The Thinking 

A Lamentation

November 7, 2012


N.W. writes:

My country where is she?
Buried by diversity, bled dry by thieves.
Our fathers would have cried,
To see the day she died,
As I flee to the mountains high,
I weep for thee.

—- Comments —–

Texanne writes:

From today’s reading:

Do everything without grumbling or questioning,
that you may be blameless and innocent,
children of God without blemish
in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation,
among whom you shine like lights in the world,
as you hold on to the word of life,
so that my boast for the day of Christ may be
that I did not run in vain or labor in vain. [Philippians 2, 14-16]

Henry McCulloch writes:

Obama re-elected while carrying every “swing” state; Democrats holding the Senate; three states voting for sodomatrimony; two states voting for dope? No, today I am not well. It seems clearer by the day that the country I was born into is now dead, and that most of its current inhabitants want it to be.

It doesn’t help that the men who run the Church I chose to give my allegiance seem to want her dead as well.

Buck writes:

Early yesterday I went to a funeral service for an older man whom I didn’t know well, but regularly saw next door to a good friend for some fifteen years. He was, I came to learn, a well thought of long time member of a Methodist church across the street from my neighborhood, where the service was held. The service was led by a young female in a plain white robe. The only male played the organ. It was a brief and simple service, and fairly-well attended. The young woman spoke briefly, offered a prayer and led a hymn. The female pastor, an older woman, rose to speak by introduction. She was dressed in a bright red business style jacket and skirt. She read clumsily from her notes. It was obvious. One other said some nice things, but no one seemed to be there in the moment. It felt strange and seemed forced and insincere. I was sad to see that.

The chapel was tasteful and unadorned, almost stark; engineered lumber “timber frame” with a plain white cross mounted high. After the brief service another woman ushered everyone downstairs for coffee and a buffet.

It seemed empty and formulaic, the service and the whole process.

I went straight from there to my polling place just five minutes away. Casting my vote, especially here in Maryland, left me with the same feeling. It was one disconnected funeral service process after another.

Share:Email this to someoneShare on Facebook0Tweet about this on TwitterPin on Pinterest0Share on Google+0