Made in China” is in Swedish. One imagines a King of Sweden on holiday wearing not a ball cap but rather some sort of alpine hat with a feather, or maybe a herring, sticking out of it.
The look-at-this photograph of the week, though, was of the Dalai Lama being escorted out a side door and through a 21-garbage-sack salute of the weekly White House garbage. A sort of Via Garbagossa. Would the D.L.’s fellow Buddhist Tiger Woods be dismissed from The Presence in the same way?
One cannot be sure, but the Dalai Lama looked to be carrying a Wal-Mart dvd collection.
The Dalai Lama’s host and hostess were once promoted as an echo of the elegance of the Kennedy administration, but said echo is more like a bounce off a single-wide belonging to one of Bill Clinton’s Arkansas relatives.
The world’s fascination with the Dalai Lama is curious. He is more famous than Princess Di and featured on lots more tee-shirts, though Princess Di never owned slaves and the Dalai Lama did, up until he fled the Chinese. Whatever ill we may speak of the Chinese, they did end slavery in Tibet.
And now to speak ill of the Chinese: they keep trying to vet every other nation’s guest list. Anyone hosting the Dalai Lama is sternly disapproved of by the iron-jawed men (look in vain for a woman with power) in Peiping / Pekin / Peking / Beijing, and yet he is welcome in every sophisticated salon from Paris to Call Junction. Some of his hosts discreetly see him out by the side door, though, perhaps hoping the Chinese, who sometimes act like censorious old church ladies, won’t notice.
The fashion seems to be “Hey, look, we’re so cool we’ve got the Dalai Lama in our house. Hey, we’re not sure who he is are what he does, but, hey, like The Motorcycle Diaries and global warming, he’s like, y’know, all cool and stuff. And, like, hey, he’s cool with being sneaked out the side door and through the garbage, okay? It’s like, y’know, mantra and samsara and cool oriental stuff, dig? He’s like that.”
The Chinese response is a sinister glower which, translated from Mandarin to English, says, “Hey, just remember that we own you.”
The Dalai Lama does not wear baseball caps, though if he did the cap’s logo might read “Funded by the C.I.A.” No, no, your humble scrivener would never suggest anything so distressing, never, never, never; he’s just repeating mindless but amusing gossip.
Last week the King of Sweden wore a baseball cap and Tiger Woods didn’t, pretty much altering everyone’s perception of reality to the point that some geologists fear a shift in the planetary poles.
Baseball caps are the sort of thing Europeans sneer at for being, well, American, but there His Majesty was, in all his plebeian non-glory. One wonders what “Made in China” is in Swedish. One imagines a King of Sweden on holiday wearing not a ball cap but rather some sort of alpine hat with a feather, or maybe a herring, sticking out of it.
The look-at-this photograph of the week, though, was of the Dalai Lama being escorted out a side door and through a 21-garbage-sack salute of the weekly White House garbage. A sort of Via Garbagossa. Would the D.L.’s fellow Buddhist Tiger Woods be dismissed from The Presence in the same way?
One cannot be sure, but the Dalai Lama looked to be carrying a Wal-Mart dvd collection.
The Dalai Lama’s host and hostess were once promoted as an echo of the elegance of the Kennedy administration, but said echo is more like a bounce off a single-wide belonging to one of Bill Clinton’s Arkansas relatives.
The world’s fascination with the Dalai Lama is curious. He is more famous than Princess Di and featured on lots more tee-shirts, though Princess Di never owned slaves and the Dalai Lama did, up until he fled the Chinese. Whatever ill we may speak of the Chinese, they did end slavery in Tibet.
And now to speak ill of the Chinese: they keep trying to vet every other nation’s guest list. Anyone hosting the Dalai Lama is sternly disapproved of by the iron-jawed men (look in vain for a woman with power) in Peiping / Pekin / Peking / Beijing, and yet he is welcome in every sophisticated salon from Paris to Call Junction. Some of his hosts discreetly see him out by the side door, though, perhaps hoping the Chinese, who sometimes act like censorious old church ladies, won’t notice.
The fashion seems to be “Hey, look, we’re so cool we’ve got the Dalai Lama in our house. Hey, we’re not sure who he is are what he does, but, hey, like The Motorcycle Diaries and global warming, he’s like, y’know, all cool and stuff. And, like, hey, he’s cool with being sneaked out the side door and through the garbage, okay? It’s like, y’know, mantra and samsara and cool oriental stuff, dig? He’s like that.”
The Chinese response is a sinister glower which, translated from Mandarin to English, says, “Hey, just remember that we own you.”
The Dalai Lama does not wear baseball caps, though if he did the cap’s logo might read “Funded by the C.I.A.” No, no, your humble scrivener would never suggest anything so distressing, never, never, never; he’s just repeating mindless but amusing gossip.
Buddhists and Tradesmen Kindly Use Side Entrance
Mack Hall
Last week the King of Sweden wore a baseball cap and Tiger Woods didn’t, pretty much altering everyone’s perception of reality to the point that some geologists fear a shift in the planetary poles.
Baseball caps are the sort of thing Europeans sneer at for being, well, American, but there His Majesty was, in all his plebeian non-glory. One wonders what “Made in China” is in Swedish. One imagines a King of Sweden on holiday wearing not a ball cap but rather some sort of alpine hat with a feather, or maybe a herring, sticking out of it.
The look-at-this photograph of the week, though, was of the Dalai Lama being escorted out a side door and through a 21-garbage-sack salute of the weekly White House garbage. A sort of Via Garbagossa. Would the D.L.’s fellow Buddhist Tiger Woods be dismissed from The Presence in the same way?
One cannot be sure, but the Dalai Lama looked to be carrying a Wal-Mart dvd collection.
The Dalai Lama’s host and hostess were once promoted as an echo of the elegance of the Kennedy administration, but said echo is more like a bounce off a single-wide belonging to one of Bill Clinton’s Arkansas relatives.
The world’s fascination with the Dalai Lama is curious. He is more famous than Princess Di and featured on lots more tee-shirts, though Princess Di never owned slaves and the Dalai Lama did, up until he fled the Chinese. Whatever ill we may speak of the Chinese, they did end slavery in Tibet.
And now to speak ill of the Chinese: they keep trying to vet every other nation’s guest list. Anyone hosting the Dalai Lama is sternly disapproved of by the iron-jawed men (look in vain for a woman with power) in Peiping / Pekin / Peking / Beijing, and yet he is welcome in every sophisticated salon from Paris to Call Junction. Some of his hosts discreetly see him out by the side door, though, perhaps hoping the Chinese, who sometimes act like censorious old church ladies, won’t notice.
The fashion seems to be “Hey, look, we’re so cool we’ve got the Dalai Lama in our house. Hey, we’re not sure who he is are what he does, but, hey, like The Motorcycle Diaries and global warming, he’s like, y’know, all cool and stuff. And, like, hey, he’s cool with being sneaked out the side door and through the garbage, okay? It’s like, y’know, mantra and samsara and cool oriental stuff, dig? He’s like that.”
The Chinese response is a sinister glower which, translated from Mandarin to English, says, “Hey, just remember that we own you.”
The Dalai Lama does not wear baseball caps, though if he did the cap’s logo might read “Funded by the C.I.A.” No, no, your humble scrivener would never suggest anything so distressing, never, never, never; he’s just repeating mindless but amusing gossip.
Last week the King of Sweden wore a baseball cap and Tiger Woods didn’t, pretty much altering everyone’s perception of reality to the point that some geologists fear a shift in the planetary poles.
Baseball caps are the sort of thing Europeans sneer at for being, well, American, but there His Majesty was, in all his plebeian non-glory. One wonders what “Made in China” is in Swedish. One imagines a King of Sweden on holiday wearing not a ball cap but rather some sort of alpine hat with a feather, or maybe a herring, sticking out of it.
The look-at-this photograph of the week, though, was of the Dalai Lama being escorted out a side door and through a 21-garbage-sack salute of the weekly White House garbage. A sort of Via Garbagossa. Would the D.L.’s fellow Buddhist Tiger Woods be dismissed from The Presence in the same way?
One cannot be sure, but the Dalai Lama looked to be carrying a Wal-Mart dvd collection.
The Dalai Lama’s host and hostess were once promoted as an echo of the elegance of the Kennedy administration, but said echo is more like a bounce off a single-wide belonging to one of Bill Clinton’s Arkansas relatives.
The world’s fascination with the Dalai Lama is curious. He is more famous than Princess Di and featured on lots more tee-shirts, though Princess Di never owned slaves and the Dalai Lama did, up until he fled the Chinese. Whatever ill we may speak of the Chinese, they did end slavery in Tibet.
And now to speak ill of the Chinese: they keep trying to vet every other nation’s guest list. Anyone hosting the Dalai Lama is sternly disapproved of by the iron-jawed men (look in vain for a woman with power) in Peiping / Pekin / Peking / Beijing, and yet he is welcome in every sophisticated salon from Paris to Call Junction. Some of his hosts discreetly see him out by the side door, though, perhaps hoping the Chinese, who sometimes act like censorious old church ladies, won’t notice.
The fashion seems to be “Hey, look, we’re so cool we’ve got the Dalai Lama in our house. Hey, we’re not sure who he is are what he does, but, hey, like The Motorcycle Diaries and global warming, he’s like, y’know, all cool and stuff. And, like, hey, he’s cool with being sneaked out the side door and through the garbage, okay? It’s like, y’know, mantra and samsara and cool oriental stuff, dig? He’s like that.”
The Chinese response is a sinister glower which, translated from Mandarin to English, says, “Hey, just remember that we own you.”
The Dalai Lama does not wear baseball caps, though if he did the cap’s logo might read “Funded by the C.I.A.” No, no, your humble scrivener would never suggest anything so distressing, never, never, never; he’s just repeating mindless but amusing gossip.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Spawn of Satan Wireless
Mack Hall
Once upon a time there was no 911 service, but you could use the handset of a Western Electric telephone as a club for beating burglars about the head and shoulders. Now an entire telephone is little more than a choking hazard for infants and puppies.
Cell ‘phones, like toilet paper, are useful, but they have acquired such a cultic status that there may soon be an official government holiday dedicated to them. People actually have conversations about their ‘phones, which did not happen in 1960: “I’ve got a ‘phone. Western Electric. Black. It sends and receives calls.” “Me, too. Western Electric. Black. It sends and receives calls.”
I credit the invention of the Princess Phone as the beginning of the end of Western Civilization.
My lights-up-in-the-dark cell ‘phone winked out last week, and I approached, yea, verily, the Temple of Telephones in Beaumont to have the matter remedied. I was in the temple at 0905, and at 0935 I was still waiting to be blessed by the priestesses and my name hadn’t moved from the #4 spot, where it started, on the electric signboard. The Temple of Telephones features seven altars, but the hierarchy hadn’t seen fit to assign more than two priestesses. Two of the faithful were at the two open altars when I entered and were still there when I left, muttering heresy under my breath. As I have often said before, the concept of customer service in many stores in Beaumont is pretty much Ignore-Them-And-Maybe-They’ll-Go-Away. This also applies to nation-wide religions like my cell ‘phone service provider, Spawn of Satan Wireless.
I was not optimistic about the 1-800-What-Do-You-Want, Peasant? number, but I suffered only five minutes or so of advertisements for newer-than-new Spawn-of-Satan Wireless telephones and services when a miracle occurred – a real human spoke unto me. She told me the obvious, that my ‘phone service had been cancelled. I agreed with her diagnosis, and asked her whodunnit. She was amazed that apparently no one had dunnit, it was just dunnit, but that she would reconnect my ‘phone and not charge me a $15 reconnect fee. She said this last bit as if she expected me to thank her and Spawn of Satan Wireless for not charging me to reconnect a telephone that they, not I, had disconnected. She mentioned this generosity twice. I didn’t thank her twice.
And then I got a bill charging me $150 for early termination. Grrrrrrr.
Once again I am wirelessly harnessed to the world on the electronic choke-chain, and can re-join the faithful in chanting “Can you hear me now?” Before Vatican II that was “Audit me nunc?” Old people still maintain that telephone service was so much better when it was in Latin.
I miss Western Electric telephones, those great big chunks of manly, heavy, made-in-America plastic that you could have used as door stops or boat anchors were you so inclined.
I miss staplers, too. When Marco Polo and I were in school together there were two brands of staplers, Bostich and Swingline, made entirely of steel in American industrial cities by World War II veterans named Spike and Rocky who smoked cigarettes and drank cups of Joe in chrome diners. If Bostich or Swingline staplers jammed you simply opened them up and beat on them like the S.E.I.U. beat up Republicans until their attitude changed.
Alas that you couldn’t take a photograph with a steel stapler. In order to take a photograph you had to have a camera. How did we ever live?
Now staplers are made in China of thin, brittle plastic. My previous one lasted less than a year, and I pleaded with the SupplyMeister for a new stapler, which was called (not kidding) EcoStapler. It lasted through exactly twenty staplings and then split down the middle like the temple veil on Good Friday. The toughest part of the EcoStapler was its hardshell plastic bubble, which took the edge off my Gerber pocketknife in a session of cutting, cursing, and bloodletting.
Tape dispensers, too, were once made of steel, with good steel teeth for sundering the tape apart in a most satisfactory way. Now tape dispensers are plastic, which wouldn’t be a bad idea except that they are filled with Chinese sand and soon begin spilling sand all over one’s endeavors. My tape dispenser is mended with its own tape so no more sand will leak out, but the cuts are a little ragged since the Chinese teeth are little inclined to honest work.
Someone said the new staplers and tape dispensers coming out of India will also take pictures and paint your toenails.
Once upon a time there was no 911 service, but you could use the handset of a Western Electric telephone as a club for beating burglars about the head and shoulders. Now an entire telephone is little more than a choking hazard for infants and puppies.
Cell ‘phones, like toilet paper, are useful, but they have acquired such a cultic status that there may soon be an official government holiday dedicated to them. People actually have conversations about their ‘phones, which did not happen in 1960: “I’ve got a ‘phone. Western Electric. Black. It sends and receives calls.” “Me, too. Western Electric. Black. It sends and receives calls.”
I credit the invention of the Princess Phone as the beginning of the end of Western Civilization.
My lights-up-in-the-dark cell ‘phone winked out last week, and I approached, yea, verily, the Temple of Telephones in Beaumont to have the matter remedied. I was in the temple at 0905, and at 0935 I was still waiting to be blessed by the priestesses and my name hadn’t moved from the #4 spot, where it started, on the electric signboard. The Temple of Telephones features seven altars, but the hierarchy hadn’t seen fit to assign more than two priestesses. Two of the faithful were at the two open altars when I entered and were still there when I left, muttering heresy under my breath. As I have often said before, the concept of customer service in many stores in Beaumont is pretty much Ignore-Them-And-Maybe-They’ll-Go-Away. This also applies to nation-wide religions like my cell ‘phone service provider, Spawn of Satan Wireless.
I was not optimistic about the 1-800-What-Do-You-Want, Peasant? number, but I suffered only five minutes or so of advertisements for newer-than-new Spawn-of-Satan Wireless telephones and services when a miracle occurred – a real human spoke unto me. She told me the obvious, that my ‘phone service had been cancelled. I agreed with her diagnosis, and asked her whodunnit. She was amazed that apparently no one had dunnit, it was just dunnit, but that she would reconnect my ‘phone and not charge me a $15 reconnect fee. She said this last bit as if she expected me to thank her and Spawn of Satan Wireless for not charging me to reconnect a telephone that they, not I, had disconnected. She mentioned this generosity twice. I didn’t thank her twice.
And then I got a bill charging me $150 for early termination. Grrrrrrr.
Once again I am wirelessly harnessed to the world on the electronic choke-chain, and can re-join the faithful in chanting “Can you hear me now?” Before Vatican II that was “Audit me nunc?” Old people still maintain that telephone service was so much better when it was in Latin.
I miss Western Electric telephones, those great big chunks of manly, heavy, made-in-America plastic that you could have used as door stops or boat anchors were you so inclined.
I miss staplers, too. When Marco Polo and I were in school together there were two brands of staplers, Bostich and Swingline, made entirely of steel in American industrial cities by World War II veterans named Spike and Rocky who smoked cigarettes and drank cups of Joe in chrome diners. If Bostich or Swingline staplers jammed you simply opened them up and beat on them like the S.E.I.U. beat up Republicans until their attitude changed.
Alas that you couldn’t take a photograph with a steel stapler. In order to take a photograph you had to have a camera. How did we ever live?
Now staplers are made in China of thin, brittle plastic. My previous one lasted less than a year, and I pleaded with the SupplyMeister for a new stapler, which was called (not kidding) EcoStapler. It lasted through exactly twenty staplings and then split down the middle like the temple veil on Good Friday. The toughest part of the EcoStapler was its hardshell plastic bubble, which took the edge off my Gerber pocketknife in a session of cutting, cursing, and bloodletting.
Tape dispensers, too, were once made of steel, with good steel teeth for sundering the tape apart in a most satisfactory way. Now tape dispensers are plastic, which wouldn’t be a bad idea except that they are filled with Chinese sand and soon begin spilling sand all over one’s endeavors. My tape dispenser is mended with its own tape so no more sand will leak out, but the cuts are a little ragged since the Chinese teeth are little inclined to honest work.
Someone said the new staplers and tape dispensers coming out of India will also take pictures and paint your toenails.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
The United States Witch Force
Mack Hall
The United States Air Force has officially welcomed witchcraft through granting a worship space (apparently a ring of rocks on a hilltop) to Wiccans (which sounds ever so much nicer than saying witches) at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs.
The cynical among us might ask (and we do) why witches would want to fly airplanes when they possess perfectly serviceable brooms.
The more reflective among us might ask if this nation has at last lost its collective mind.
And the even more reflective might consider how this process of degradation of religion (which is a perfectly good word) has been going on for a while.
The historical religious tensions in this country are very real, but so are frequent and noble examples of mutual respect: General Washington writing a letter to a Jewish congregation to thank them for their loyalty to the new nation, General Lee integrating his parish, the four chaplains on the sinking USAT Dorchester in World War II sacrificing their lives by giving their lifejackets to other men. These actions were not predicated on some vague moral relativism but on the core beliefs of each faith. The Jewish chaplain who gave his lifejacket to the first soldier he saw without one did so because he knew that was exactly the most Jewish thing he could do.
Mutual respect cannot deteriorate into relativism, however, for then respect must cease to exist. One can no more refer to truth being subjective than one can refer to the sunrise being subjective. Tomorrow the sun will rise, even if a majority of Americans vote that it should not. One can honestly hold that the Real Presence in Holy Communion is not true even as another honestly maintains that it is true. What cannot be honestly held is the feely-goody concept that the Real Presence can be true for Mr. Smith because he wants it to be true, and not true for Mr. Jones because he does not want it to be true. Even more dishonest would be Mr. Smith, Mr. Jones, and Mr. Hoogerwerf agreeing to vote democratically on whether or not the Real Presence is true, and further agreeing to be bound by the results.
Mutual respect among people does not logically extend itself into indulging the fantasies of the childish or deluded among us. Witchcraft is a make-believe neo-paganism of a very silly and made-up sort that real pagans – Aristotle, Plato, and Virgil come to mind – would have laughed out of any ancient temple, grove, or spring. The paganism of our ancestors was an honest and intelligent attempt at understanding reality, not the feverish imaginings of the ill-educated whose religious instruction in youth was no more substantial than a Fisher-Price Play Church.
A cadet at the United States Air Force Academy pursues truth. A petulant will demanding that 2 + 2 should equal 5 because the bearer of the will wants it to be so cannot change the reality that 2 + 2 must always equal 4 and can be no other. Such an individual cannot be trusted with any position of leadership and responsibility. A cadet who insists that physics and trigonometry are subjective “truths” depending on the individual’s feelings should not be trusted with a bicycle and certainly not with an aircraft. If this individual thinks himself The Blue Flower Fairy and wishes to worship toadstools or oak trees, and maybe even learn conversational Klingon, he is free to do so, and Godspeed (so to speak) him. The rest of us are equally free not to be required to fund him in a military academy or obey him as a superior officer in the defense of this nation.
If a candidate for a military academy represents himself as a witch, Harry Potter, an elf, or a light bulb the response should be a hearty, insensitive belly-laugh as the poor sap is led gently away.
-30-
The United States Air Force has officially welcomed witchcraft through granting a worship space (apparently a ring of rocks on a hilltop) to Wiccans (which sounds ever so much nicer than saying witches) at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs.
The cynical among us might ask (and we do) why witches would want to fly airplanes when they possess perfectly serviceable brooms.
The more reflective among us might ask if this nation has at last lost its collective mind.
And the even more reflective might consider how this process of degradation of religion (which is a perfectly good word) has been going on for a while.
The historical religious tensions in this country are very real, but so are frequent and noble examples of mutual respect: General Washington writing a letter to a Jewish congregation to thank them for their loyalty to the new nation, General Lee integrating his parish, the four chaplains on the sinking USAT Dorchester in World War II sacrificing their lives by giving their lifejackets to other men. These actions were not predicated on some vague moral relativism but on the core beliefs of each faith. The Jewish chaplain who gave his lifejacket to the first soldier he saw without one did so because he knew that was exactly the most Jewish thing he could do.
Mutual respect cannot deteriorate into relativism, however, for then respect must cease to exist. One can no more refer to truth being subjective than one can refer to the sunrise being subjective. Tomorrow the sun will rise, even if a majority of Americans vote that it should not. One can honestly hold that the Real Presence in Holy Communion is not true even as another honestly maintains that it is true. What cannot be honestly held is the feely-goody concept that the Real Presence can be true for Mr. Smith because he wants it to be true, and not true for Mr. Jones because he does not want it to be true. Even more dishonest would be Mr. Smith, Mr. Jones, and Mr. Hoogerwerf agreeing to vote democratically on whether or not the Real Presence is true, and further agreeing to be bound by the results.
Mutual respect among people does not logically extend itself into indulging the fantasies of the childish or deluded among us. Witchcraft is a make-believe neo-paganism of a very silly and made-up sort that real pagans – Aristotle, Plato, and Virgil come to mind – would have laughed out of any ancient temple, grove, or spring. The paganism of our ancestors was an honest and intelligent attempt at understanding reality, not the feverish imaginings of the ill-educated whose religious instruction in youth was no more substantial than a Fisher-Price Play Church.
A cadet at the United States Air Force Academy pursues truth. A petulant will demanding that 2 + 2 should equal 5 because the bearer of the will wants it to be so cannot change the reality that 2 + 2 must always equal 4 and can be no other. Such an individual cannot be trusted with any position of leadership and responsibility. A cadet who insists that physics and trigonometry are subjective “truths” depending on the individual’s feelings should not be trusted with a bicycle and certainly not with an aircraft. If this individual thinks himself The Blue Flower Fairy and wishes to worship toadstools or oak trees, and maybe even learn conversational Klingon, he is free to do so, and Godspeed (so to speak) him. The rest of us are equally free not to be required to fund him in a military academy or obey him as a superior officer in the defense of this nation.
If a candidate for a military academy represents himself as a witch, Harry Potter, an elf, or a light bulb the response should be a hearty, insensitive belly-laugh as the poor sap is led gently away.
-30-
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