An acquaintance in a Facebook entry made reference to a verse from Exodus that sparked comments from those who found the time to write on his wall. (It sounds like I really know my way around this aspect of the Wired World, but it's a brave front. Everything I know about Facebook I learned from my children. I'm an adult, baffled and betrayed by technology. Instead of teaching my children the ways of the world, I'm their student and a bad one at that.)
It got me thinking, or as close as I ever get to it these days, about the majesty and glory of The Divine (when you get up there in years, you discover a fondness for hymns you didn't have in your Twenties (at least I didn't). Ask Mick Jagger.) and how we will invoke His name (or that of a family member) for all manner and missions and see Him move in mysterious ways His wonders to perform.
We waged war on one another for millennia but always first sought His blessing of our arms against our enemy, oblivious to the inevitability that those on the other side were pursuing the same course in the hopes of the same desired outcome. I'm not sure how we and thee thought all of that was supposed to work out.
And even now, in these enlightened times, where sports have replaced wars (but the metaphors remain) we've still sought to curry His favor. Whether it's the basketball player with the Sign of the Cross before EVERY foul shot through the pitcher who nails that third strike and kisses a cross on his necklace while pointing a finger skyward in Thanksgiving. I've wondered how Matthew of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John (not the disability law firm attorneys; the 'bless the bed that I sleep on' New Testament authors) would react.
Just as I almost banish that train of thought as absurd, along comes a news blurt from Monday's New York Times' on the New York Jets' victory over the Cincinnati Bengals to make the football playoffs and I'm nearly speechless, in flaming tongues of fire: "D’Brickashaw Ferguson leapt into the stands, or at least tried to. At 6 feet 6 inches and 310 pounds, Ferguson nearly pulled down the fans who tried to lift him. 'It’s almost like divine intervention,' he said of the Jets’ run. 'I don’t think it’s coincidence. I hope God’s a Jets fan.'”
Let's bow our heads and pause for just a moment and make that a stained glass window moment, shall we? Are you, too, imagining Him, surrounded by the Heavenly Hosts to include the Thrones and Dominations along with the Cherubim and Seraphim wearing His Gang Green foam finger proclaiming 'We're Number One'. Really? Get thee to a confessional and I hope-no-I pray, you end up with a hundred decades of the Rosary as a penance. Where do we think we are, in Our Lady of the Immaculate Interception?
And if the Jets should win this weekend in the wildcard round of the play-offs, who's going to explain to Edward Cardinal Egan what those shoulder pads are doing in the confessional at Saint Patrick's Cathedral? How can it possibly be inappropriate or sacrilegious with God on Our Side? -bill kenny
No comments:
Post a Comment