Stoos Views

Frankly, I don’t much care about the end times craze or when the world will end. I do not know why we should obsess about it or listen to those phony prophets who claim to predict when it will all end. They come from a long line of charlatans who have no more an idea when the world will end than anyone else.    I have read Matthew 24:36 and understand it perfectly well. If Jesus does not know, then some minister, priest, or cult figure holed up in a cave certainly doesn’t know either.  Who can know the mind of God? Who is His equal?  Is His time our time? Is His day a thousand years or a million of ours?  Who knows what His watch says or when He set the alarm to remind himself to destroy creation?  How brazen of mankind to presume to know the answer to the question.  And how irrelevant after all. The world will end when it ends and only God knows when it will end. He will end his creation when He will and it is not ours to predict because no one can. We should concern ourselves with living each day as God would have us. I am an accomplished sinner, trying to do better–a work in progress, a soul in much need of repair. I have no time for end time foolishness. It is a needless distraction. I am concerned with trying to live as God would have me live.

With apologies to Winston Churchill, I do not know if we are at the ”end of the beginning,” or the “ beginning of the end.” I am concerned only with whether I am living the life I am supposed to, and whether, in the end, I died in the grace of God.  Until then, I may keep one eye on the sky, but I will not hold my breath. And I will continue to throw back the small ones because, as only God knows, they may get bigger.

 

The Woodcarver

 

(Nazis, Blacks, and a Lesson in Stereotypes)

 

Copyright © 1998, 2001 William Kevin Stoos

 

The Holy Mother stands silently, frozen in time, gazing softly at the Infant on her right hip. Her left hand gently gathers the soft folds of her flowing robe. She wears a crown. It is not gaudy or bejeweled. It is regal, yet understated. The Baby holds a small cluster of tiny, perfectly carved grapes in His tiny, perfectly carved fingers. His soft, tight locks hug His tiny head. His facial features are gentle and kind. He smiles sweetly, His nose and eyes no bigger than a pinhead. It is hard to imagine how the oak that I cannot drive a nail through can be fashioned with such minute precision. The statue is exquisite, delicate, and perfect. Carved from a 500-year-old oak beam salvaged from a Catholic church destroyed by war, it is the most beautiful carving I have ever seen. Each time I gaze at the holy pair I am reminded of the grizzled old man whose love found expression in that old oak beam.I was raised to be tolerant of all faiths, religions, and customs. My father grew up in Philly, among people of all races and ethnic groups. He detested prejudice in any form. My mother was a small-town girl raised by good-hearted German immigrants who settled in Iowa. Her parents were proud, patriotic Americans living in a country at war with Germany. They lived in constant fear of deportation by the adopted country they loved. Derogatory remarks about another’s religion, race, or origin were not allowed in my parents’ home. There were no exceptions.

After college I joined the Army. Both my home life and my college life had reinforced my belief that the greatness of our country was in its diversity. I was proud to serve in the Army, just as my father did.

When I was ordered to Germany as a liaison officer on NATO exercises in the fall of 1977, I was excited. I spoke fluent German and viewed the NATO maneuvers as a great opportunity to see the country I had studied for years–the country of my ancestors, the country that my father and uncles fought in World War II, and the country whose tongue I now spoke with ease. Until I got to Germany and drew the curious looks of Germans who asked why I was wearing an American Army uniform, I did not realize that I spoke German with a German accent. All of my college instructors had been German nationals. So, when our unit was sent to the Schwabish Alps, I was elected unofficial tour guide, historian, and interpreter.

My unit driver was a young black private from southern Louisiana. Charles was a quiet, shy kid who had never been outside his tiny hometown except to join the Army. Although I was tolerant, open-minded, and never stereotyped people, or so I believed, I felt a special responsibility for Charles. Not just the responsibility conferred by the chain of command, but to protect him from the insults and derogatory remarks that I expected. Although both of us were American small-town boys, I was a white, blond-haired, German-speaking officer of German extraction, and Charles was black. And we had entered a country that–at least in the past–was not exactly known for its racial or ethnic tolerance. A country that once sought to exterminate Jews, Gypsies, and any other minority group that posed a threat to purity of the mythical Aryan race.

Although we were allies now, I was still uneasy about these Germans. We had heard about the rise of the neo-Nazis. So, my antennae were up. After all, were not all Germans racists at heart? And didn’t persons like Charles need the protection of a white American like me?

I did not yet fully appreciate my own hypocrisy.

As we traveled throughout the beautiful rolling countryside of the Schwabish Alps, we would stop occasionally to sample the food at the local Gasthauses. Each time we entered a Gasthaus, I was on guard, certain that the time would come when I would have to defend Charles. Few black faces were seen in this part of Germany. Subtle and not so subtle looks were plentiful. However, we always managed to avoid problems.One cool autumn evening we ate at our favorite watering hole, the Lowen Gasthaus in Kettenacker, Germany. Our group–four young captains, an older sergeant, and Charles–ordered dinner and sat quaffing steins of our favorite local beer. As we talked, I noticed a tall, quiet man with rough-hewn features, drinking beer and smoking at a table next to us. He sat by himself. He was a dark, almost brooding presence. I was at once apprehensive of him, yet curiously attracted. His craggy face occasionally gazed down at the wooden statues on the floor next to the table. Now and then he would reach down to the floor and pick up a statue in his gnarled hands, caress it, inspect it, and return it to the floor. These were religious figures of some sort. He saw my interest. He looked like a peddler who had stopped for dinner on his way home.

All evening the dark man sat drinking, smoking, and looking at us. He watched Charles intently. I noticed; if Charles did, he did not say so. After a few hours the man waved his hand as if to invite us over. In slightly slurred German, he spoke to me: “Kommen!” We went over.

After some small talk, Josef ordered a round for his guests. We raised our steins to him. His passion was wood carving. He did it to pass the time, he said. He sold a few pieces now and then. I told him it was the most beautiful work I had ever seen. He shrugged it off. He caressed a small statue of Mary and the Baby Jesus. He handed it to me and explained its origin. He had salvaged the beam from an old church. His grizzled hands and furrowed face spoke of harshness and suffering. Yet there was kindness in his voice. His gruff exterior belied the heart of a gentle person. He was apparently a devout Catholic. All of his figures were the Madonna and Child–in different poses and sizes.

The inevitable subject of the war came up, largely through my gentle prodding. Where had he served? Whom had he fought? What was it like?

“I was at Stalingrad,” he replied softly. I understood. It was a ferocious, brutal campaign. This was much better than a history book. This was the real thing. He glanced again at Charles. I thought I detected a smile. “How was it at Stalingrad?” I pressed Josef further. His face darkened again as he recalled. “Cold . . . terrible” were the only two words he ever spoke. He did not want to discuss it further. He was staring at Charles now. Charles was visibly uncomfortable.

“What unit was he in?” I pressed him. He told me that he was Infanterie. And he had been a Nazi. He was sent to the Russian front with the most elite units that the Reichswehr could field. He joined the Nazi Party, he explained, “because all patriots did.” He was not proud of it now. I translated to my buddies: “This man was a storm trooper.” No one replied. A jackbooted, black-helmeted, death’s head, storm trooper. The guys who had blown up my uncle’s tank somewhere in Germany. The kind I had read about in Army comics when I was a kid. I did not know whether to hate this man. My feelings seemed irrelevant. That was, after all, a long time ago. What I saw before me was a kind, grizzled old man who loved the Virgin Mary and her Child. The contradictions were overwhelming. I sat silently, drinking my beer.

After studying Charles again intently, he pulled on his cigarette and pointed at the young black kid from Louisiana. I knew what was coming.

“Die Schwarzen . . . ” his voiced trailed off. He pointed at Charles again. Here it comes, I thought. It was time to go. I suggested to my comrades that we pack up. It seemed to be the right time. Josef continued as we started to get up: “Ich liebe die Schwarzen. . . .” He took another drink of beer. I sat down, stunned. I interpreted again. No one else spoke. “He loved the blacks?” But why? Charles and the rest perked up. “I was captured by the Americans,” he continued slowly. They took me to your South. I was put in a camp.” He looked at Charles again, this time almost affectionately. How was he treated, I asked, sure that we had treated our prisoners better than the Germans had treated theirs. Josef frowned. “Terrible. I hated it. I hated Americans . . . at least the white ones.” I translated once again, awestruck, unprepared for what I had heard. “The black ones,” he continued, “I love them. They were good to me. They were the only ones.” He paused. He reached over and shook Charles’s hand. Charles was embarrassed, unsure how to react. He smiled faintly at the former Nazi. “They sneaked me candy and food. They were kind to me.” I translated again. Josef was thanking this nervous young private for all the kindness that his race had shown him in his captivity at the hands of white American troops. Perhaps they understood Josef’s plight. Perhaps they knew what it was like to be treated as a second-class citizen, to be chained, to be the object of scorn and derision. This young black kid and this grizzled old Nazi had a bond that none of us could begin to understand. It was a stunning, poignant moment that I will never forget.

This white ex-Nazi was not a racist, if he ever had been. In fact, he liked American blacks far better than whites. This young black private did not need my protection, if he ever did. He was, in a strange way, bound more closely to this old man than to me. And I saw more love in the carvings and in the words of this former Nazi than I had ever seen in any man of the cloth. The irony overwhelmed me.

I bought Josef’s Madonna and Child before we left the Gasthaus. He had more at home. I was welcome to it. I paid more than he asked. He did not ask enough. I knew somehow that I could not leave that night without the statue. It has been my constant companion ever since. The Mother and Child sit on my Chinese altar table. Now and then I look at them. Each time I do, I think about Charles and Josef. And I am reminded that every time I have ever tried to judge my fellow man according to his creed, race, or religion, I have been unfailingly wrong.

 

 

Ebenezer Obama and Trickle Down Charity

(The Rather Uncharitable Obamas)

 

2008 William Kevin Stoos

 

   

     Whenever Obama starts talking about charity, helping the poor, and tax breaks for the wealthy that “never trickle down to the poor,” hold on to your wallet.  If the poor had to rely upon the charity of the Obamas, the poor would starve.

 

     In a speech last month in Oregon, Obama railed against tax breaks for the wealthy and benefits that never “trickle down” to middle and low income taxpayers.  He stated that, in essence, the wealthy cannot be counted on to help the poor. He knows whereof he speaks. What else does not trickle down to the poor?  Obama’s personal income. When it comes to charity, he and his wife are, to put it charitably, amazingly uncharitable. 

 

     It turns out that, when it comes to charity, the old saw that “charity begins at home” does not apply–at least in his home. It may apply in McCain’s home,  Bush’s home, or even Clinton’s home, and the homes of millions of people across the country; however, it does not apply to Obama’s home.

 

     During the period from 2000-2004 his tax returns reveal that he and his wife Michelle (only recently proud of her country) gave a whopping .6% of their income to charity. That is not six percent mind you, or even one percent, but six-tenths of one percent. College kids give more than that; the poor people who he pretends to speak for give more than that. But not the Obamas. Using “college loans” as an excuse for their stinginess, they just could not give more than six tenths of one percent of their income to help the less fortunate.

 

     Between 2004 and 2006 their returns reveal that they have increased their giving to an underwhelming 4-6% of their total income.  Better than six tenths of one percent, but amazingly low for a rich, liberal Democrat who pretends to empathize with the poor, rails against the upper class (of which he and his wife are members) and a government that gives the wealthy “tax breaks that never trickle down.” [sic]  Certainly, the Obamas give far less than Biblical proportions. 

 

     So, when it comes to giving to the poor, Obama is just not very good at it. Giving to the poor is a noble concept and private acts of charity speak much louder that hollow speeches–the sort of speeches for which he has become famous.  In the end, Ebenezer Obama–like many liberal Democrats–does not really believe in giving to the poor…at least, not his own money.  He would much rather give away ours.

A Good Hu-Person Being

(A Spoof on Gender-Free English) 

[As originally appearing in the Manchester Union Leader and Liberty Magazine]

Copyright ©  2008 William Kevin Stoos

“Mankind (man’kind’), n.1. All

Human beings; the human race, 2.

All human males; the male sex.”

Webster’s New World Dictionary  

I remember law school lecturers

With choice of words meticulous

Who strained to speak so gender-free

They sounded quite ridiculous.

They never said just “him” or “her,”

“Him/her” was always used;

Nor said they “he,” they used “he/she,”

Lest they became abused

By a group of vocal students

(Of the feminist persuasion)

Who hung upon their ev’ry word

And hissed on each occasion

When that poor ‘ole harried law

School prof dared to slip and render

Any noun or pronoun of the solely male gender.

Well, I couldn’t see the need to be

Quite so gender-free;

and I used to think there’s nothing

wrong with using “he” or “she;”

Why, I’d say “Miss” and “Missus”

As callow as can be,

(And open doors for ladies

Out of sexist chivalry!)

Yes, “chairman” was just fine with me

And I had never found

As good a word as “mankind”–

A collective human noun.

But I am not a sexist now—

As in my former days—

And I believe all chauvinists

Should mend their evil ways.

   

We shall forsake all gender

When our sexist age is ended

And use just simply “persons,”

So no one is offended.

Why consider “men” and “women”—

They’re as sexist as can be!

(For ‘Persons” and “Wo-persons”

Are truly gender free.)

“Manhole “covers won’t be found

In any city street—

Thank of them as “personholes.”

(That’s neutral and discreet.)

Was it:  “Peace on Earth,

Goodwill to Men.”

Those angels dared to sing?

(For “Peace on Earth, Goodwill to Persons”

Has a better ring.)

“Person your battle-stations!”

Will be the Admiral’s cry

When those old nasty sexist days

Have finally passed us by.

And the first man (“person”) on

The moon—

That naughty astronaut—

Brought gender into outer space

When he spoke that sexist rot:

“One small step for man,” he said

“One leap for all mankind.”

(I’ll bet those liberated few

Blew their collective mind!)

For had this sexist astronaut

Been a bit refined,

“’Twould’ve been a step for “person”

And a leap for “personkind.”

And those sexist automakers

Must make a firm decision

To neutralize the gender of

Their “manual” transmission.

Lest, through undue sexist bent

Our legal system totter,

Rename the crime for killing—

And call it “personslaughter.”

To spare those vocal feminists

From further cause to worry

We’ll make it mandatory that

“Forepersons” lead each jury.

Well, I believe each “person”

Should have the right to say

Whatever “he/she wants to

In “his/her” separate way.

Whether “person” or  “woperson,”

Each should be quite free

To walk and talk in “personkind”

With all impunity.

But for me, well, I’m no sexist

(I’ll refrain from “he” or “she-ing)

‘Cause I just simply want to be

A good “huperson being!”

     

It was on my birthday that I heard the good news. Susan Sarandon–half of the Hollyweird Power Couple whose views on politics, the direction of the country, and how stupid the American middle class is for electing Republicans to office are routinely ignored by 99% of all Americans–declared that she would leave the United States if John McCain were elected in 2008. This was my best present ever.

Aside from the fact that:

1.         McCain is the only candidate with any military experience, in this most dangerous time in American history;

2.         McCain is the only candidate with proven character. He spent five years in a North Vietnamese prison after crash landing, suffered broken arms and legs and thereafter was tortured mercilessly by his captors at a time when Obama was riding a tricycle and Hillary was dating boyfriend Bill in college. Of course, the press seldom mentions that McCain “re-upped” for his stint in prison, having had the chance to leave early and declining because his compatriots did not get an early out;

3.         Hillary’s husband desecrated the White House the last time he occupied it and will again if he is left to wander around in there for another four years;

4.         Obama is a closet socialist who–since has never done anything remarkable and has no track record–should be judged by the company he keeps, to wit: “Uncle Frank” (his communist mentor from Hawaii), Bill Ayers (a homegrown terrorist who still loves to wipe his feet on Old Glory), Bernardine Dohrn (Bill Ayers’ gal pal and fellow terrorist), and Pastor Jeremiah (a black liberation AmeriKKKa-hating minister whose radical sermons Obama just never heard);

5.         Obama wears a flag pin only when people point out that he does not wear one, and whose right hand just never finds his heart when the national anthem is played; and

6.         Obama would love to talk to those who would wipe Israel from the face of the earth and who hold that the Holocaust never happened; while McCain understands that evil must be defeated and not appeased;

 the number one reason why McCain must win, is that–if he does–Susan Sarandon will leave the country.  God bless her for standing up for her principles. I hope she really means it. I, for one, am sick of these vacuous, self-absorbed, America-hating prima donna actors who only say that they hate America, but sort of like the millions of dollars they make in this the worst of all countries on earth, and just never leave this awful place. I think Susan really means it. And for that, we should all be thankful. After all, what are actors but a simple diversion from the reality of life? We really do not expect or want much from them. We simply want to pay a few bucks for a movie ticket, to be entertained for a couple of hours, eat popcorn, drink a soda, and then leave. After that, we just want them to shut up. We do not want their advice on how to live; we do not want their advice on how to think. We certainly do not want their advice on morality or marriage; we do not want them to advise us on how to raise our kids, or tell us how to live here in Middle America, where we may be a little dull but, unlike Hollywood actors, aren’t a quarter inch deep. 

            We have had enough of Barbara Streisand telling us to hang out our clothes on clothes lines to save energy. We have had enough of Leonardo DiCaprio  telling us to conserve energy as he arrives at the Earth Day rally in a stretch limousine. We have had enough of Harry Belafonte, who made millions singing cheesy calypso tunes, lives in a pricey house with all the comforts this wonderful country has afforded him, and yet who cannot resist the temptation to trash this country and its leaders at every opportunity. And we have certainly had enough of Susan Sarandon and her views on America. So, “God bless Susan and God bless America.” If she just cannot stand it here, all I can say is: “Have fun in Canada, eh?” or Italy, or wherever she is going. I hope other Hollywood actors who likewise cannot stand it here, will take their millions and their opinions that interest no one and just leave.

So, Susan…thanks for the birthday present. By the way, did you say you are taking Tim with you?