The Coonridge Digest: Compassion and giving!

Greetin’s from the Ridge.

Like a supper of uncooked chicken, I had expected it to come back up sooner or later.

Last week in the Coonridge Saintly Seniors Sunday school class (translated: too old to make it down the stairs to the basement class), the subject of God’s wrath reared its ugly head.

Viola Leem, who makes it her full-time occupation to interpret God’s will to the rest of humanity, began the discussion. "Well, it’s obvious to me from the hurricanes and floods and earthquakes that God is not happy with our country. And don’t just take my word for it. There’s plenty of Old Testament precedent to back up what I’m saying."

I don’t so much mind the ideas that Viola spouts with religious regularity, but it’s her tone of voice that troubles me. She reminds me of what Charlton Heston would have sounded like if he’d been born a girl. Viola continued, "There’s no doubt in my mind that we are experiencing the wrath of God. I mean, just look at what areas he hit! New Orleans! Texas!"

I’ve been twice banned from the Saintly Seniors for technical reasons, all of which boil down to the fact that I refuse to keep my mouth shut when idiocy is talking even louder. "Uh, Viola? Texas and Louisiana are the main dens of sin and iniquity?"

"Have you ever been to New Orleans, Freida?"

"Yes. Had the best bowl of gumbo in my life. You been there, Viola?"

"I didn’t have to go. I’ve heard about the place." (Viola’s only sources of news are Fox Network, the Christian Broadcasting Network, and her cousin Maurice who lives in a fanatical religious commune in Utah.)

"Let me get this right." When I sat my coffee cup down the group knew I was serious. "Every time there’s a disaster, that means that God is ticked off at the human race?" I knew that I had her. The simple fact that Wayne Newton continues to sell millions of records is testament to God’s unwillingness to punish all types of sin.

"That is exactly what I mean, Freida. Just read your bible. God is always punishing us for our sin. Just look at Pharaoh’s troops drowning in the Red Sea."

"Aside from the fact that the Pharaoh had a lousy tour guide, what’s your answer to the natural and man-made disasters in Rwanda, Viola? Or the Sudan or Uganda or Nigeria or…."

She interrupted me with a bolt of self-righteous lightning. "There are things we simply do not know, Freida!"

"Then how come…" (God help me, I was ticked and on the attack) "…How come you do seem to know everything that it’s your advantage to know, but when you’re faced with the really tough questions God won’t talk to you?"

"I think," she huffed, "that it’s time we prayed." She had pulled her ecumenical ace from the bottom of the liturgical deck and I had to sit there while Viola asked God to enlighten my poor, mislead soul, and took absolutely no blame upon herself.

I’ll admit it. Unless I see it in black and white, I’m too dumb to decipher God’s will in most occasions. I’ve got to pray then stumble through it blindly, hoping that I made the twists and turns that please him. And I have absolutely no idea how God figures into the course of hurricanes, hailstorms, and earthquakes.

I’ve no doubt that Viola would call me a bit of a simpleton, but I divide my life into two categories: the things I can do something about and the things I can’t. I know that I can have no more success blaming natural disasters on God than I can have in stopping the hurricane. I do know that once the damage is done, there’s plenty I can do.

Although a displaced resident of Texas or Louisiana may have other things on his mind, I’ve never been so encouraged as I have been watching the American people’s response to the hurricanes. Millions upon millions of dollars donated, small girls sending backpacks of school supplies to Houston, thousands of families around the nation opening their homes to total strangers, independent truckers simply taking off down the road with a load of supplies, churches abandoning their scheduled projects and pouring their resources into the stricken areas, schools holding massive fund drives, and for once our diverse nation is focused in one direction: compassion and giving.

I don’t expect to lock horns with Viola any time soon. Like as not, my chair in the Sunday school class will have been sent out for repair this week and it’ll be a couple of years before it’s fixed. I guess that’ll have to do. Besides, if I’ve got a spare minute or a spare dime, I think that while other devoutly assign the blame, God’s got a cure in mind.

You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door, but you’ll enjoy the trip.