Quit Yelling at Me

Sixteen days . . . we are sixteen days from ending the insanity we Americans refer to as the election.  Sixteen days and the all the yelling will stop.  I am tired of being bombarded with politics . . . on the television, on the radio, in the newspapers and magazines, on billboards, signs in yards, telephone calls, text messages, and even post on Facebook.  I am tired of being yelled at.

I realize that the yelling is only going to intensify in the next two weeks as all of the candidates from the president to the local dog catcher are scurrying about to get them to vote for them.  I imagine that when it is all said and done, all the research is completed, that this election season will go down in history as one of the most expensive and abrasive.  It seems that everyone is yelling.

For the past couple of weeks our home phone has rung off the hook as pollsters and campaigns are attempting to sway those “undecided” to make a decision—preferably for them.  Typically the home phone only rings about once a night, usually one of the kids or a friend, but lately . . . thank God for caller identification.  Despite the lack of response from these people don’t give up . . . they text!  They text to my cell phone and leave sneaky little messages using up my data space!  They are yelling at me.  I miss the days when we could give these calls to our youngest and he’d babble to them for hours or until they hung up. 

I am tired of finding my mailbox stuffed with political advertisements . . . seems about 75 percent of our mail lately has been political advertisements.  These guys are worse than Wal-Mart!  It is so bad in our small town post office that they are thinking about moving the dumpster in to collect all the advertisements that people are throwing away.  The local dump moans in the waste.  There is no escape and they continue to yell at me through my mail!

Since I really do not watch television or listen to the radio . . . I don’t get yelled at too much there, but I have noticed more and more political ads showing up on my Facebook page.  Usually they are touting some candidate or dissing some candidate.  They are everywhere on Facebook . . . heaven help you if you accidentally click on one.  You’ll be bombarded from every direction until hell freezes over.  Worse yet is the posts that show up on my newsfeed on Facebook.  I am tired of being yelled at.

Time magazine stated in last week’s edition that—according to the Pew Research Center—one in five social networkers has blocked, unfriended, or hidden someone over political material that was too frequent or too disagreeable.  I have thought about it, decided against it . . . I wouldn’t have anyone left!  Yet, at the same time I have begun to skim over all of the political material showing up on my newsfeed . . . I am tired of negativity and nastiness . . . I am tired of being yelled at.

I am tired of being yelled at when I drive and have to pass by the multitude of billboards and yard signs that dot the landscape.  I am tired of pollsters accosting me on the street.  I am tired of people knocking on my door to share political fliers and seek my vote.  I am tired of the debates that are being aired on television.  I am tired of being yelled at.

Sixteen days . . . and the yelling ends . . . maybe!  Experience has taught me that the yelling never ends.  There might be a lull, but the yelling will begin once again in a couple of months as everyone begins gearing up for the next major election.  I just want the yelling to stop.  Maybe my three friends below have the right idea . . . 

We can only wish that the yelling will stop!

 

Do You Really Care?

The wife and I had a “discussion”.  Discussion in this case means more than a civil discourse, but falls more along the lines of a disagreement . . . okay, we had an argument.  It had to do with politics and who doesn’t argue about politics? 

The peculiar thing is that politically—as politics are understood in our society today—we do not differ that much.  We pretty much vote the same ticket when it comes to major elections.  No, the argument had nothing to do with candidates or parties . . . it had to do with politics.  We don’t see eye to eye when it comes to politics.

I have a major dislike for politics in any form.  I see politics as not having to do with issues as much as it has to do with control—as in, who is in control?  Who is the boss?  Basically, since the time I had the privilege and opportunity to vote, I have seen nothing in politics that resembles anything close to the idea of a government “for the people, by the people”.  The people have been lost somewhere along the line only to be replaced by what we are now are calling politics.  It is a game . . . and a nasty game at that.  The wife sees it as something else entirely and enjoys partaking in the process of getting “down and dirty”.

Our discussion came about rather obtrusively when I discovered a political campaign sign in our guest bedroom endorsing a candidate in the election.  Now I want everyone to understand, the candidate that the sign was for is one that I am going to vote for come November 6^th.  I have nothing against the candidate and I do believe that he is the best candidate for the job . . . but I have a problem with the sign.  The sign represents politics . . . the games that the so-called politicians play.  From the start of the election season—about a decade ago, I proclaimed that I did not want to get involved in politics.  I don’t want to play the game.

The wife wants to be supportive of her church member . . . as any good minister would want to be.  I, too, would want to be supportive of any of the members of the church I serve as long as it was up front and honest.  I think assuring the individual that I am voting for him should be good enough without having to declare it in public for the whole world to see.  That was not what this gentleman wanted . . . he wanted our influence.  He wanted our “Reverend” titles.  He wanted us to sway the people we have been called to serve.  That is not honest . . . that is a game . . . that is politics.  I refuse to play the game.  I let both the wife and candidate know that I did not want to participate in this falsehood.

Imagine, then, the surprise I felt when I saw the political sign sitting in the guest room endorsing this candidate.  I couldn’t believe that there was an actual political sign sitting in our house!  I guess I should be thankful that it wasn’t sitting in the middle of the yard, but it still rankled me.  The discussion between the wife and I followed . . . let’s just say that we did not agree . . . and now, after the discussion, we still do not agree.

As a minister we are taught that there are boundaries from which clergy are not to cross as they would be conceived as unethical and immoral.  Most often those boundaries have to do with relationships and more pointedly, with sex.  Rarely do we ever talk about politics and boundaries.  Oh, sure, we talk about the separation of church and state . . . what is acceptable from the pulpit . . . and what is considered “freedom of speech”, but rarely do we talk about politics.  Politics can be—and, often is a boundaries issue.

Whether we clergy, or laypeople, like it or not, politics deals with how we relate to one another.  Time magazine recently shared a poll that shared the effects of politics upon friendships using the “friending/unfriending” found on Facebook.  Basically the foundation of the story and poll was that politics had a major impact on relationships as many unfriended those who did not agree with their political view or candidates.  So far, despite the asinine posts of my friends during this election season that started a decade ago, I have forced myself to ignore them and not “unfriend” them.  No, instead I have prayed to God that they see the light.  God must be busy because nothing has changed since I started offering those prayers.  At the same time I refuse to jump into the game and play.

Why?

Because as much as I want others to view me as being one of the crowd, that stinking title of “Reverend” keeps getting in the way.  I have been amazed at how easily that title can change behavior and relationships once people know that I am ordained into the ministry.  My title carries influence.  It is a tough responsibility to carry being able to influence people—not because I am smart and wise, but because I have some sort of holy aura around me that tells people I know what I am talking about.  This is one of the great mysteries of faith, I think.  This was the intention of any candidate that wants the support of clergy on public statements . . . they don’t care about the name . . . it is the title that they are after.  That is politics.

I do not like—no, I hate—politics.  It makes my stomach hurt whenever politics becomes the topic in any gathering.  I sit and listen to the falsehoods from both sides—which Time magazine also pointed out is a popular part of the game—and cringe at the lies that are thrown at the competing parties from all sides.  I hate how people are used—not to better society or humanity, but to get votes. 

Ah, but the games go on . . .

. . . and I refuse to play.  This plague that occurs every four years is tiresome, frustrating, and annoying.  I don’t like politics . . . politics is divisive and I don’t enjoy when the wife is mad at me.  I would rather see a focus on honesty (imagine a politician agreeing to be honest) and the issues.  It should not be a game.  Put the facts out there . . . make the suggestions how the people—all people—can make a difference . . . and convince the us that you actually care about us as individuals and as a nation.  There hasn’t been much of that in the past few decades.

In the meantime I refuse to use my title as a pastor to influence others in how that they vote.  Personally it is no one’s business how I vote . . . what happens in the poll booth, remains in the poll booth . . . voting only allows me to lament when my side loses.  I have not seen a whole bunch of anything that is going to solve our nation’s problems . . . but I have seen a whole lot of mudslinging and turf protecting.  It is a shame that we, as a nation, have bought into this notion that this is the best that we can do. 

I have rambled on enough on a topic I despise, thus it is that I finish with these words.  No matter who you are rooting for—VOTE!  It is your privilege and honor to have the ability to vote, so vote!  In the meantime, there are no political signs in the yard . . . the wife still tolerates me . . . and the sun will come up tomorrow.  In the meantime, leave me out of politics.  Besides, I live in Montana and no one tells a Montanan how to do anything!  VOTE!

Eulogy for Moose

“If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.”

(Will Rogers)

It had been a couple of days since I had seen him . . . which is not unusual as his owners were often gone, but this was different because his owners were home.  I hadn’t seen the big galoot pouncing around the yard like a big four legged Tigger and wondered what was up.  It had been a while since I had received a great big slobbering kiss from Moose, our neighbor’s two-year old Great Dane.  It just didn’t seem right.

I was surprised when the wife informed me on Thursday night that our neighbors had to put Moose down.  What everyone had thought was a sprained neck turned out to be something much worse—Wobbler disease.  The neighbors had said a few week earlier that Moose had been a little wimpy and yelping in pain when he moved his neck.  They—and the veterinarian—thought that he might have strained his neck as active and playful as he was, but after several weeks of no improvement the worse was suspected. 

Wobbler disease is a condition affecting the cervical vertebrae of a dog and causing cervical instability.  The term Wobbler disease is used for a wide range of different conditions that affects the cervical spinal column, since they all cause similar symptoms.  When a young dog develops Wobbler disease (which is especially common in Grate Danes) the problems are usually caused by a narrowing of the vertebral canal, so called stenosis.  Wobbler disease is much more common in large dog breeds, particularly Dobermans and Great Danes. It is believed to be hereditary in dogs.  The symptoms of Wobbler disease tend to get worse and worse over time.  The veterinarian did not give the Moose a good prognosis as it seemed it was progressing quite fast . . . our poor neighbors felt as if they had no choice—they put Moose to sleep.

It is not typical of me to eulogize an animal . . . but Moose was different.  When the wife and I finally put down the first dog we ever own—our first child in a sense, a Scottish Terrier named Pettie (Pete—ee), I did not eulogize her though I missed her terribly.  It is difficult to give up one’s four-legged buddy after 11 years, but the cancer was killing her.  As much as she wanted to follow that spark and be there, the pain of the cancer wreaking havoc on her body was too much.  It was better to put her to sleep than to watch her suffer.  I was the only one there with the vet when he administered the medicine that eased her pain and let her receive that eternal sleep.  She died in my arms . . . it still makes me tear up nearly twenty years later.  But, I did not eulogize her or pay tribute to her . . . at the time I would not have known what to say.  I think that my tears said enough.

Moose was different.  True, he was not my dog, yet he always came to the fence and wanted to be petted and nuzzled whenever I was out in the yard.  He was a gentle giant.  Great Danes have a tendency to scare people with their size . . . Moose’s head was a good couple of inches over the chain link fence.  His bark was loud, deep, and ferocious.  I could see how he could scare people who did not know him or his breed.  Great Danes and Moose are great big lap dogs . . . gentle as can be . . . and, they love to be touched.  That ritual of petting and nuzzling—slobber and all—were uplifting and assuring no matter how terrible of a day either one of us had had.  It was good to be loved of freely and trustingly by another . . . even if it was a dog.  The Moose loved and loved unconditionally.

Ask my Boxer, Maddie.  She and Moose were close.  I always teased them and the neighbors that the two of them were boyfriend and girlfriend.  They both waited by the fence for one another when let out.  They get in that playful stance, nose to nose, and stare . . . then they would rip off and run back and forth down the fence chasing each other.  They would stop and swap spit through the fence.  They loved each other . . . and it has been hard to watch Maddie go out and look over into the neighbor’s yard and not see her companion waiting to greet her.  I know that she does not understand that Moose has died, but she does know that something is different.  It is sad to watch . . . she misses him dearly.

Death has a peculiar way of interrupting the routine of life . . . rarely are any of us really prepared for the change in routine.  We just don’t expect it.  It has a way of making us have to stop and realize things about ourselves and our lives.  The death of a dog—even the neighbor’s dog—should not be that big of a deal, but Moose’s death was.  I did not realize how much of an impact that galoot had made in my life . . . how much I expected him to be there, but he did.  I miss he gallop to the fence . . . his bouncing like Tigger . . . his slobbery kisses . . . and, his willingness to include me in his world.  It is funny how much he taught me while I was not paying attention.  The Moose will be missed . . . I will miss him. 

“A person can learn a lot from a dog, even a loopy one like ours. Marley taught me about living each day with unbridled exuberance and joy, about seizing the moment and following your heart. He taught me to appreciate the simple things-a walk in the woods, a fresh snowfall, a nap in a shaft of winter sunlight. And as he grew old and achy, he taught me about optimism in the face of adversity. Mostly, he taught me about friendship and selflessness and, above all else, unwavering loyalty.”

(John Grogan)

To Moose!