Not Going There

Browsing both the internet at large and even Facetime in particular can be depressing, discouraging. As with everything irrationally indiscriminate, shotgun blast slamming of the President for every breath he takes smacks of mindlessness, smells racist, and robs the slammer of the last iota of credibility such that there’s no point in reading what they say when you know it’ll be more worthless spewed hatred. When the White House changes from Red to Blue or Blue to Red, nothing changes but the “hunter-spewers,” though the most rabid fringe element do seem to come only in certain colors and a bigot is a bigot.

Three years ago someone suggested my +Time musings be posted on Facebook instead of an obscure blog. I don’t do that, partly because the musings were then and are now for myself, a struggle against the ravages of aging, especially mental deterioration -- which of course may be evident in the writing itself, which undoubtedly is why some people check me every morning and post me on the graph. 

And thank you very much Shutterstock. In spite of the black suit, the hair gives it away: that obviously isn’t me. Forty years ago maybe. No, forty years ago my black suit had gold stripes on the sleeves, try thirty-five years ago.

Another reason for blogging obscurely is to avoid having left-wing and right-wing nut-cases feel invited and welcome to respond. Facebook postings get shared and passed around, and to post on a wide social media encourages comments from political and religious fringes with whom I have zero interest in dialogue. Facebook et alia are great for keeping friends informed about one’s journeys of all sorts, photos, sharing jokes, even, for some who evidently think the world is interested in their every movement, realtime complaining that there is no toilet paper on the roll.  

In spite of all that, there are some deliciously funny things on Facebook. This one, posted by a good friend, is even relatable to this morning’s Hosea lesson. In a small town cafe, there’s Barry visiting with a little boy as his mother watches. The dialogue is hilarious.

Scripturally, based on this morning’s reading, Hosea 1:2-10, I reckon the little boy’s name is Loammi, which means “You’re Not Mine, You Little Bastard.” That’s Gomer looking on. 

Where’s the prophet? Not going there.

TW