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…really…

March 18, 2018

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My life does not pass the smell test.

I am hopelessly, inevitably, irredeemably profane.

The good side is that I slept 10 hours last night, no control, not regulated performance but this morning is crushed. And I had twice the normal time for insane, disturbing dreams. And I do not need coffee for a while.

I wish I could be one of those who when asked “‘Howzzitt Goin’?” Responds “JUST GREAT!”

But I usually have a radiator being used as my pipe organ. I am not the track athlete who seriously trains in rigor and machined precision, measured splits, carefully applied practices, outcomes. While, if losing or winning, the results are understood and tools for correction.

No, I am the linebacker. Hurt, guessing, responding to the keys of circumstance and the acts of others, all of whom are efforting their desires. Some, those with me, help, but can get in the way. Others, trip me or err, while the other side just want me begone, and works hard to make it so.

But, I cannot control things much. Even though I and a crew have worked, now about 40 years, to make things out of so many parts, people, techniques and technologies, I know that it if wasn’t for profanity, it would never get done.

And not just the cursing part.

I go to church in an hour, but the sacred is but a salve, not an ethic.

Humor is profane: it takes fear, or misery, or real disaster and makes us shocked at its absurdity, given our sacred intents.

“Two fish are swimming along. Swimmingly. Suddenly one comes to a crashing halt.

“DAM!” he proclaims”

There are more rimshots than symphonies out there. That great good sleep was simply filled by insane extensions of horrendous possibilities, prior bad acts, completely dark indictments. It was the profane pollution of sacred rest.

As is my life.

There is no celebration. There is only the next play. I assuredly got nicked on the last one, but I think I learned from it.

Somewhere it says “The best practice is play.” But we go to church. To practice. But I, you, everyone wants to triumph in applied effort. We parent that way and things happen. Whole careers evaporate because stuff changes. Life commitments end for no good reason or even just the lack of preparation, they just end. There is no preparation for a final result. And we all have a final result. It all happens, despite us.

We are simply the profane actors in a Bruegel painting. But we want to be a Michelangelo sculpture. At least I do.

But Jesus wasn’t Michelangelo either. He was profane, too. He went nuts at 30 (30!) said “Screw it, I am done with this, now I am going to freeload until I get killed…” and meant it, and did it. He was 3 years in the box, filling the hole in draws, dropping in coverage, fighting the double team, getting hit, failing some, but also making plays.

And, by the way, he won.

Because that’s all he could do. That’s all we can do.

We are profane because we cannot be something else. Every organ, no matter how beautifully made and played, is a radiator. It’s of our world. A world made for us. We were made for this world.

And it is profane. Even in Lent.
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