We have established that I'm a big dork. Or maybe I'm a big nerd. In any case, I would go to a political philosophy conference the day after the worst night of my life. Well, what am I going to do? Cancel the trip?
I'm going to drop a name right here, because that's just what you do, when you are an obscure writer, and nobody cares what you have to say. I shook Jake Meador's hand at that conference. I sat right next to Wendell Berry for six hours. No, I haven't read him much. But if he writes anything like he talks, he's a good egg, just like everyone says. If it's true that Obama likes him, good for Obama. He bloody well should.
I had this strange feeling that a lot of our categories were completely meaningless. It's just like when I go to the Front Porch Republic conferences; I don't know what categories to use. We are in some general sense like-minded, but me from eight years ago would've called the lot of them a bunch of Commies and crackpots. Let's just say that any real earnest attempt at a Christian worldview leaves most sensible people hanging out with "extremists" and weirdos. These are definitely my people; I don't know anyone with my political thought processes and history who nevertheless offers passionate defenses of George McGovern, and Jimmy Carter. How on earth did I spend most of my adult life scribbling on behalf of Republicans, and yet defending those guys?
Somewhat strangely, my intellect still worked, even though I was carrying around enough sorrow for ten men. On one of the breaks, I was sitting with these two PhD's, and somebody asked my opinion, and when I was done talking, they didn't laugh me out of the room. That felt pretty good.
Maybe I should join that club at some point. It just hasn't worked out that way.
With apologies to the senior senator from Kentucky, I almost laughed out loud when I realized we were in the McConnell Center. With all due respect, I don't associate the senator with the phrase, "free inquiry".
The most obvious reflection of my rank hypocrisy in regard to localism, and some notion of agrarianism, is my fondness for fast food and Coke. Some days I scare myself, and I'll think that my next Coke is the one that will end me up like poor Patrick Swayze. Of course, that is bonkers. There is not often a discernible rhyme or reason from this vantage point, as to who lives, or who dies. I pray to Mary every night, because I don't have the hour of my death scheduled on my calendar.
On the other hand, aren't there are a few too many people who don't listen to doctors? If they told me to give up my culinary and beverage vices, I would probably listen. There is a fairly wide window on this tragic rock between enjoying life, and being reckless. That's the mercy of God.
I've had buckets and buckets more to weep, but it was good to think, and to smile. Bryan Cross is slightly older than me, as I'm quite fond of reminding him, but I have asked Mary if it's not too much trouble, that Bryan should hear or give the eulogy for me, before I have to hear or give the one for him. No one in the heavenly kingdom is of course bound to honor my request. And not that I plan on going anywhere; it's just that I never have planned on being old and full of years. I'm probably the youngest 40-year-old I've ever met, much as I blather on about being old.
Anyway, I just thought that if I have to be stuck in some sense in September 2019, I could at least pull out some good threads to think about. I pray that when the crosses come for you, you have faithful friends like I do.
I'm going to drop a name right here, because that's just what you do, when you are an obscure writer, and nobody cares what you have to say. I shook Jake Meador's hand at that conference. I sat right next to Wendell Berry for six hours. No, I haven't read him much. But if he writes anything like he talks, he's a good egg, just like everyone says. If it's true that Obama likes him, good for Obama. He bloody well should.
I had this strange feeling that a lot of our categories were completely meaningless. It's just like when I go to the Front Porch Republic conferences; I don't know what categories to use. We are in some general sense like-minded, but me from eight years ago would've called the lot of them a bunch of Commies and crackpots. Let's just say that any real earnest attempt at a Christian worldview leaves most sensible people hanging out with "extremists" and weirdos. These are definitely my people; I don't know anyone with my political thought processes and history who nevertheless offers passionate defenses of George McGovern, and Jimmy Carter. How on earth did I spend most of my adult life scribbling on behalf of Republicans, and yet defending those guys?
Somewhat strangely, my intellect still worked, even though I was carrying around enough sorrow for ten men. On one of the breaks, I was sitting with these two PhD's, and somebody asked my opinion, and when I was done talking, they didn't laugh me out of the room. That felt pretty good.
Maybe I should join that club at some point. It just hasn't worked out that way.
With apologies to the senior senator from Kentucky, I almost laughed out loud when I realized we were in the McConnell Center. With all due respect, I don't associate the senator with the phrase, "free inquiry".
The most obvious reflection of my rank hypocrisy in regard to localism, and some notion of agrarianism, is my fondness for fast food and Coke. Some days I scare myself, and I'll think that my next Coke is the one that will end me up like poor Patrick Swayze. Of course, that is bonkers. There is not often a discernible rhyme or reason from this vantage point, as to who lives, or who dies. I pray to Mary every night, because I don't have the hour of my death scheduled on my calendar.
On the other hand, aren't there are a few too many people who don't listen to doctors? If they told me to give up my culinary and beverage vices, I would probably listen. There is a fairly wide window on this tragic rock between enjoying life, and being reckless. That's the mercy of God.
I've had buckets and buckets more to weep, but it was good to think, and to smile. Bryan Cross is slightly older than me, as I'm quite fond of reminding him, but I have asked Mary if it's not too much trouble, that Bryan should hear or give the eulogy for me, before I have to hear or give the one for him. No one in the heavenly kingdom is of course bound to honor my request. And not that I plan on going anywhere; it's just that I never have planned on being old and full of years. I'm probably the youngest 40-year-old I've ever met, much as I blather on about being old.
Anyway, I just thought that if I have to be stuck in some sense in September 2019, I could at least pull out some good threads to think about. I pray that when the crosses come for you, you have faithful friends like I do.
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