Blather. Wince. Repeat.

. . . in China.“

Well, shut my mouth and call me “Lord Hanuman.” It’s true!

In my previous post, I truly tried to give the Senator the benefit of the doubt. Frankly, I couldn’t bring myself to believe that a man who could very well be the next POTUS would be carrying around a good luck charm based upon a semi-simian Hindu deity. Particularly a guy who professes to be a Jesus follower.

But what do I come across today? The photo above is from a Time Magazine piece on what the candidates like to carry in their pockets for good luck. I learned that John McCain has a lucky penny. Senator Clinton has a bracelet with a cross charm on it. And Senator Obama?

Well, based upon the photo above, let’s just say Sen. Lightworker likes to keep his bases covered. According to Time, the Senator is carrying:

• A U.S. soldier’s bracelet (currently deployed in Iraq)
• A gambler’s “lucky chit”
• A “Madonna and Child” charm
• “A tiny monkey god”
• And three or four other unidentified items, among which seems to be a slug, an angel coin, yet another Virgin Mary charm, and some other coin-y detritus.

Good grief, it’s a wonder the man can keep his pants up! Superstitious much?

I’m not sure what to make of this Times of India newspaper article. I think the pronouncements should be taken with a huge grain of salt given that they are made by an overly-excited Indian politician named Brijmohan Bhama. But sweet smoking Judas, this is odd . .

NEW DELHI: With Democrat senator Barack Obama busy in the run-up to the US presidential polls, a group of well-wishers in the capital have decided to send him a symbol of his lucky charm, Lord Hanuman, to help him emerge victorious.

Obama’s representative Carolyn Sauvage-Mar on Tuesday received a gold-plated two-feet-high idol which she will pass it on to the Obama after it is sanctified.

The idol is being presented to Obama as he is reported to be a Lord Hanuman devotee and carries with him a locket of the monkey god along with other good luck charms.

An hour-long prayer meeting to sanctify the idol was earlier organised at Sankat Mochan Dham and by Congress leader Brijmohan Bhama, Balmiki Samaj and the temple’s priests.

“Obama has deep faith in Lord Hanuman and that is why we are presenting an idol of Hanuman to him,” said Bhama.

Accepting the souvenir, Sauvage-Mar, who is chairperson of Democrats Abroad-India, said, “Obama has extended his thanks for the support.”

Just when you think the cultish, new age-y circus surrounding Obamamessiah worship has reached the upper limits of absurdity. . . Someone named Brijmohan whips out a big fat golden idol and raises the bar.

Hopefully some enterprising young reporter at Sen. Obama’s next campaign stop will ask a few questions and clear some of this up for us. Will someone please ask:

Sen. Obama, do you indeed have “a deep faith in Lord Hanuman” as asserted by an Indian congressional leader? And if so, what does the monkey-god mean to you?

Do you carry a monkey-god locket and other “good luck” charms in your pocket? If so, may we see them?

What do you plan to do with the big golden image of the monkey-god presented to your representative in New Delhi? Does Michelle have a spot in your foyer in mind? Would it move to the White House with you? Would the girls be allowed to dress it up and give it a nickname?

According to the article, the graven image has to undergo 11 days of additional blessing and consecration before it can be delivered to the Obamas.

All this follows the straight-faced suggestion in the San Francisco Chronicle that Obama is some sort “enlightened being.”

And the election is four long months away. How strange does all this have to get before the average American pulls the emergency cord on the crazy train and says, “That’s it. I’m getting off here.”

Update: A helpful commenter with knowledge of India informs us that Mr. Bhama, quoted above, isn’t necessarily a member of Indian parliament, but is rather a member of the “Congress” political party, and therefore may just be some local yahoo. The whole story is priceless, nonetheless. (Be sure to check out the YouTube video he links to.)

I came across a fascinating article in “The Atlantic” about the way Internet use is altering the way we think and, as a by-product, robbing us of the ability to read large bits of text as found in books and long articles.

It is, of course, a long article. And wouldn’t you know that about half way through it, I started to lose focus and

Friend of Blather, Bonnie, is visiting Scottsdale and the desert has inspired some moving and meaningful musings. Read, “Desert Purple.”

Stephen Mansfield is a New York Times best-selling author of such books as The Faith of George W. Bush; The Faith of the American Soldier; Ten Tortured Words; as well as biographies of Churchill, Tom Delay, Pope Benedict, and Derek Prince.

Stephen is also a buddy who announced to the world on his blog a few weeks ago that he and I will be climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro in Tanzania early next year–a date roughly six months after his 50th birthday and six months prior to mine.

Stephen has a new book coming out in August. It will be titled, The Faith of Barack Obama, and though it hasn’t even been printed yet, it is already earning him attacks, denunciations and hearty helpings of vilification.

The funny thing is, the folks feeling all denounce-y and vilifilacious are mostly Stephen’s fellow conservative Christians. As he relates in a blog post titled, “An Internet Mugging,” he’s being deluged with emails suggesting that he is surely a son of perdition and thoroughly hell-bound.

So, what has the knickers of my fellow religious righties in such a twist? As best as I can tell, it all stems from an early review by Ben Smith on the Politico.com web site. More specifically, it is the review’s headline, which has now been repeated and linked to thousands of times all over the Web, that has folks all worked up: “Bush Backer Pens Pro-Obama Book.”

Of course, Stephen hasn’t written a “Pro-Obama” book. (I had the opportunity to read the manuscript before it was sent to the publisher.) He has written a fair, objective, earnest exploration of the spiritual influences on Barack Obama–one that makes a gracious, good-faith effort to decode just what the man believes. In other words, Stephen attempts to answer the question so many people are asking right now. Namely, “Is this guy a real-deal Christian and, if so, what flavor?”

Why did Ben Smith characterize Stephen’s book as “pro-Obama?” I can only assume that the polarized political climate has conditioned Smith to assume that every book about a political figure has to be either a vicious, screedy hit piece or a great big advertisement. Smith must have looked at Stephen’s past books and resume; pegged him as a Republican; and therefore assumed the book would be the former. When, to his surprise, it wasn’t, he then defaulted to assuming it was the latter.

I don’t think it occurred to Smith that a pro-life evangelical like Stephen might actually be interested in just presenting the facts fairly and objectively so readers could make their own evaluations. What I know is that Stephen has the soul of a historian. That sensibility comes through in this excerpt from Stephen’s blog post:

[T]here are certain lives you have to understand in any age in order to understand the times. Franklin Roosevelt may not be of your political persuasion but you can’t understand America in the twentieth century without understanding his life. The same is true of Obama. Whether you are an evangelical pastor, an anarchist guitar player, a home school mom, a feminist doctor or a libertarian accountant, if you are going to understand America today you have to know a bit about Obama. When you decide that this is true, you are going to hope for a book that tells the facts with as little bias as a flawed human being can manage. Not everything is political. Not everything is perspective. Some things are just true but they are best learned from a decent storyteller.

Maybe when enough Americans conclude that this is so, I won’t have to go to hell after all.

Ironically, the misinformation cascade triggered by Politico’s review may actually work in the book’s favor. It may now get read by liberals who wouldn’t have otherwise picked it up.

In any event, I recommend it to you if you’re interested in some perceptive insight into the spiritual beliefs of the man who may be the next President of the United States.

And now he’s done for the season.

Read it here.

One year ago tomorrow I used this space to share that my Dad had just been diagnosed as being in the early stages of Alzheimer’s or one of the other dignity-assaulting flavors of dementia, hand crafted in the darkest heart of hell.

Dad’s birthday, Father’s Day and the annual Holland Family reunion all fall within a few days of each other this time each year. Thus, I just left Dad, Mom and a throng of other Holland’s this morning in the hilly woods of Southeastern Oklahoma. I learned from Mom last week that Dad believes this reunion is his last.

The highlight of the trip for me was an opportunity to sit in on a game of dominoes with my dad and two of his brothers. That may not sound like a big deal but you have to know that most of my misty, watercolor memories of Thanksgivings and Christmases as a kid involve seeing dad and my uncles at Grandma’s dining room table playing dominoes. Sitting at that table seemed to me to be an impossibly grown up thing to do.

Mom had quietly expressed concern about Dad being able to manage all the mental math on the fly, but she needn’t have worried. It is not the math side of Dad’s brain that is under attack. In fact, it is only the cognitive file drawer that holds all the nouns that ever more frequently seems to be stuck shut. He and his partner won.

For decades now–at least since I left home for college in 1979–Dad and I have parted with an awkward handshake and a “See you soon. Or maybe a “Drive safe.”

I learned long ago that my Dad wasn’t going to express a lot of verbal affection. In recent years I’ve come to understand that Dad’s “love language” is “acts of service.” Even in years when words came more easily, he wasn’t going to tell you how he felt. He was going to show you. Those oil changes, deck repairs and a thousand other unsolicited helps took on a new significance once that light came on.

When it came time to hit the road today, I said “Try to come see us when you can,” and stuck out my hand.

I was not met by his hand, but by a hug. And a raspy -voiced “Love you, son”

To be honest, I’m not sure I’d ever heard him say those words before–though I’ve never once doubted it was true. Maybe it’s the law of supply and demand at work. Perhaps words rise in value when they ‘re suddenly so hard to come by.

“Love you too, Dad. Thanks for everything.”

It’s been months now since I added Jonah Goldberg’s book, Liberal Fascism, to my “Currently Reading” page.

It’s a reflection of how ridiculously little time I’ve had for recreational reading that I’m just now getting the book finished. Finding time to write a proper review would take another six months, but the book is important, so I want to at least put a few thoughts out there.

So, here’s some of my finest thin gruel for you:

Ω Ω Ω Ω Ω

First . . . about the packaging, branding, and positioning of the book. Liberal Fascism is not the book it’s title and cover will lead most people to assume–and this is both a blessing and a curse to the book and its author.

I suspect that too many people, both liberal and conservative instantly pegged the book as belonging to that shrill, preaching-to-the-converted genre endlessly produced and consumed over the last ten years or so. Al Franken got the party started for lefties with Rush Limbaugh is a Big Fat Idiot. Since then, there have been scores and scores of screedy tomes–lefty and righty–designed to provide gratification and validation for those who agree with the author and zero persuasive influence on those who don’t.

These tend to sell like crazy because few things are more exhilarating that having all your closely-held biases endorsed by an authority. I have a bookshelf full of them. We all love to told be we’re right.

Liberal Fascism is not one of those books. But it is titled and packaged like one. That has probably helped sales. (It made a strong showing on the New York Times bestseller list.) But it has also certainly kept some people who would benefit greatly from reading it from picking it up. And that’s a shame.

Indeed, I wish every intellectually honest liberal in America would read Liberal Fascism. At minimum, the general tone of our public discourse would improve as there would be far fewer people throwing the label “fascist” at people they don’t like.

And any liberal reader with a sense of shame or decency would never again dare suggest that the modest security/intelligence measures the Bush Administration took following 9/11 somehow represented a dangerous and unprecedented effort to turn America into a fascist dictatorship. They would have learned that Woodrow Wilson and FDR both took far more extreme measures.

No, this book isn’t another volley in the Left vs. Right name calling wars. It’s an extraordinarily well-researched and well-written book of history. Particularly the history of a set of ideas that, in the early part of the 20th Century, went by the name of “Fascism.”

One learns, in fact, that there was a worldwide “fascist moment” in which Benito Mussolini was toasted in better dinner parties all over the planet as the prototype of the enlightened leader of the future.

The work springs from something I’ve seen in Jonah’s columns and blog posts for some time. On many occasions he has remarked and marveled at liberals’ general disinterest in the history of their own ideas. In contrast, Jonah observes, conservatives are always discussing and debating the origins of their principles–in Hayek, Adam Smith, Friedman, et. al..

Apparently, Jonah decided that if liberals wouldn’t take an interest in where most of their impulses and agendas originated, he’d do the job for them. In the opening chapter titled, “Everything You Know About Fascism is Wrong,” Goldberg tells us:

Indeed, it is my argument that during World War I, American became a fascist country, albeit temporarily. The first appearance of modern totalitarianism in the Western world wasn’t in Italy or Germany but in the United States of America. How else would you describe a country where the world’s first modern propaganda ministry was established; political prisoners by the thousands were harassed, beaten spied upon, and thrown in jail simply for expressing private opinions; the national leader accused foreigners and immigrants of injecting treasonous “poison” into the American bloodstream; newspapers and magazines were shut down for criticizing the government; nearly a hundred thousand government propaganda agents were sent out among the people to whip up support for the regime and its war; college professors imposed loyalty oaths on their colleagues; nearly a quarter-million goons were given legal authority to intimidate and beat “slackers” and dissenters; and leading artists and writers dedicated their crafts to proselytizing for the government?

As I said, most of the Americans who would most benefit from reading this book, won’t. But you should. I can’t recommend it strongly enough.

[For a proper, meaty review, see this, from the Claremont Review of Books.]

Jonah is at his snarky best in this new column  on the Golden Child.  Excerpt:

But there’s more concrete evidence. Since Obama declared his candidacy, there have been remarkably few biblical plagues. And lions and lambs seem open to bilateral negotiations.

Obama’s apostles are hard to dismiss. Oprah simply calls him “The One,” because “we need politicians who know how to be the truth.” (Jesus says in John 14:6 “I am the way, the truth …”) Oprah goes on to say Obama will help us “evolve to a higher plane,” which would put Obama in the role of our Intelligent Designer.

Do read the whole thing.

As I mentioned below, the current political forecast can seem pretty bleak these days. In such times, you have to take your pleasures and comforts where you can. For me, that has meant enjoying some good old-fashioned schadenfreude over the ongoing battle for the Democratic presidential nomination.

Today there are a lot of liberal-Democrat types who are very, very cross with one another. Like the pro-Obama commenters here. And the pro-Hillary commenters here.

I must admit it has been giddy fun to watch huge swaths of the liberal activist universe wake up to the unpleasant realities of what it’s like to be their election opponent.

On one hand, the Obamaphiles have been shocked, traumatized and utterly gobsmacked to learn that their beloved Clintons (for whom many of them have been pining and waxing nostalgic over the last seven years) don’t play fair, operate with a huge sense of entitlement, and tend to be thoroughly vicious in their quest for power.

They’ve been experiencing and observing all the outrages that conservatives and Republicans complained about during the Bill Clinton years. But as those pro-Obama comments I linked to above reveal, they sincerely think the Clintons suddenly became these horrible people only in the last 12 months!

In like manner, the seething, frothing, rage-drunk mobs of lefties that inhabit the comment threads in places like The Daily Kos and The Huffington Post have been turning their fire hoses of bile upon Hillary and her supporters of late. Clinton partisans are deeply grieved and appalled to to learn how mean and nasty these people can be–twisting everything your candidate says and does into some grotesque caricature and attributing the worst possible motives to every act.

Good times.

I have a message for both sides of this ugly, mud-wrestling-for-power match:

This is what you people are like. All the time. You have just been blind and deaf to the awfulness because it usually just validates your biases. You have spent the last eight years applauding and cheering the same hideous manifestations that now cause you to shrink back in horror and offense.

This lengthy primary has provided you the opportunity to look in a mirror. Sorry if you don’t like what you’ve seen.

I know the blogging has been mighty sparse this week. So, here are three fresh opinions on current topics absolutely free of charge.

1. Scott McClellan–This most recent low pressure system in the gathering perfect storm of bad news for Republicans this year has forced me to face the following fact. President Bush, while a good person and a resolute war leader, may be the worst hirer of talent and character in the history of either talent or character. Or hiring for that matter.

Dear sweet mother of cheese, the last seven years have been filled with some epic poor personnel choices. Beginning with the decision to keep on Clinton leftovers George Tenet (CIA) and Norm Mineta (Transportation) through picking Colin Powell for State and installing Michael Brown at FEMA after the departure of fellow Okie, Joe Allbaugh.

Many hires and appointments were less than competent. Many others were less than conservative. It seems that Scott McClellan fell short on both counts.

2. One of the things I find most alarming about the prospect of an Obama presidency (in addition to the doctrinaire liberalism, the friendly legislature, and the angry, grievance-mongering wife) is the fact that he carries two dangerous qualities in very large measure–naiveté and hubris.

He is like Jimmy Carter was (and is) in this respect, only more so. And at least Carter had some executive experience as Governor of Georgia. Sen. Obama has never run anything or done anything. But his confidence in his charm and good intentions seems boundless.God help us all.

3. Last year it was my apple tree. This year the lemon shrub and pepper plants are going to produce mightily. . . in my opinion. (Pictures to follow.)

July the 14th, 1861

Washington D.C.

My very dear Sarah:

The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days—perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.

Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure—and it may be one of severe conflict and death to me. Not my will, but thine O God, be done. If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the Government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing—perfectly willing—to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt.

But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and replace them in this life with cares and sorrows—when, after having eaten for long years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must offer it as their only sustenance to my dear little children—is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country?

I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death—and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country, and thee.

I have sought most closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in thus hazarding the happiness of those I loved and I could not find one. A pure love of my country and of the principles have often advocated before the people and “the name of honor that I love more than I fear death” have called upon me, and I have obeyed.

Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.

The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when God willing, we might still have lived and loved together and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me—perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar—that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.

Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you and my children from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you, while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more.

But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night—amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours—always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.

Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.

As for my little boys, they will grow as I have done, and never know a father’s love and care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue-eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood. Sarah, I have unlimited confidence in your maternal care and your development of their characters. Tell my two mothers his and hers I call God’s blessing upon them. O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, and lead thither my children.

Sullivan

Inexperienced teenage drivers are known to be prone to distraction and accidents. And five-year old children are known to be careless and clueless when they play near roads and streets.

Those two grim facts of life intersected with awful efficiency on the long gravel driveway to Steven Curtis Chapman’s country home this afternoon.

According to this news report, one of the Chapman’s teenage sons was driving the family’s SUV up the driveway as his little sister Maria–one of three little girls the family has adopted in China in recent years–was playing there. He never saw her. And she is gone.

Here at our house, we stopped and prayed and shook our heads at the immensity of the grief that a fallen world visits upon some of its very best souls. What a horrific blow for a wonderful family to have to absorb. What a cruel weight have laid upon narrow boy-shoulders.

As we prayed, I was reminded of a song Chapman wrote several years ago. He called it “Hold On to Jesus.” The lyric he wrote says:

I have come to this ocean
And the waves of fear are starting to grow
The doubts and questions are rising with the tide
So I’m clinging to the one sure thing I know
I will hold onto the hand of my Savior
And I will hold on with all my might
I will hold loosely to things that are fleeting
And hold on to Jesus
I will hold on to Jesus for life

I’ve tried to hold many treasures
They just keep slipping through my fingers like sand
But there’s one treasure that means more than breath itself
So I’m clinging to it with everything I am
Like a child holding onto a promise
I will cling to His word and believe
As I press on to take hold of that
For which Christ Jesus took hold of me
Hold on for life

Hold on, dear Chapman family. May you find mercy and comfort and solace and hope as you do.

That’s me on the left.

Based on this photo, I could tell you a story of my early years of poverty and deprivation growing up in rural Southeastern Oklahoma. Of cultural backwardness and intellectual malnourishment. I could tell you such a story but, despite what the picture above suggests, it wouldn’t be true.

No, pictures don’t always tell the truth. And this frozen Kodachrome moment tells a whopper.

That’s my little brother and I (4 and 6) having the time of our lives in the Summer of 1966. Both Mom and Dad were college professors. And this Summer, we spent six weeks living in this cabin on Lake Texoma as Dad–a biology teacher–did research for a paper he was writing on some obscure species of sand wasps.

He spent each day sitting in a lawn chair with a legal pad in his lap, logging the comings and goings of little wasps. Meanwhile, my brother and I–perpetually shirtless, shoeless, and careless–lived liked two wild men of Borneo, swimming, fishing, tree climbing and whatever else we jolly well pleased.

As I look at this picture now through the eyes of a husband, I have to wonder how good a time my Mom was having during those six weeks. That cabin didn’t have much more than running water. And a quick check of NOAA’s historical weather data shows that the temps in July of ‘66 were way above normal. I suspect most of the cooking was done outside on that little charcoal grill because it was simply too hot to consider cooking anything indoors.

Two years later Mom would get to build her dream home. And over the 10 years that followed my brother and I would do our best to destroy it with the help of two sisters who would come along eventually. There would be piano lessons, drama workshops, science fairs, and reading of all the right books.

But for part of one hot summer, we all lived like depression-era sharecroppers. And that was all right by me.

Five place settings at the table tonight.

Yesterday Mrs. Blather and I ran down to Baylor to move Female Offspring Unit #1 out of the dormitory and back home for the Summer.

Throughout my college years (all seven of them), I could pretty much fit everything I owned in the back of my Toyota Corolla. Yesterday I hauled a volume of shoes out of a tiny dorm room that would have crushed that Toyota.

FOI #2 still has a week and a half of school remaining and, because she is a conscientious, high-achiever, has that grim-pressured look on her face most of the time. Papers, projects, and finals weigh heavily. #3 finished today and she has that giddy, relieved look of a defendant who has just been told charges are being dropped due to a technicality.

Of course, for us grownups, Summer doesn’t mean much, does it? Other than higher electric bills, that is. The hamster wheels of work and obligation and duty must continue to spin.

It’s just as well. Everyone in the household is now so. . . scheduled. Between summer jobs, camps, activities and engagements, I’m not sure we could find a commonly-available week for a vacation, even if Lord Hamsterwheel were inclined to permit it. Which he’s not.

Still, there are the memories of sweet summers past and less complicated times. Like when we were still living in Minnesota and flew to Florida. There the girls saw the ocean for the very first time. We parked at Cocoa Beach, got out of the car, and they ran down ahead–stopping as close to the water’s edge as they dared.

You rarely have a camera in your hands when one of life’s fleeting, golden milestone moments composes itself before your wondering, welling eyes.

But occasionally you do.

Five place settings at the table tonight. Here at Summer’s edge, things are as they should be.