Author Archives: jparquette

Human vision receptors respond to the visible light portion of the electromagnetic spectrum; wave lengths array along that spectrum from longer than tall buildings to as infinitesimal as the span of the nuclei of atoms.  Our visible spectrum is a tiny segment that falls between the longer length infrared and the shorter ultraviolet. Our slice’s wavelength is somewhat smaller than the diameter of most cells.  Some species (like bees to find nectar) see more deeply into the ultraviolet range; some like pit vipers see into the infrared to help hunt warm blooded prey.  I would suggest that the limited range of our human vision is an apt metaphor.  Let’s look at a couple of examples.

Our view of the political spectrum from my perspective is extremely narrow.  Human government ranges from enormous and ubiquitous to non-existent:  from terrible tyranny to mere anarchy.  In our current view we’ve not only limited the discussion to what is currently in vogue, but slid our republic, our representative democracy a notch or two to the left.  The far left of the entire spectrum is tyranny, the far right is anarchy.  The ‘large government’ versus ‘small government’ discussion is significant. Government’s intrusion into our lives is an important debate, however if we misplace our markers along the spectrum, we miss some important points.  The common wisdom that a republic resides comfortably between the socialist left and the dictatorships of the right is erroneous. One of the victories of the left in the semantics of public discourse on the nature of government is this misplacement.  As in many dialogues, the definer of the terms makes it difficult for the other side of the pro/con divide.

Those on the right of representative democracy are not Nazis, as is often charged.   Nazis reside to the left.  In fact the very word “Nazi” derives from “Nationalsozialist” from the “Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartie” or National Socialist German Worker’s Party.  Adolph Hitler was a big government guy; his moral opponents were democratic and religious.  His most bitter enemy on the despotic end of the government spectrum was also of the left – the communists of Josef Stalin.  Both Stalin and Hitler murdered millions of innocents in the name of the ‘greater good’ of their twisted veins of human created utopia.  For the communists, the shibboleth was the ascendancy of ‘the people’ (as in ‘power to the people’) and lip service towards radical egalitarianism.  Of course, the redistribution of wealth must be ruthlessly enforced with overwhelming governmental power overseen by elite masters, who with diabolic genius propagandize their self justification.  For the Nazis, the distinguishing feature of their brand of tyranny was racial supremacy and nationalism.  Their stated ends were very different; their methods and results remarkably similar.

Another limited, tunnel vision of human life occurs in the realm of the supernatural world within our ‘visible’ spectrum.  Guy Crouchback, the Catholic protagonist in Evelyn Waugh’s Second World War trilogy, in his cups one night expresses it well to his Army Anglican chaplain in “Men at Arms”:  “Do you agree that the Supernatural Order is not something added to the Natural Order, like music or painting, to make everyday life more tolerable?  It is everyday life.  The supernatural is real; what we call “real” is a mere shadow, a passing fancy.”  Like Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, we attribute reality to the shadows projected on the wall and miss the light behind them.

George Weigel, the noted  scholar and biographer of John Paul II, depicts a world without God, without a life beyond the limitations of our finite human flesh, as a world hermetically sealed without windows or doors.  The search for that light, that opening and light behind the perceived reality, I would suggest, is the most critical search of our lives.  In fact all else dims to the nothingness we face (and would become) absent this light.

St. Augustine: “Nos fecisti ad te et inquietum est cor nostrum donec requiescat in te: You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you”.  Again, Augustine writes: “Therefore, do not seek to understand in order to believe, rather believe that thou may understand.”  All of us, gentle and good friends, face one inevitability.  This life will pass, or rather this phase of our lives will pass.  Our health will fail, age will defeat us, and our work will remain undone.  The only question worth asking is “Quo vadis?”  Where are you going?

Sam to Frodo in “Lord of the Rings”, “I wonder what sort of tale we’ve fallen into?”

I told a Yankee fan friend of mine earlier this week that the blog wouldn’t speak of how the Red Sox dramatically augured into the September earth – the worst September crash in Major League history.  An unexpected and welcome visit from another  friend convinced me otherwise, though we barely spoke of baseball.  Tito Francona, the widely acknowledged best ever manager of the Sox for eight years and breaker of the “Curse of the Bambino,” is known as a friend of the players.  In the end, friendship was insufficient, and the authority born of respect was needed.

Francona and the owners agreed on Friday that he would “seek other opportunities”.  Many fans are saddened but agree; his time at Fenway had run its course.  In his final press conference a weary Tito said the team needed a “new voice”.  He seemed crushed by his powerlessness to inspire spoiled players to do what was necessary.  Petty, whining complaints accrued; some pitchers continued to drink beer in the clubhouse during the games after being directed to stop.  Even the Red Sox Nation beloved “Big Papi” acted out like an entitled adolescent earlier in the year by breaking into a pre-game press conference and publically insisting on Francona talking to him right here, right now about some imagined slight with several ‘expletives deleted’ in front of the cameras.

The complexity of coaching multi millionaire twenty something celebrity athletes is well documented; hardly a week goes by without a sports news headline of drug use, bar fights, spousal abuse, dugout rifts or the sad exhibit of some fallen demigod lying to a Congressional subcommittee.  At the risk of over extrapolating, athletes are not exempt from membership in the “Peter Pan” post war generations; the money and the fame make their embarrassments more public than most, but they are not atypical – simply more enabled.  Louise Bogan, the former U.S. Poet Laureate, with her own extremely troubled life, wrote, “But childhood prolonged, cannot remain a fairyland. It becomes a hell.”

The “Boys of Summer” are not the role models and champions we hoped they would be, but are, in the end, merely boys with a lot of disposable income.

My friend, Rick, believes adolescents running the asylum harkens back to the French Revolution, when “Liberté, égalité, fraternité” ran rampant and blood ran in the streets.  License and lack of restraint tragically substituted for Liberté.  Fraternité turned out to be pack mentality with ill thought out ends and means, not unrelated to modern gangs and mall rats.  Égalité morphed into radical egalitarianism, which disdained all authority.

He related to me another friend’s lament about the almost impossible challenge of current schools. To paraphrase (and I am probably not exact):  the teachers are afraid of the students; the administrators are afraid of the teachers (and their union); the administrators are afraid of the school board; the school board is afraid of the voters and parents; the parents are afraid of their children, the students.

The children are running the schools, and the adults have fled the premises.  I know many (and am a father to two) teachers.  While they do not like much of what the union promulgates, they look on their union representative as their last protection against fearful administrators and litigious parents, who almost invariably back up their children and distrust the teacher’s side of the story.  Teachers cannot discipline even the most egregious offenses without fear of career ruining repercussions from parents and administrators.

Ironically, teachers are frequently obliged to fulfill the parent’s role, which has been abdicated by numerous parents, who are more friend than father to their children.  The high rate of teacher burn out is inevitable, and too many teachers with no heart, energy, life and imagination left, live only for the blessed day of their own entitled retirement.  The teachers who persevere, who love, who pour out their heart, energy, life, intelligence and imagination for 180 days a year are the champions and role models, worthy of gratitude from all of us.  To a great degree our society is in their hands.

Robert Browning:

What Youth deemed crystal, Age finds out was dew.

Lately, in the early morning, we can hear Canadian geese, and this week I saw several large flocks overhead flying south, resolute and well focused.  The geese mate for life in their second year and breed in the north, unlike humans in our time: our youth tend now to change partners frequently and fly south to Fort Lauderdale or South Beach to find new ones.  This may well be progress, but hardly an upgrade.   I digress.

 In times past harbingers of the coming winter promised a respite, shorter days – a time to mend nets and harnesses, sharpen and repair tools; perhaps read a bit more by oil lamps.  Fond nostalgia for the supposed simpler times bring to mind St. Augustine’s caution that those who pine for the life of past centuries didn’t have to live in them.  Each age carries its own burden: its own blessing and curse.  Ours is designated the “Information Age”, and it is aptly named. How we will adapt to “Too Much Information” is an open question.  We expend millions of hours Facebooking, Googling, Tweeting, emailing and, yes, blogging.  Our worldview can be defined by our choices:  Fox News or Huffington Post; WSJ or NYT; The Nation or National Review.  News sources have expanded almost exponentially, and not a day goes by when our jobs, our home life and our peace are not careening about new bits and bytes.  Our attention is bounced cruelly among so many issues, most of which we can do very little to affect.

Global Jihad, global climate change, plummeting net worth and security for most of us when the thin walls of the housing bubble gave out, economic and financial crises everyday for companies and countries, rising energy costs, train wrecks, airline crashes, hurricanes, earthquakes, tornadoes, floods, murders and mayhem live in full color, big pharma – medical community collusion and corruption, health care options and costs, public union and lawmaker mutual parasitism with its ruinous costs to the taxpayer, taxes too high and too diverse and too hidden, too much asked of burned out teachers, wars and rumors of war, unfunded pension liabilities both public and private which may never be paid out, venal and vain legislators and presidents concerned mainly with keeping their jobs, 10,000 Baby Boomers entering Medicare a day – for the next 19 years, a drained and grossly inadequate Social Security trust fund, checks our politicians have written that we can’t cash, a dearth of courageous leadership at every level, crumbling family structures, collapsed Western birth rates and a losing demographic battle with Islam in Europe, links from all manner of drugs and behaviors to new and exotic fatal diseases, the risk and potential of the Arab Spring, wild fires in an overheated Texas, exaggerated shrinking ice coverage in Greenland, more frequent solar flares that may, indeed, be the main cause of the rise in global temperature, potholes, mistimed traffic lights, increasing public crassness and diminished civility, a ‘magic number’ of four to make the playoffs with five games to play, fifty five hour workweeks and four nights of meetings or games and dance classes for the kids and a thousand more matters both profound and trivial. How we long for simpler times and have absolutely no idea how to recreate them.  The genie has long since escaped the bottle.

So many of the solutions of which we often despair are to be found within ourselves.  A winter respite, whether or not it resides in cold, snowy weather and long nights, is to be found in personal grace and personal quiet.  The word “grace” originates in the Latin, “gratia” and “gratus” meaning favor, gratitude, charm and gift.  Grace holds many distinct definitions today:  a disposition to or an act of kindness; a special favor; a reprieve; a charming characteristic; ease and  suppleness of bearing; a sense of propriety; a short prayer of thanks or blessing; a state of sanctification; and unmerited divine assistance or gift of virtue.  Hemingway defined courage as “grace under pressure”.  All of these merit reflection and apply to this discussion.

Limiting our compulsion to follow every story to seek out every factoid and merciless, overwhelming detail means making time each day to quiet ourselves, reflect on the many gifts in our lives, including our life itself, and finding within ourselves gratitude for each of them.

St. Augustine wrote in his Sermon to Pastors about how good shepherds will guide their flock, “And their grazing ground shall be there, that is, the place where they will rest, where they will say: “I am happy”; where they will say: “It is true, it is clear, we are not deceived.”

From Psalm 131

O Lord, my heart is not proud

nor haughty my eyes.

I have not gone after things too great

nor marvels beyond me.

Truly I have set my soul

in silence and peace.

As a child has rest in its mother’s arms,

even so my soul.

The New York Times (as reported in National Review) ran a story on mothers of twins who decided to abort one baby and keep the other child.  Here is a direct quote from one mother, who conceived after six years of fertility treatment, “If I had conceived these twins naturally, I wouldn’t have reduced this pregnancy, because you feel like if there’s a natural order, then you don’t want to disturb it.  But we created this child in such an artificial manner—in a test tube, choosing an egg donor, having the embryo placed inside me—and somehow, making a decision about how many to carry seemed to be just another choice.  The pregnancy was all so consumerish to begin with, and this became yet another thing we could control.”

A baby, any baby or fetus on either side of a journey through the birth canal is utterly dependent for their very life on oxygen, nutrition, warmth and protection provided by the parent(s).  The timing of the decision about when or if to love this child currently determines the baby’s fate.  When the sperm and egg unite, in that instant of unique genetic fusion, the child is defined in many, many aspects, from gender to ethnicity to the color of her eyes.  What follows for the rest of her life is development, some of it just happens to be inside the mother’s womb.  The demarcation line crossed from potential human to fully human takes place at her conception, not on her brief trip from womb to breast.

We can have reasonable discussions about moral truths among people of good faith, even about one with such an unbridgeable gap as abortion.  I have had these discussions with those who truly deny the humanity of the human fetus and value the “rights” of the mother as displacing utterly those of the child.  In a spirit of full disclosure, I see this rejection of science and history as akin to flat earthers, 9/11 truthers and holocaust deniers.  These denials, to me, are ignorance, either blinded by cultural indoctrination, ideological commitment or deliberate by perceived necessity, but ignorance nonetheless.

Let me suggest an alternative worldview to the mother of the former twins, or rather let the poet, Galway Kinnell, describe it from his work, “After Making Love We Hear Footsteps”   (Link to full poem: After Making Love We Hear Footsteps– back arrow to return to this post).

– as now, we lie together,

after making love, quiet, touching along the length of 

 our bodies,

familiar touch of the long-married,

and he appears—in his baseball pajamas, it happens,..

and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles

            himself  to sleep,

his face gleaming with satisfaction at being  this very

            child.

 In the half darkness we look at each other

and smile

and touch arms across his little,  startlingly muscled

body—

this one whom habit of memory propels to  the ground

            of  his making,

sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing  awake,

this blessing loves gives again into our arms.

We can  disagree reasonably (or unreasonably) about what abortion is and does, but I  cannot envision thinking and honest persons who believe that, “If I had  conceived these twins naturally, I wouldn’t have reduced this pregnancy…The pregnancy was all so consumerish to begin with”  is not a step towards the abyss, and that this reduction does not diminish us all.

Ezekiel 12:1:  They have ears to see, but do not see, and ears to hear, but do not hear.

“We sleep soundly in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm.”  There are several versions of this oft quoted adage.  Wikiquote suggests it is usually incorrectly attributed to George Orwell and may originate with Winston Churchill, although Orwell expressed a similar idea in his “Notes on Nationalism”.  In the movie, “A Few Good Men”, Jack Nicholson portrays Colonel Nathan Jessup brilliantly, but in a negative light.  His speech resonates:  On the wall   (Use back arrow to return from links.)

Rudyard Kipling in “Tommy” reproves those who may tear down the contribution of our warriors, “Yes, making mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep”.  Sometimes the left intelligentsia disparage with clever arrogance those who guard our lives and freedom.  I have no interest in futile quarrelling with those weary and specious arguments, nor do I want to get mired in awkward politically correct gender neutral foolishness.  Let’s stipulate that “men” in this post refers to all those dedicated to our defense, both male and female.

“Rough” seems a woefully inadequate adjective to illuminate the complex nature of the men who serve our country today on the tenth anniversary of the September 11^th terrorist attack that murdered almost 3,000 of us.  Dore Gilbert is the father of Marty Gilbert, the future husband of my youngest daughter, Meg; Dore is a successful physician in the Laguna area of Southern California.  Last year he enlisted in the Army to do what he could do to help the military he so admires.  Dore, a former college football player, remains remarkably fit for a man entering his seventh decade.  He is now deployed with the Massachusetts National Guard in Afghanistan as a Lt. Colonel responsible for the well being of around 8,000 military men. His son, Kevin, is also in Afghanistan serving as a Marine in harm’s way.   Every so often, Dore sends out a private email blog; he graciously gave me permission to share it.

Here is the closing paragraph of his most recent post:  This is serious business and I am very confident based on the level of professionalism I have seen so far.  I doubt there is any other country in the world that could carry on both a war against despicable people and a humanitarian effort to help less fortunate at the same time.  We are building schools, hospitals, infrastructure and partnering with the Afghans in law, professional police forces and an army for self defense.  What a colossal effort.   I love my country.

His whole post is entitled “What do we do with sinks and toilets?”  It is well worth your time to read and is posted here:  What do we do with sinks and toilets

 Here also are some pictures he sent, as well as one sent to me by a friend  taken by his son Dan, currently serving as a helicopter gunship pilot in Afghanistan. 

Gunship View of an Afghan Village

 While Dore is not your typical recruit, he exemplifies many who have put their lives on hold and at risk on our behalf.  All come with the same imperfections and messy history that every human being carries, and every one of them is deeply imbued with the dignity of the individual human person – all singular, all a first time and forever unique creation, all with varied motivations, intellects, abilities and personalities: Each one an irreplaceable treasure and on occasion an irretrievable loss.

“A Few Good Men” is a better descriptive than “rough”.  “Good” in spite of or perhaps because of the very human flaws they share with all of us.  Abigail Adams, our second First Lady, wrote to her friend Mercy Otis Warren after the Battle of Trenton following the disastrous defeats for the Continental Army in Brooklyn and Fort Washington.  Trenton and the crossing of the Delaware River on a frigid December night was a pivotal moment in American history.  Indeed without Trenton, there may have been no American history.  She wrote of the commander, George Washington, but I think her letter applies to all who serve their country.  In her letter she quoted the poet, Edward Young, “Affliction is the good man’s shining time.”  May God bless and protect the good men who keep us safe in their time of affliction.  Please keep a moment of quiet reflection and prayer for every one of them today.

We shall  not fail or falter; we shall not weaken or tire. Neither the sudden shock of  battle, nor the long-drawn trials of vigilance and exertion will wear us down.  Give us the tools and we will finish the job.
Winston Churchill

I am an unapologetic and unrepentant Boston Red Sox fan.  Loyalty to a ball club is bequeathed from parents to children like fondness for Italian opera.  Rare is the son or daughter who strays too far from the father in this regard.  “The Boys of Summer” transport us with an annual rite of grace; hot, languid afternoons, heroics, heartbreaks and for Red Sox lovers, Fenway Park – that odd “bandbox” park of the tall green monster and uncomfortable seats no true fan ever wants replaced by some artificially turfed, cushioned, Disneyworld of an entertainment palace with naming rights acquired by a bank or a beer and designed with all the charmless sameness of a McMansion.

My siblings and I grew up with the folklore of Ted Williams and a legacy of the abiding discontent of over three quarters of a century of failure.  My father lived all his life in a hope renewed each spring that was frustrated each autumn or summer, usually by August, but with a few heart stopping excursions into October.  The Impossible Dream in 1967 with Yaz’s MVP year just missed in a seven game World Series with the Cardinals with future Hall of Famers Bob Gibson, Steve Carlton, Lou Brock and Orlando Cepeda.  A second seven game loss in 1975 is rated the second greatest World Series in history.  The Sox of Fred Lynn, Jim Rice, Carlton Fisk and Luis Tiant came up short to the legendary Big Red Machine from Cincinnati with Hall of Famers Johnny Bench and Joe Morgan along with Ken Griffey and series MVP Pete Rose.

The agony culminated in 1986 with the MLB rated third greatest game in history when the Sox lost the seemingly won Game 6 of the World Series in the tenth inning with Bill Buckner’s famous error.  Game 7 was doomed.  Seems like last summer: the stuff of myth.  1986 would have been too late anyway for my father.  My dad cheered unrequited for 66 years and died with 22 years yet to go before the Sox broke the curse of the Bambino.

My father took us once to see a fishing trade show even though he never fished to my knowledge.  We went to see a retired Ted Williams cast a fly unerringly time after time into a small floating ring in a large swimming pool.  He told us of Teddy’s hitting prowess and astonishing eye hand coordination – a God given talent far beyond most mortals, and an ability that downed many an enemy plane when Williams earned his Ace rating as a Marine pilot in WW II and the Korean conflict, sacrificing four years of stats and home runs.

Many times my father and his kids would do yard work or paint my mother’s greenhouse with the radio propped precariously in the kitchen window over the sink booming out an afternoon game.  At the risk of seeming irreverent, St. Augustine summed it up best when writing of the Psalms in his “Confessions”: “These voices poured into my ears and truth became clear in my heart and then feelings of devotion grew warm within me.”

At last in 2004 my wife, Rita, and Ethan, the young boy next door, broke the curse.  Rita brought Ethan, who was around 3 or 4, the gift of a Red Sox hat.  When she went to his house, there was a Yankee’s hat next to him on the couch.  She explained to him reasonably that the Yankees are the bad guys, and the Red Sox are the good guys.   Ethan was an instant and enthusiastic convert.  Being a resigned lifelong fan, I told her she had condemned him to a life of disappointment.  I was wrong.  At the end of the season, when the Sox came back in the playoffs from 0 and 3 to the Yankees, my father’s hope was realized.  Manny, Curt, Pedro, Big Papi, Johnny Damon and ‘Cowboy Up’ Kevin Millar became an inevitability, and the World Series sweep against the Cardinals seemed almost anticlimactic.

Baseball’s pace, the tension of every pitch in a close game, the strategy and dugout superstitions are intrinsic to its singular appeal.  In all other major professional games, the losers run out of time, but in baseball, they run out of opportunities.  Each contending team is guaranteed a minimum of 27 opportunities, and upon them rests success or catastrophe over 162 regular season games and as far into the playoffs as skill, heart and good fortune will take them. Something about that guaranteed opportunity makes baseball uniquely American.

You may be surprised that a genetic Red Sox fan made it all the way through a baseball blog posting with very little bad to be said about the Yankees.  True Red Sox fans steer clear of maligning their opponents no matter how deserving they are of scorn.

Bostonian Colonel Henry Knox (hero of the Guns of Ticonderoga and the siege of Boston) in a letter to his beloved Lucy in 1776 about New Yorkers:  “The people, why the people are magnificent in their carriages, which are numerous; in their house furniture, which is fine; in their pride and conceit, which is inimitable; in their profaneness, which is intolerable; in their want of principle which is prevalent, and in their Toryism (anti independence), which is insufferable.” 

In October of 1775, George III addressed both houses of the British Parliament to rally them to send forces of His Empire sufficient to compel His American colonies to obedience.  He referred to His freedom seeking subjects as a “desperate conspiracy”.  The word “desperate” derives from the Latin meaning “without hope”.  “Conspiracy” starts back in Latin as well, meaning “breathes together”.  George was right that the colonials aspiring to independence breathed together, committing their lives and treasure to each other and for liberty.  He was woefully wrong that they had no hope.

This hope was expressed in July of the following year by Thomas Jefferson when he cried out for the ages, “all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”  The great experiment that is America was based on these rights.   We seem to have lost the thread.  The right to Life is trampled upon with the murder of more than 50 million pre-born innocents.  The right to Liberty is in jeopardy as many seem willing to lose it in a poor bargain for illusory security.  The right to the “pursuit of Happiness” has devolved into a hollow right to Happiness, not its pursuit.

In his anti-utopian 1932 novel, “Brave New World”, Aldous Huxley projects into the year 3450 and foresees a carefully controlled culture characterized by asexual, laboratory reproduction with genetic engineering and prenatal conditioning to craft human beings bred for their task and station in life.  A baleful aspect was the ‘happy’ drug, “Soma”.  “Soma” was mandated by a beneficent government for a bovine, compliant population from their perfectly planned birth in the Central London Hatchery and Conditioning Centre to the merciful end of their somnambulist lives.

Mustapha Mond, one of the World Controllers, receives an unsettling paper submitted by a ‘higher caste’ author who speculates that human life may, indeed, have a purpose.  Mond suppresses the paper with a grave concern.  “Once you began admitting explanations in terms of purpose—well, you didn’t know what the results would be.  It was the sort of idea that might easily decondition the more unsettled minds among the higher castes –make them lose their faith in happiness as the Sovereign Good and take to believing, instead, that the goal was somewhere beyond, somewhere outside the present human sphere; that the purpose of life was not the maintenance of well-being, but some intensification and refinement of consciousness, some enlargement of knowledge.”

When Happiness becomes a right and the Sovereign Good, it portends catastrophe.  Much has been made of the financial implications of an entitlement society.  Margaret Thatcher: “The trouble with socialism is that eventually you run out of other people’s money.”  With the national debt at 97% of GDP causing the first ever S&P downgrading of that debt, the costs of such fiscal misadventures by the current administration are profoundly concerning.  However, we are superficial to demean only those who look to mother government to pay the bills; a deep spiritual malady is even more disturbing.

Happiness as the Sovereign Good incites distortion of human aspiration and virtue.   The signs are readily apparent.   Unrestrained hedonism is unabashedly pursued, indeed it is idolized; pleasure is a transcendent end unto itself.   We become obsessed with good times, parties, inane entertainments, ‘reality’ television diversion, sports increasingly bizarre and violent, widespread recreational chemicals of every stripe, a medical community overprescribing  “Soma” at every turn, adrenaline jacking thrill seeking, trivializing and normalizing all manner of aberrant sexuality, pornography increasingly graphic and demeaning, ubiquitous celebrity worship, narcissism and an absolute compulsion to remain forever young.  We liposuction, tummy tuck, manically work out, Botox and face lift.  We fear frown lines and liver spots more than we fear wasting unreflective lives.  The “maintenance of well-being”, which we claim as our due, is a vapid, joyless gloom.

Our noble American experiment is in danger of degrading from a “desperate conspiracy” to a truly desperate dying social structure with acutely disconnected citizens stumbling along wondering what is the point of all this?  With happiness as an entitlement, hope is stillborn.

We can address the financial costs of an entitlement culture with legislation or with elections, if we have the will for it.  The underlying basis for the expectation that drives it is much more difficult to diagnose and to remedy.  The purposeless life requires no sacrifice, no suffering; after all, happiness is a birthright owed to us.  The pursuit of happiness on the other hand is inextricable from life, liberty, sacrifice, suffering, deferred gratification and commitment to future generations.  The solution to the diseased root of an entitlement culture is spiritual and won family by family, heart by heart and mind by mind.

From Psalm 84 (NAB)

They are happy, whose strength is in You,

in whose hearts are the roads to Zion.

As they go through the Bitter Valley

they make it a place of springs.