Justice Deferred

Now what's this I hear about the impeachment trial in the senate needing to be concluded before the Super Bowl?  Sorry folks, but due to a sporting event, justice must be deferred. 

What the hell? 

Oh well. From what I'm seeing and hearing, it has already been decided that justice will be deferred no matter what. Or, as they say, 'the fix is in'. 

I had been thinking that the Republican party will surely pay a dear price for this farce of a trial they have shoved down the throats of the American people--and yet, it occurred to me this morning that perhaps they are perfectly safe after all, because the public response may well be to simply shrug and disengage from the whole rotten process. Why bother? The fact is that 75 percent of the American people want to see a real trial, with witnesses and documents. Clearly, our representatives are not interested in representing the wishes of 75 percent of Americans. They are interested, in fact, in NOT representing the vast majority. 

So, yeah, again … why bother?

Sharia in Aceh

There is an article in today's Jakarta Post--Aceh Unveils New Female Flogging Squad--that would be hilarious if it weren't so damn sad. 

The writer begins by describing the reticence of a masked woman flogger, one of a squad of 8 newly deputized sharia officers, as she approaches her baptismal target, an unmarried woman caught in a hotel room with a man (horrors!). Such behavior constitutes a 'morality crime' in Aceh.

Despite her reticence, the article continues, the new recruit persevered and successfully delivered her first formal flogging. It was not noted, though it may be safely assumed, that the victim was reticent as well.  

"I think she did a good job," Banda Aceh Sharia police chief investigator Zakwan commented. "Her technique was nice." 

Seriously? Is there a special technique for beating a defenseless woman with a rattan cane? 

Well, turns out there is. Imagine that. The floggers, who are outfitted in cloth masks and loose fitting brown uniforms--not only stylish, but utilitarian and good for hiding the identity--are trained to make sure they are physically fit (who needs a weak flogger, anyway?) and that they know how to administer a proper beating. 

The reader may be wondering at this point whether this is some kind of spoof or parody--something from The Onion. I know I was. But no, this is the straight news from the primeval side of the world. 

The job of whipping a victim--sorry, a criminal--has always been done by men, but now women have joined the ranks. Now that is equal opportunity at work! 

Of course, the women whip only women, never men. We have not progressed quite that far, yet. 

And to be fair, convincing women to participate as administrators of public beatings has been no easy task. It has "taken years to assemble the first female squad." The torture, you see, is very hard on the torturers.

What sort of transgressions have the victims--again, sorry, the criminals--committed? Well, they are far ranging and include gambling, adultery, drinking alcohol, premarital sex, shows of public affection. On a recent patrol, a group of men and women were spotted sitting at nearby tables in a coffee café at 3 am and were arrested for breaking strict codes about unmarried men and women interacting, or at least almost interacting. "This shows that we never sleep, looking for violations of sharia," an official said. 

Perhaps this lack of sleep has clouded minds?  Who knows? 

"We didn't even know the women," one of the arrested later said (from his jail cell). The two parties were sitting at totally separate tables. Moreover, the men were gay. 

Ah well, homosexuality is also a crime. Two beatings for you, buddy. 

Nonetheless, sharia in Aceh is still lenient, we are told (compared to Saudi Arabia, I guess). "We need harsher punishments," one expert on such things opined, "like stoning, not just whipping. Someone committing adultery should be stoned 100 times." 

Alllll riiiiighty then. 

In fact, floggings as they stand "can be so severe that people pass out or are hospitalized." 

Even so, "We are not aiming to hurt people by whipping them," a sharia advocate reported. 

Yeah. We all know that whipping, if done by trained professionals, doesn't hurt. Much.

The 81 Percent

You weaponized religion
and you wonder why
I'm leaving to find Jesus
on the wrong side of your walls

--From Hymn for the 81 percent

I see this morning an article from Daily Kos about a Christian worship leader in a South Bend, Indiana church, one Daniel Dietrich, who has written a song about the betrayal he feels from "evangelical" Trump support. Dietrich himself formed the church four years ago, described as "a Jesus centered community for believers and doubters and everyone in between." The title of the song is "Hymn for the 81 Percent", which refers to the percentage of evangelical Christians who have supported Trump. It is described as "a love song to the church and a call to repentance", and directly addresses the hypocrisy of the white evangelical church's support of Donald Trump in the face of Biblical teaching. The lyrics castigate the Trump administration for "putting kids in cages, ripping mothers from their babies," but blames the church for failing to rein them in. "I looked to you to speak on their behalf, but all I heard was silence, or worse you justify it." 

The song has gone viral. 

So I say Amen. 

I can't help but wonder, however, who these Trumpster evangelicals are. I have been to many churches since becoming a believer in 1994--Non-denominational churches, Pentacostal churches, Charismatic churches, Methodist churches, Presbyterian churches, Catholic churches--but I have never been to a church that dabbled in politics or proclaimed support for any political figure or ideology. The churches I have been to have proclaimed the gospel alone, tailored, of course, to their own theological outlooks.

So who are these people, these evangelicals? They are the people, I suppose, who are generally ignored by the true church and true Christians yet are loudly present on the internet and in the imagination of those who wish to make Christianity itself a culprit in the disaster that is Trump. They are the nutcases on podcasts and late night radio shows who drivel on about 'the Chosen One' and wacko prophesies and end-of-the-world scenarios. They are the scammers, the users, the parasites that feed on their host, and much to the detriment of the host at that. 

I know some of these people. They are not bad people. They are merely weak-minded people. They are people who have failed to receive the word in their inner parts. They are fearful people who seek assurance not in sacrifice and humility but in bluster and fantasy. They are people who have been led astray.

And, hopefully, they are people who will listen to this song and be inspired to seek more of the truth. Hopefully, they are people who will learn to share his yolk and walk thereafter with him, for, as he says, I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. 

Driveby

On driving by my new apartment location this morning, I noted that the structure had actually begun to look like a house from the outside rather than a pile of grey stones. Wow, these things progress quickly once they begin to progress. 

I note as well that a problem with this location will be the road, which is in fact at least as narrow as the road where I am currently living--which itself must be among the narrowest roads on the island of Bali. I cannot see where two cars going in opposite directions would be a possibility. Which means they will have to make it a oneway road. Not that anyone here gives a damn about oneway roads. A bike and a car, sure. Two cars? No way. 

It is a bit sad, really, to see the fields being paved over and replaced by closely packed houses and apartments. But that's the march of progress, I guess, on an island with an ever increasing population and very little land to spare, within the city limits, anyway. (There's plenty of jungle up north). 

Scent

Sometimes, rather often, actually, I get these vivid scent sensations. It's not, in fact, a scent as detected by the nose, but a mental scent, so strong, so present, that it transports me to another time and place. I smell the water of the lake we used to swim in, the rocks on the shore, the large, flat boulder we lie on to warm our skin on its sun-baked surface, the drops of water on our skin, dampness dripping from my brother's red hair to the pock marked stone, the lively breath of the forest all around, the clutch of roots to pungent earth and the bite of pine whispering and singing in the air. The faded green lichen clinging to the edge of the boulder. The contented breeze. I am both here and there. I am where I cannot be again. 

Hippo

Yesterday, I spotted Takut the dog eating a cheeseburger. Not just a bit of a cheeseburger, but the entire burger, bun and all, straight out of the wrapper. This came directly after eating some Indonesian food brought by Pak Aan, the groundskeeper. 

Ever since Takut's election victory over Peter the Complainer, people have been bringing food, as if offering to some sort of royalty. 

Takut likes this arrangement just fine, though I fear he will soon be the size of a hippo and therefore more problematic than ever in my little room. As it is, I am continually stepping on or falling over the poor dog, but he seems to consider this but a minor inconvenience, not really something worth moving out of the way for. 

I begin to wonder seriously whether the residents here will want Takut to leave with me when I move to my new place in April. 

As a nod of acknowledgement to his new found popularity, Takut tries to divide his time between apartment porches. Especially at dinnertime. 

Almost a Surprise

Well, I guess I misjudged people regarding birthday wishes. Turns out that many sent a note, and Louis, my third wife, even tried to spring a surprise party on me. Almost succeeded too! I hate surprise parties, and she knows that, but she likes parties so the latter cancels out the former, according to some sort of math. 

Her friend Betty, who often assists me in various tasks here, had called the day before to tell me that I was scheduled to see the eye doctor. This struck me as a bit strange, because I had just recently seen an eye doctor for what turned out to be dry eye syndrome, but Betty explained that the doctor just wanted a follow-up to make sure all was well. Dutifully, therefore, I met Betty on my birthday for a visit to Sanglah Hospital. 

What tipped me off, however, was a call that morning from my stepson in Arizona, who said that his mom told him it was my birthday and that he ought to send me a message. What struck me as odd about this was that Louis herself had not acknowledged my birthday. Had sent no message and made no call. Hmmm. How was it that she told Sasha to call and yet had not herself called? 

Something was up. 

So when Betty took the wrong road to the hospital (with the excuse that it as a 'shortcut'), things became clear. I was in for a surprise party, like it or not. 

Well, it wasn't so bad, despite the fact that it was held at a karaoke place (I also dislike karaoke, and she knows that; but she likes it). I was compelled to struggle through three Frank Sinatra songs with my 66 year old voice, but was rewarded in any case with a nice lunch and a chocolate cake (I do like chocolate cake, and she knows that too). 

This morning, which is actually yesterday in America, an old grade school friend sent a picture from the Washington High School yearbook of me appearing not to be me at all. Blast from the past. 

All in all, for someone who didn't want to be 66 to begin with, and who does not like to be the center of attention, the day was fairly palatable.