A Quick History of Teacher Unions in Missouri

A lot of people have been asking about Missouri teacher unions and why they seem invisible during these times when schools are under siege by our completely disconnected ruling political party. 

There are three teacher associations in Missouri. Two of them are unions, and one is an association. They all sell cheap liability insurance. Unions represent employee groups with the aim of creating a written Collective Bargaining Agreement (CBA), which determines compensation and working conditions for employees.

Last time I checked, teachers in metro districts of St. Louis and Kansas City belong to the American Federation of Teachers (AFT). AFT has a national presence and an active, outspoken leader in Randi Weingarten. When you hear about teachers striking in Chicago and elsewhere, it's usually AFT.

To the overall detriment of teacher representation in the state, Missouri State Teachers Association (MSTA) and Missouri National Education Association (MNEA) actively compete for memberships outside of the two major metro districts. 

What's the difference between MSTA and MNEA?

This is where it's hard to be objective as a former MNEA member. A lot of people don't realize MSTA was a charter member of NEA way back in the 1850's, when teacher groups from all over came together in Philadelphia to form what became the NEA, to promote public education nationwide.

Sometime in the early 1970s, a large faction of MSTA objected to sending dues to their national association, the NEA, and divorce proceedings between MSTA and a newly formed MNEA ensued. The split was settled in 1973. MSTA kept the name, the nice home in Columbia, the getaway resort on Jack's Fork river, while the MNEA retained the affiliation to NEA. (I don't know who negotiated this deal, but MNEA should get its money back.)

From 1973, MNEA began to rapidly grow with charter locals popping up in St. Louis and Kansas City suburban districts, as well as Springfield and Columbia. From the beginning, The new MNEA tended to be the more activist organization than the old MSTA.

Politically, the two associations differ a great deal, though they do come together when the state legislature or Rex Sinquefield or some half-ass GOP functionary comes up with an ingenious plan to end teacher tenure, privatize schools or maybe even endanger the health of students and teachers during a pandemic. Too much to hope for? Probably.

MSTA is the more "conservative" organization and is dominant in rural Missouri. For example, when NEA members voted to support Roe vs Wade, MSTA used that as a membership campaign. One example of how they differ is that regional universities like Evangel, Southwest Baptist or College of the Ozarks promote MSTA membership to their education majors. NEA is not allowed on these campuses, as far as I know. Here's another example of how they differ:

In the early 2000s, a new superintendent in the Independence school district threw out the teachers' written employment agreement, which functioned as a CBA. The district argued that teachers had no right to bargain collectively, so the agreement was meaningless. MNEA attorneys filed a lawsuit against the school district of Independence, claiming that the state constitution provided collective bargaining rights to all employees. MSTA disagreed and filed an amicus brief, siding with the Independence district. 

In 2007, the Missouri Supreme Court ruled that Missouri teachers did indeed have a constitutional right to bargain collectively through a representative of their own choosing. MNEA won. MSTA lost. MSTA later issued statements that they had somehow endorsed bargaining rights for teachers all along. To this date, MSTA has never bargained a teacher contract in any Missouri district.

Even with the Supreme Court win, the state still had no law providing guidance for teachers to select a bargaining representative. The Missouri State Board of Mediation covered such elections for all other employee groups but didn't cover teachers. Besides, the Republican governor (Roy Blunt's son) had gutted the board of mediation, so it couldn't do much anyway. So, Springfield NEA (SNEA) presented a petition to the school board in 2008, signed by 1,100 teachers, to hold a representation election anyway.

The school board and administration were none too keen with this situation and advised that the teachers should wait until the GOP-led legislature provided a new law regarding teacher representation and collective bargaining. Fourteen years later there still is no such law.

The Missouri School Board Association, with obvious input from MSTA attorneys, came up with a couple of new school board policies that would "sort of" follow National Labor Relations Board and Missouri Board of Mediation practices but with a twist that would allow for joint representation between MSTA and SNEA via a confusing two-part election process. Springfield teachers shot this notion down in election #1 in late 2008, and elected SNEA as their representative in election #2. SNEA has been bargaining contracts for teachers since 2009.

To this day MSTA is more anti-NEA than they are pro-teacher, as far as I can tell. MNEA has its own problems trying to be an advocate for teacher rights while tiptoeing around certain issues for fear of pushing "conservative" members toward MSTA, which is all too eager to raid their membership. So, when people ask why teacher unions in Missouri seem so meek and invisible, it's because there is a lack of unity, and a resulting lack of power. It's a microcosm of the political malaise that surrounds us, and it's a damn shame for public school teachers.

Growing Up in 1960's SGF (Ep. 1) - Baseball, God, Evangel

I am 70 years old, having just recently achieved this status.  Yes, I'm aging. So are you, by the way. But my skin has turned to crepe paper, and I find myself saying "when I was a kid" a lot. My parents used to tell me about how hard life was during the depression. By contrast, my kids hear how good life was during the 50s and 60s. My generation seems to have lost its way, I'm sorry to say.

So, I looked up Springfield, Missouri 1961 just for fun, and Google shows me a random picture of Katz Department Store on Glenstone. I used to buy albums there. Maybe it was a Cranks or Osco by then, but I recall purchasing the very first Grateful Dead album there. Hippies were kind of scary to me at the time, but I later learned to love them. In any case, the old Katz store is now vacant, which is pretty much how it was during its most recent incarnation as a CVS.

Growing Up In Springfield.

For some reason, the prevailing image of my boyhood during the early 60s in Springfield is playing little league baseball games at Harry Carr Park, near the corner of Fort & Grand. The Children's Home, as it was called, once occupied that spot. The Children's Home was a much smaller building than the current Great Circle campus, which currently occupies that space and beyond. Great Circle is a non-profit Behavior Health Provider, which now serves 40,000 kids on campuses across Missouri. In 1961, there was no need to accommodate such numbers of discarded children. 

Harry Carr Park, named after a former mayor, was a wide open space that took up most of a city block. There were no fences. Hit a ball past the outfielder and take off, which I remember doing several times. A pair of small wooden bleachers were behind home plate facing southeast. Games were played in early evening, and I distinctly remember a backdrop of beautiful sunsets from my shortstop's view.

I also retain the delicious olfactory memory of newly mowed grass blending with wafts of cigarette and cigar smoke. In 1961, the local Kiwanis Club sponsored little league baseball all across the city in every park. I played multiple games at Silver Springs, Grant Beach, Fassnight, Doling and Smith Park, all of which were nicely manicured with neatly striped baselines and equipped with real umpires in full gear.

To me, it was like the big leagues, traveling around town playing at different parks. The Kiwanis Club provided t-shirts. And if you weren't lucky enough to be on a fully sponsored team with cool uniforms, you could sign up to be placed on a team at the Park Board.

Pre-Springfield

For a minute, let's go back to 1947. My age at the time was -4. My Canadian parents, having been called of God to the mission field, moved their young family of five from Toronto, Canada to mainland China, near Canton. Along with the rest of their Pentecostal friends, they were earnestly unaware of the political situation in China. Within two years, fearing for their lives, they would summarily be kicked out, as the new Communist regime of Mao Zedong swept to power.

Either God didn't see that coming, or it was just a bad connection, perhaps a test of faith. Who knows? People who are called of God spend a lot of time discussing such things among themselves because it happens all the time. Undaunted, the family returned to Toronto, where Dad cobbled something together as a singing radio evangelist. This was the context in which I took that dangerous passage into the world 70 years ago. 

When I was three years old, God once again interrupted our lives to call the paterfamilias to Springfield, Missouri in order to join up with the Assemblies of God movement. They called it a movement at the time, as they were literally setting up shop to save the world. My parents were both ordained ministers. My mom was typically the church pianist and never actually gave a sermon, though she did write Sunday School lesson plans and little daily devotion books for many years.

The reverence my father had for leaders of the A/G "movement" was puzzling to me. The General Superintendent. The Head of Home Missions. I still remember their names. Live radio shows were broadcast every Sunday night from inside Headquarters, which is what Dad always called the Assemblies of God building on Division & Boonville. He was super creative, loved a crowd and had visions of Godly fame dancing in his head. Alas, those visions never came to fruition on a scale he had envisioned. Looking back, I think he probably would have been happier in the entertainment industry.

The Lord's plans for my dad at A/G Headquarters didn't pan out as expected. A year later, he was called by God to Southern California to work for a radio evangelist, who, shockingly enough, turned out to be a complete shyster. Dad was appalled to be complicit in bilking money from old people. I have few memories of North Hollywood. I learned the word smog. But dad moved the whole family of six back to smogless Springfield a year later, slightly humbled but still pious enough to rejoin the movement, albeit with a lesser job. Lord's will? It seemed God kept sending Dad off on missions that didn't work out for him, but who's to question? Mysterious ways, right? At least He wasn't suggesting he could murder his son, for which I am grateful.

Back to baseball

To summarize, I grew up in an extremely religious Canadian family in the Queen City of the Ozarks. My dad, who was born in England, didn't understand baseball. He really didn't want to. Rounders was the game he understood, which, conversely, I had no interest in learning. Who plays rounders? As far as I could tell, baseball was the most perfect game. Unfortunately, I found my dad to be an annoying fan on the occasions he would stay for my games, and I found it baffling how many people seemed to enjoy his company. He was the kind of guy that needed an audience, and regular Ozarker men of his generation didn't quite know what to make of him. You couldn't always tell why they were laughing, and he didn't seem to care.

Up until I hit the bigtime little league at Harry Carr Park, most of my baseball was played on the playgrounds at Mark Twain Elementary school and at a big open field just west of South Haven Baptist Church. Kids would play pickup games back then, and even school recess always started with picking captains and choosing teams. Sometimes the teacher would be the "Steady Pitcher".  If we didn't have enough for a full game, we'd play Fly Knocker or 500 or Indian Ball, invented variations that usually involved chasing batted balls and arguing over rules.

I was always the teacher's pet in elementary school. It was probably the worst epithet I endured, which isn't too bad by today's standards. I was smallish, quiet, polite and spoke a more proper form of Canadian English than most of my classmates. Words like "house", "about", "sorry" always drew comments. But I never felt ostracized or bullied by my classmates. All my friends moms loved me, which is always a good thing.

When my playground friends asked me to try out for their baseball team, the Yellowjackets, I was pretty excited. This was a team with very cool black and yellow uniforms, black hats, yellow bills. They were really good and almost always won their age group. My friends' dads were the coaches and wore the same hats, very cool.

Tryouts at East Nichols Park on a Saturday, and I never really heard why I didn't make the team. Not to brag, but I could hit, pitch and outrun just about everybody. Maybe dad talked to the coaches too long. In the end, I didn't care that much. I signed up at the Park Board and got on a team that was coached by a couple of Evangel College students, probably as part of a college PE class, but they were into it. The Falcons. White hats, red bills, emblem of swooping Falcon with menacing talons. We bought our own baseball pants or wore jeans.

The Falcons were quite a ragtag bunch, very much a local version of Sandlot. Poor kids, kids like me who didn't have connections, one Hispanic kid, Jaimie, who everybody called Jamie. We only played one year because our coaches graduated and moved back to Michigan and Illinois. At that time, most Evangel students came from out of state. We practiced at Smith Park, and often hung around Evangel's campus, which was a bunch of old army barracks with faded asbestos siding.

Evangel College 1961

Evangel College, where two of my older siblings graduated, was a former US Army hospital that had been gifted to Assemblies of God by the Truman administration for the price of $1. In the 60s Evangel was still a series of incredibly long hallways connecting former hospital rooms and barracks. They had an intramural basketball gymnasium that was so small, the walls served as the out of bounds. It was quaint, and the students seemed to love it there. At the time, Evangel was a bunch of A/G kids, a lot of them pastor's kids, far away from their parents for the very first time. It was probably the wildest school in town, even though you could be expelled if you had the misfortune of being caught going to movies or dances.

Because of the absolute prohibition of all things deemed "worldly" by family and church, I didn't see my first movie until the age of 14. It was "The Great Race", at the Gillioz, with Tony Curtis, a campy movie with villains and heroes. But I was amazed by the sheer magnitude of images and sound and soon placed the value of movie theaters far above church. Oh, it wasn't even close. Alas, my ultra religious upbringing had trained me to be less than forthcoming with my parents. Lucky for me, they had already raised three children and were too tired to closely monitor my comings and goings. I often think of my poor older sisters and what they endured. Thankfully, my parents standards had slipped over the years, and I was the beneficiary.

Southwest Missouri Deep Thoughts

 If you feel compelled to disguise yourself

in order to do the right thing

Consider 

You may have been doing

the wrong thing

up to that point

Angry Lambs

A virus has somehow recruited humans

To aid conversion of more hosts

Now they all lined up

For an unhinged carnival ride

& final altar call

Without one plea

#SavetheSaved

Prophecy #3 - Jesus, Mary Magdalene & Lifelong Learning

On Prophecy & Lifelong Learning

Prophets are pretty common, though most don't realize their status or potential. An advanced prophet, my term, is highly skilled at paying attention and learning. I'd say prophets are "lifelong" learners, but the term has been ruined by well-meaning public school officials, bless their hearts, always seeking new language to say the same things over and over again. (Meanwhile, kids learn.)

God says that once you stop being a lifelong learner, you're dead. Until then, you're at least learning about what dying feels like.

As if to prove me not dead yet, God recently revealed some amazing passages in the Gnostic Gospels. Fifty-two of these books, written on papyrus in Greek and bound in leather, were hidden in large clay pots found in remote caves somewhere in Upper Egypt. These books were written at about the same time that Mathew, Mark, Luke and John were circulating through a fragmented early church. The Gnostic Gospels of Nag Hammadi were discovered in 1945.

Of course, the ruling patriarchy accepted Christianity only after they figured out how to use it for control as they continued the eternal quest for wealth & power. It became dangerous for anyone to possess certain "heretical" gospels. One needn't be reminded what happens to heretics once a true religious hegemony comes to power. Thus, the books were stashed away in caves.

Prophetic Warning: Beware of religious hegemony. Starts with a minority and ends with minority rule.

Back to the Gnostic Gospels, which will forever be included in my own lifelong personal Bible.

Here's a poem from what sounds a lot like a female deity, unnamed - from Gnostic text, Thunder, Perfect Mind (0-200 AD)

For I am the first and the last.

I am the honored one and the scorned one.

I am the whore and the holy one.

I am the wife and the virgin . . .

I am the barren one,

  and many are her sons . . .

I am the silence that is incomprehensible . . .

I am the utterance of my name.

Mary Magdalene

Was the poem written by Magdalene? The Gospel of Philip tells us that Mary Magdalene, who is referred to as his companion, was clearly one of the disciples. The others become would become jealous when Jesus kissed her in front of them and would complain to Jesus that he loved her more. And lo, Jesus says, I'm paraphrasing, answered, "You want me to love you like I love her?" I hear an unspoken, "Really?", but that's open to interpretation.

Of course, this is my own interpretation. I'm no theologian. I can tell you that God has never condemned the Gnostic Gospels, nor has He questioned their relevance or authenticity. I find them strangely reassuring. A bunch of old church elders declared them heretical, not God.

I'll leave you with this gem from the Gospel of Thomas:

Jesus said, "Know what is before your face, and what is hidden from you will be revealed to you." 

Variation on Revelation, Female Deity

 

For I am the first and the last.

I am the honored one and the scorned one.

I am the whore and the holy one.

I am the wife and the virgin . . .

I am the barren one,

  and many are her sons . . .

I am the silence that is incomprehensible . . .

I am the utterance of my name.

from Gnostic text, Thunder, Perfect Mind (0-200 AD)

Story Cube Prophecies

Story Cube Prophecies

This evening's moon crosses the sky in a Waxing Gibbous phase, more than half but less than full. In 29.531 days, it will return to this phase again. If one were to seek a spiritual meaning for such a moon, one could learn that this is a phase for attention to detail, tweaking of one's life a bit.

Speaking of moon phases, specifically the waning phase . . .

I retired right before the pandemic. So, hey, Happy Days! It's okay, though, given our shared harsh realities, it's probably the best way to get through a plague. Provided there's enough scratch coming in to pay for a place. Which, praise be, there is at this moment in time. The whole concept of retirement is laughable to God, I'm sure. No, I'm sure. He told me.

James River, southeast Springfield

Prophesy: God says there are two ways humans think about their lives. There are those whose lives revolve around the idea that they are living on the Earth, and those living with the knowledge that they are of the Earth. Religion for "on the earth" people is all about consumption & seeking temporal gains. Religion for those "of the earth" is more about recognizing beauty in nature. One worships greed & wealth, the other art & nature. Any overlap is strictly superficial. Humans are the only species with this dual view of life, as far anybody knows.

That may be the only thing that makes us special, except . . . well, science. 

I've already deleted a complete paragraph about American politics. Poof! You're welcome. Wasn't worth describing something so pathetically obvious to so many. And there are people who can deliver it better . . . without the profanity. But there's this tidbit.

Prophesy: Josh Hawley, in his later years, will wear a cape but will struggle to find a walking cane to his liking. He will come to resemble a shriveled vampire. His associates will call him "Vlad" behind his back. He will never live in Missouri.

It's not much, but I had to get it out.

On that note, tonight's prophecy is complete. I'm going outside now to take a shot of the Waxing Gibbous and post it as a parting gift of love to all of my fellow humans who know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we are of the earth.

Here's a prophecy from July 2019. God told me it was too long. Of course, She's right. https://ozarksangel.blogspot.com/2019/07/word-from-prophet-of-god.html

Pandemic Journal #2

I set up this title, Pandemic Journal #2, weeks and weeks ago. I thought these uniquely dystopian times should be documented in some personal way. Then, weeks passed. Six months passed. I made up some songs, a couple of poems, cooked a lot, planted a garden, researched stuff, harvested a garden, walked in the woods, talked with people I love, kept my distance. Outside of my little world, the situation worsened.

In April 2019, a year before Covid-19 descended upon us, I said this in a post called Emergencies, Evangelicals & Saluting the Troops:

Imagine an asteroid or small planet hitting the earth, causing widespread tidal waves stories high. Would people be brought together? Would they compete? Care for each other? Would government be a help to people, or would leaders take advantage of the chaos to achieve maximum wealth accumulation and control?

A worldwide plague wasn't on my list of disaster scenarios. I probably had too much faith in modern medicine, having grown up in the days when diseases like polio and smallpox were defeated. Plagues were for Dark Ages, or at least pre smart phone. But then, there is still no cure for cancer, and it's fair to say cancer is an epidemic. Everybody has been touched by cancer in some way. Now, it seems certain, due to lack of leadership and a bewildering absence of community cohesion, Covid-19 will affect virtually everyone before it's contained, whenever that may be. We all will know someone who contracted Covid-19, just like cancer.

Since I do live in Springfield, Missouri, which I sometimes refer to as Pleasantville, the expected response from community leaders is . . . to dodge accountability. Follow the governor, CDC, County Health, all of which are, in turn, following their best instincts to avoid accountability? The only leader in the entire community, one who is at least attempting to fill the void, is a hospital CEO. The bodies are accumulating, folks. I'm sure he's being serreptitiously thanked by the aforementioned cowards, who eagerly sought leadership roles they weren't capable of filling. To them I can only offer a heartfelt Fuck You!, as they contort themselves to accommodate a non-existent balance between science and political/religious delusion. 

Thanks to the absolutely clueless moral & ethical black hole that is Donald Trump, the ornate facade covering American exceptionalism and the Republican Party has been unceremoniously ripped away like a bandage covering gangrenous flesh. Americans, still using a strange electoral system bent to favor former slave owners, somehow elected an international patsy, useful to international crime bosses for money laundering and fraud. He is now commander-in-chief of the greatest military power and largest economy on earth. This while being manipulated by these same crime bosses, who are much smarter and wealthier sociopaths than DT. They seek unchallenged world domination. It's very much like a bad James Bond movie, where we're all extras with no control over script edits.

I don't watch doomsday movies as a rule, but images from "Melancholia" (2011), where the Earth was threatened by a rogue planet, keep bubbling into my dreams and consciousness.

As Melancholia approaches Earth, no leaders rise to the occasion. Nobody rallies the people together. News reports casually deny any danger. Resume your normal life. It will disappear. Meanwhile, disaster capitalists plot their strategies, because that's what they do. Is it realistic how existentially vacant life had become for these characters? One still aggressively plans a clever ad campaign. Another, who knows the Earth is doomed, releases his stable of beautiful thoroughbreds to graze on a nearby golf course.

[Spoiler: Earth was blown to bits in a white hot moment of interplanetary impact. Everybody perishes. All life on Earth was erased within seconds, along with any human record that it had ever existed. The screen goes dark. After a pause, movie credits scroll.]

As a fractured society divided by greed, competing culture religions and almost comical misinformation campaigns, it seems we grapple with alternating currents of human frailty and resilience during the Great Coronavirus Pandemic of 2020. There is no script, no scrolling line of credits to assure us it's fiction. Because it's not. We witness, together and separately, the outrageous and relentless unraveling of the greatest civilization in human history. 

But there is hope. Right? Of course there is. There has to be.

It may sound absolutely heretical to say out loud, especially as a resident of Pleasantville, but Covid-19 may be this country's last best hope for systemic change. Covid-19 has exposed our collective wounds for all to see. An election may treat a few symptoms. At least it's a rallying point. At best, it may be the start of a new healing regimen. The rest is on us.

Ordinary Tale #1 24Sept2020

 Ordinary Tale

September 24, 2020

Aldi today, guy reaches by me for milk, no mask.

Me: Well, aren't you special!

What?

No mask

I don't wear one

Incredibly inconsiderate of you

If you look at the science . . .

No! Don't need that bullshit today

So tired

George Wallace Comes to Springfield - 13 Sept 1968

On Thursday, September 12, 1968, George Wallace and his third-party campaign for president arrived in Springfield to hold a rally on the public square in front of Heer's department store. Just a few months earlier, civil rights leader Martin Luther King and leading democratic presidential candidate, Bobby Kennedy, had been murdered. Until 2020, 1968 had been the most dangerous and turbulent year of my life. 

In September 1968, the most important election of my young life was less than two months away. Voting age was 21 at the time, and I was a 17 year-old senior in high school. But I was already a political junkie living in a totally apolitical family. (Maybe it was that 4th grade report on Thomas Jefferson, have no idea.)

The 1968 election would be the first presidential election after the Voting Rights Act (1965), so there was a glimmer of hope on the horizon through the despair of living through the killings of MLK & RFK. 

I was also very concerned for my own personal well-being. Older friends had already been drafted and sent to Vietnam for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to die for their country for no apparent reason, the first war in a pattern that has continued almost uninterrupted to this day. Like one of my living heroes, Mohammed Ali, had said a year earlier, I had "no quarrel with those Viet Cong."

The fact that George Wallace, avowed racist, hate monger, the man who literally blocked an entrance to black students attempting to enroll at his state university, would come to my town was both a source of dark curiosity and disgust. How would he be received here? Would there be protesters? My friend, Kevin, and I made sure there would be at least two. We found a piece of leftover white cardboard and fashioned a sign using red magic marker that simply read: "Racist!".

I'm pretty sure we skipped school that Thursday. That's a fair guess because, by senior year, I considered attendance optional. We were making our own civics lesson and arrived early to get a spot close to the flatbed trailer stage. We were relieved to see other protesters, but a few dozen protesters were eventually drowned out by a throng that police chief, Sam Robards, estimated to be between 12,000-15,000. It was the largest political crowd he had seen on the square in his 33 years on the force, according to the Springfield Daily News report. 

(At this time, Springfield had both morning and evening editions. Daily News was a.m. News-Leader was evening edition. At least three reporters and a photographer covered the event.)

Police, sheriff's deputies, state patrol and secret service were visible throughout the square and on top of buildings. Reporting of the event was somewhat carefully worded by 1968 Springfield standards. Here's one account beneath a large photo:

"The jaunty candidate from Alabama rapped out his message in fiery bursts, punctuated by cheers and yells. A country band had the crowd warmed into a foot stomping hand-clapping mood . . . Pretty Wallace Girls carrying plastic buckets moved among the people collecting money for the campaign."

Wallace began his speech with a tried and true demagogue/populist message that now, 52 years later, is all too familiar. Daily News:

"Wallace was wildly cheered by the crowd for his jabs against newsmen, professors, pseudo-intellectuals and bureaucrats." He also spoke of "ultra-liberals" seeking to desegregate schools and "kowtow to anarchists who roam the streets". He continued, "If it weren't for these firemen and policemen, we wouldn't be here today - you or I - we might well have been mugged or gunned down."

The newspaper report also acknowledged protesters, who raised signs reading "Racist", "Wallace Hates", "One Hitler Was Enough".

And there was this: "Black students, calling themselves Afro-Americans, mostly from Southwest Missouri State College, felt otherwise about Wallace. About 33 Negroes showed up with signs and sentiment opposing the candidate," the Daily News reported. They marched in peaceful demonstration. A spokesman said, "We recognize Mr. Wallace's freedom of speech. We also recognize our right of assembly. We are here to . . voice our discontent and opposition at the presence of a man whose racist platform is detrimental to humanity and would jeopardize the safety and security of this community and nation."

Black protesters in attendance noted that they were not a part of the local NAACP, which had decided not to have a contingent at the rally. One young Black woman said, "As elder members of this community, they (NAACP) let us down. We are here to voice our protest and to try to get rid of some of the apathy in Springfield. Springfieldians think we are happy with the way things are. We are not."

One woman, most assuredly white because she required no descriptors, offered support for Wallace because he was "a good Christian man". Racism and white Christianity have been dating a long time it appears. 

On election day, Wallace received only 12% of Greene County votes, a number matched by Missouri. Richard Nixon won the county by 20%, the state by 1%.

Nixon eventually won the election, of course, a solid electoral college win but only 500,000 more votes than Hubert Humphrey, a representational disconnect that continues to undermine voters. Wallace received over 9 million votes and won Alabama, Arkansas, Georgia, Louisiana and Mississippi, as the south made a huge shift away from the democratic party following the Civil Rights Act (1964), Voting Rights Act (1965) and the Fair Housing Act, which had passed the day before Wallace arrived in Springfield.

Wallace ran again in 1972, this time as a democrat, but was shot during a primary election rally in Maryland. He was paralyzed from the waist down for the rest of his life. The day after being shot, he won primary victories in Maryland and Michigan. 

Difficult Times, Difficult Decisions

 

Okay, let's start by saying that every decision, even how to approach a visit to the grocery store, is more difficult during these days of community spread. And we've been reminded of this innumerable times by civic leaders, real leaders and those posing as such. These are hard decisions. So hard. Nobody can dispute that.

If we've learned anything, we know there is no easy out when dealing with a highly contagious virus. Political posturing is lost on Covid-19. But by magnifying the difficulty of a decision, we also construct a hedge for making the wrong decision. It becomes exponentially more important to make every effort to turn a difficult decision-making process into the right decision.

Some wrong decisions are minimal, i.e. installing a "learning initiative" that doesn't work and is nearly impossible to implement. Nobody dies. Good teachers can ignore it effectively enough to still teach well. Other wrong decisions, i.e., the Iraq War, leads to hundreds of thousands of deaths, millions of refugees, and ongoing wars that kill and maim young people for generations.

If nothing else, can we agree that difficult decisions regarding the health, safety and the potential for suffering and death should be a top priority to get right the first time? 

Leaders often emerge during trying times, and not always from expected sources. A CEO at one of Springfield's big hospitals, for example, has been an amazing source of information and encouragement for the community. City Council overcame a virtual congregation of weirdos and miscreants, all spouting strange ideas about personal freedoms and demonic influences, before finally making the difficult decision to enact a mask ordinance. 

Unfortunately, other civic leaders have equivocated, cited tilted surveys and attempted to find a non-existent sweet spot between medical science and political crackpottery, always a precursor to a terrible decision. In my opinion, this is what Springfield's school leaders have done.

We all know by now, public schools have become the magical balm for every societal affliction, be it poverty, nutritional deficiencies, lack of health care, or lack of affordable childcare. The existing political/economic system that exponentially multiplies all these deficiencies is seldom, if ever, held accountable. It's a wicked chain reaction that is dumped on administrators, teachers and staff to work through. 
(And let's not even talk about how schools are "scored" as educational institutions amid this malaise.)

Here's the deal. Nobody on Springfield's school board signed up for a leadership role during a once-in-a-lifetime global pandemic that has afflicted millions of American and caused over 170,000 deaths (and counting). This is far beyond their customary role as cheerleaders for their superintendent's amazing educational schematics: to make Springfield Schools the envy of Nixa or Ozark or Willard or some other district that is nothing at all like Springfield.

When faced with approving a plan to address how to reach/teach 24,000 students during a pandemic, a majority of the school board deferred to their superintendent to come up with a plan. He created a huge committee of 70+ (ever been a member of a huge committee?), ran a plan by them. Approved. No need for a vote from the school board, the superintendent said. We've got this.

A couple of members, the newest and oldest serving member, registered their surprise at not being involved in perhaps the most important decision the school board has had to make since forever. "I find it odd," said one member. "Me, too," said another. The superintendent, who also doubles as board president, explained dismissively that reopening plans are not considered policy and are therefore not within the school board's purview.

Last week, a group of courageous secondary teachers penned a letter to the superintendent citing guidelines from the Center for Disease Control (CDC) and the World Health Organization (WHO), which indicate that the rate of Covid infection in Springfield at this moment is too high for a safe opening of schools. The teachers cited a WHO report that says positive test results should be no higher than 5%. Springfield/Greene County infection rate of those tested is now at 15%. 

For educational leaders who constantly study and refer to data, best practices, etc., reviewing these particular metrics must have seemed like a buzzkill. The district response was nothing more than a meticulously worded kiss-off:

"Feedback from families, employees, and community members is especially important to SPS. We welcome engagement and are committed to reflecting upon it, incorporating feedback into our decision-making whenever possible, to benefit all those we serve."

I'll conclude by imploring the school board to somehow work around being marginalized by your superintendent and ask some questions during tomorrow's board meeting (8/18/2020, 5:30 p.m.). Maybe some questions about process, procedures, contingencies, staffing, transparency to staff and community would be in order. Is there a threshold regarding rate of infection and/or death related to school opening?

The community needs hard questions to be asked from their elected representatives on the school board precisely because these decisions are hard. This is not the time to outsource decision-making. Lives are at stake.

Atheist

Atheist

A small ant,

halting across an expanse

of lighted keyboard

blacking out parts of letters,

oblivious to search results

for anything, everything, nothing

strolls across Delete, Backspace and

spells out + - P O L O

before disappearing,

doesn't think I exist.

Miasmic Pentameter

Miasmic Pentameter
(A Pandemic Poem)

Grocery store especially grim today
Toilet paper gone, no flour

People are baking and shitting
Like no other time in history

A crabby ass lady hums a dark psalm
Scouring soup label like scripture

Finding no quick redemption
She settles for low sodium

Pandemic Journal

March 20, 2020

Last night, I discovered what turned out to be a poor lost soul hiding in my garage. Here I was stuck at home like so many people, trying to adjust to life during a serious pandemic, and feeling slightly edgy with no visible provocation. Just a week earlier a policeman had been shot and killed a half mile away from my house, the first on-duty SPD death since 1932. People, not really knowing how to prepare, have decided that hoarding toilet paper eases their fear, like we're turning into Venezuela or something. At the very least, a lot of people are being forced to take a moment, a day, a week, a month for some serious self-assessment, ready or not.

I put down the book I was reading, Love in the Time of Cholera (I know), and ventured outside to close the garage doors, as I always do before heading off to bed. The garage is a separate building behind the house that has a small upstairs for storage. The upstairs is where our two indoor/outdoor cats hang out. It's not the best smelling place, but it's become their favorite spot for extensive napping.

The first thing I noticed as I approached the garage was that my newly installed motion-sensor lights did not come on. I found this mildly disturbing, as they were still new enough for me to muster a bit of consumer satisfaction each time they illuminated the dark spaces. Odd. I waved my hands around like an idiot. Nothing. Was that a cat rustling around upstairs? Then, I noticed that the sensor lights had been unplugged. I quickly plugged them in and went back into the house.

"Hey, did you unplug the garage light?" I asked my adult daughter, stuck at home with her dad during a pandemic while on hiatus from seasonal work out west.

"What? No. Why?"
"I think somebody may be upstairs in the garage."
"What?"

I returned to the garage and grabbed a baseball bat from a game tub by the door that contains frisbees, basketballs, old ball gloves. Turns out it was a wiffle ball bat, which wouldn't offer much defense, especially if the garage invader were armed. My mind raced. I stood quietly, wiffle bat in hand, until I heard a slight rustling sound above me. One of the cats, Louie Lamour, intently listened at my feet, tail fluffed. He knew something. I felt that unmistakable metalic rush of adrenaline. Somebody was up there, and I was poised to stun them into submission with blows from a plastic bat.

"Dude," I yelled. "I know you're up there, and you need to come down," I hadn't really thought about what to say. "If you aren't out of this garage in one-minute, I am calling the cops. Come down and leave. Now!" Silence. Then, he finally spoke just as I turned to go back inside.

"Can you help me? I need help," he answered in a feeble sounding voice. I was surprised the voice was higher pitched. I had pictured an older homeless person, or a generic, grizzled bad guy of some sort. Wasn't sure what to expect, really.

"No, I cannot help you," I yelled back. "Come down and maybe you can get some help. Come out of the garage now." No response. So, I went inside, called 911 and stayed on the line. While talking with dispatch, I saw him finally come out and begin walking tentatively, shakily toward my backdoor, arms outstretched as if to show he wasn't armed.

He was a tall, skinny kid with a buzz cut, wearing dirty, torn jeans. His face was in shadows. At that moment at least three police cars arrived. They had already been called due to reports of gun shots apparently. The kid didn't attempt to run. The officers approached carefully, calmly talking to him. At least one officer had his gun drawn. Within minutes, there were five officers surrounding the kid, and they persuaded him to sit down in one of my patio chairs by the umbrella table. Lights were on him, and I could finally see his face.

Over the next couple of hours, a group of four or five attending officers listened to a series of implausible tall tales and tried to figure out where they should take him. A couple of officers left for other calls. The kid was frisked, and police found a small knife, a pack of Newport cigarettes and a small amount of cash in his pockets. He told them his phone was still upstairs in the garage. He was trying to find a place to charge it. I went up to the cat haven with the officer to look around. There is absolutely nothing of value up there. They eventually found the phone.

His first story was that he was being chased by people with knives. Then, it was that his mother had kicked him out of the house. "Wait, okay. I'll be honest," he prefaced each tale. He refused to tell them his name and was overly concerned that the officers knew that he was "of age" to have his Newports. Of course, he wasn't.

As a former secondary teacher, I knew this kid. Not this individual kid, of course, but so many boys like him who were part of a second generation of lost boys in our town. Lost boys raised, loosely speaking, by lost parents, who depend on grandparents, teachers, counselors and social workers to provide at least an introduction to what might be "normal". In this case, the police were attempting to take that role, and they were exercising a great deal of patience in gently nudging him toward the reality of his current situation. If nothing else, this incident provided some real time insights into their daily work.

It turns out this kid, who, of course, was given a biblical name by invisible parents, lived with grandparents maybe a half mile away behind the Christian bowling alley. His grandfather had reported him as missing, as he had done many times before, and officers eventually learned his name and called grandpa. As officers attempted to load him in a squad car to take home, it became apparent that he couldn't walk and was getting sick. Eventually, an ambulance arrived, along with the grandfather, and he was taken to Cox Hospital for possible overdose. Grandpa told officers some Percocet was missing from the medicine cabinet. It was after midnight before everybody was gone.

Of course, all this happened under the pall of a worldwide pandemic that is all too quickly changing the way we view almost everything. I found myself wondering why the police who had frisked, propped up and, for a couple of hours stood well within a foot or two of this young man, were not wearing gloves or taking any apparent precautions.

And I thought to myself, well, this kid probably didn't fit the profile of a study abroad student just returned from Italy or China, and I was pretty damn sure he was not among those who defied health warnings to worship at the suburban mega-church down the highway (two positive cases so far). Just the same, I kept myself at a distance, as I was trying to train myself to do even with friends and relatives.

We live in exceptional times, trying times for sure. Lost boys like this probably aren't infected with the virus yet. But by now we should all know that it will be the lost people, the forgotten people at the low end of the social order who will eventually suffer most from this pandemic. It's just a matter of time. And I'm trying not to feel guilty that I didn't help this poor lost boy more than I did.

Street Light

Kit laid on her back on a picnic table in hopes of catching the media shower, as she had done so many times as a girl. A spot for deep thoughts. The table rested on a slab of patio just beyond a sliding glass door that separated her from Mom and Dad, who were glued to cable news in the dining room. There had been another bombing. Maybe a shooting. Kit hadn't listen for details.

She knew her parents were watching interviews with bewildered neighbors (can't believe it happened here), crime scene videos with flashing emergency vehicles, conflicting rumors. Tomorrow they'd watch heart wrenching victim profiles (she was the light of our lives) and, of course, the killer profile (angry, heavily armed white guy).

She could hear the excited voices of droning doom from her parents' network of choice - the one that stoked fear, patriotism, faith in Jesus, and was sponsored mainly by pharmaceutical companies suggesting a multitude ailments that lurk in their future. Fear brought to you by more fear.

Kit was straining to see meteors beyond the blue glare of the new streetlight in the far corner of the yard. Goddam streetlight, she muttered.

The streetlight had been installed, pole and all, over winter break soon after a string of house break-ins and shootings in the neighborhood. This was Dad's tireless explanation to neighbors or anyone who had the misfortune of stepping out onto the patio after dark. The fact that the break-ins and shootings occurred miles away on the west side of town was irrelevant. There were shootings in the news. Mom was scared. So, Dad put up a goddam street light in the alley.

Planes flew by but no meteors. There was a time when you could spot satellites moving across the sky, probably the same satellites that beamed the television signals that made Mom fearful, she thought. A vicious cycle. Not tonight. No satellites, no meteor shower. The more fearful we become, the less we are able to see in the natural world. File under Picnic Table Deep Thoughts, she smirked. Probably the last.

A distant flash of lightning briefly lit up the southern sky. Kit started counting. A thousand one, a thousand two all the way to ten. Nothing. No thunder, probably a summer thunderstorm a hundred miles away in north Arkansas, beyond the blinding lights of Branson.

Branson, Missouri. Christian Las Vegas with no gambling or showgirls, but similarly filled with poor hotel workers, underpaid musicians and washed up celebrities, so washed up you had never even heard of them in the first place. Her parents' favorite date night, Branson. Drawn to light like moths.

There would be no meteor shower tonight, maybe never again unless somebody shoots out that goddam light, she thought to herself. Mom would freak, would just make things worse. She knew finding her own place was the next big thing after school, somewhere where she could see the stars again.

Bass Pro, Assemblies Announce Merger

The Springfieldian, Volume 1 Number 1, Summer 1992, on early Microsoft Publisher.

Shock waves rolled through Springfield's business community early Monday at the news of a huge, if unlikely, merger of two giant entities, Bass Pro Shops and The International Headquarters of the Assemblies of God.

Officials from each organization held a news conference at Hemingway's restaurant. The new religious sporting goods venture, to be named "The International Bassemblies of God", marks an unprecedented merger of Evangelical elements from the former Pentecostal movement with the popular Bass Fishing and Sporting Goods retail industry of the American Midwest and South.

"We have seen bass fishing become a regular religious activity for millions of people," said Bassemblies co-owner Ronnie Forrest, "and at the same time, denominations like the Assemblies have become more like big business. By combining our assets and customer bases, we create the potential for unlimited growth, not to mention eternal life for all those Christian fishermen out there."

 "It's a logical progression in God's eyes," said Assemblies Public Relations Specialist, Julian Turnbridge. "The Bible is full of fish metaphors and stories. In fact, you could say the Bible is one big fish story. There's Jonah, the sermon on the mount with loaves and fishes, and, of course, all of Christ's disciples were bass fishermen.  Also, don't forget the Bible clearly states that Jesus was the first man in recorded history to water ski."

The merger of the two local industries will bring some changes to business practices for the Church/Watersports giant, according to Bassemblies Marketing Director, Uncle Buck Swaggert. "We'll soon present new catalog that will include a popular line of Christian Camouflage and a new pontoon boat that will be marketed as Noah's Party Barge."

Other promotions include special discounts for born-again bass fishermen and an annual Fishers of Men travel package that doubles as a missions event. Salvation Stations and Baptism Tanks will be featured in larger stores, and tithes to Bassemblies churches may now be paid by credit card and are exempt from any fees or interest. A sign stating "Over 10 Million Saved" was unveiled during the ceremony.

"We're ecstatic," said Forrest of the merger. "It's a combination of Divine Intervention and Free Enterprise. We call it Divine Enterprise. What could be more powerful? And it's all tax exempt. Hallelujah!

The Springfieldian (1992-94) was a satirical quarterly that lampooned local politics, religion and other aspects of life in the Queen City of the Ozarks. There were three main contributors who put together nine issues. Springfield Public Libraries has entire collection of original hard copies stored somewhere in Local History archives.

The Words of a Prophet 2019 A.D.

Prophet of God

I was called upon by God* today to visit a Christian church in Springfield, Missouri. I don't care if you don't believe me. It's True, capital T. I am a prophet of God. If you question my status as a prophet of God, that does not make you special, nor does it make me less a prophet.

This is not an attempt to persuade you to adopt a set of man-made riddles intended to make you feel better about yourself, though my hope is you will someday. That is to say, I don't give a shit if you turn away from Truth at this moment. Truth will eventually find you, whether you seek it or not.

Self-Proclaimed Men Of God.

Self-proclaimed "men of God" like Franklin Graham, Joel Osteen, Jerry Falwell, Jr. and their ilk espouse spiritual insights only to enhance their own temporal condition. That is, they're frauds. If you haven't figured that out yet, maybe you should stop reading.

God understands that the easily led are prone to follow blatant fraudsters more out of convenience than conviction. Or, put another way, Evangelical Christianity is to religion what professional wrestling is to sports. Both can be entertaining once you suspend your disbelief.

Genuine prophets of God do not seek followers nor do they want your money. I will occasionally purchase items when God sends me on "answer-to-prayer" missions, but it's usually not that much. He ignores 99%, by the way.  You'd do more good gifting your money to a homeless person working a street corner near you. This more visible level of poverty is a relatively new phenomenon locally but certainly not in human history. Any thriving tyrannical empire will produce plenty of beggars. God knows it runs in cycles.

My aim in sharing prophesies is no different from the old timers back in the day. Consider it a warning, a wake up call. This is what prophets do. The rest is on you.

Venturing Forth on East Sunshine Street

Verily, I ventured forth to answer God's calling, passing many a humble consumer servant along east Sunshine Street. Dutiful bargain hunters were ever-so-carefully creating a traffic snarl at a Sam's Club entrance. This despite clear traffic signals intended to provide smooth passage. Many of the elders were driving Buicks, which God finds oddly amusing. That's not much of a divine revelation, I know, just passing it along.

As God's obedient servant, I traveled eastward and, in good faith, turned south on Blackman Road. Blackman Road is so named because a man of African descent was spotted there many years ago. He may have been walking down a nearby path carrying some fish. Perhaps he lived near the James River for a short time. I don't know if this is true, but having lived in the area for many years, it seems plausible.

In the blink of an eye, I came upon a large house of God nestled high atop a neatly mowed hill several hundred paces from the road. I beheld an angular arrangement of bricks with metal roofing. This, I felt reasonably sure, was the spot. I pulled into the huge parking lot. Nobody was there.

God & Architecture

At first glance, I mistook the church for a middle school or high school. It seems whomever God had blessed with the construction contract for this house of worship had thrice utilized the same pre-ordained template with larger school districts in surrounding counties.

For what it's worth, and it's a lot, God prefers His homes to be singular in their design, which may explain His sighing disdain for prayers emanating from cookie-cutter suburban landscapes. And I'm sorry to report that God no longer attends to the distorted pleadings emanating from prefabricated metal buildings. Sadly, most of these "full metal churches" are found in rural settings, frequently visible on outer roads across I-44.

For the record, the rare open air tent meeting remains the preferred assemblage from which God enjoys receiving worship and prayer requests. 

I began examining the roof lines of this particular church. Walls, windows, and corner masonry slapped together in a lazy geometric. I've seen Lego structures with more character. I found myself visualizing, for a moment, God's Word bouncing off the angled roof lines like laser beams back into the atmosphere, piercing clouds and careening off orbiting satellites into the deepest reaches of space. Metal roof. Ugh. Impenetrable, virtually prayer proof. This explains a lot.

Inside, a multitude of prayers from congregants becomes an indoor bombardment of prayer lasers careening from ceiling to floor and back again until fading out entirely. Sunday worship at a metal roofed church would amount to nothing more than an indecipherable, discordant mix of mangled pleadings and missed directives. And then they all get in their cars and drive! God knows where they go, but they are dangerous.

Figure It Out!

God sometimes reveals Himself through idle thought portals like this. That is, I've come to value moments of wandering, or what some people would call day dreaming, because mental meanderings sometimes end with a flash of divine light. One person's daydream is another person's epiphany. Revelations from God don't happen that often, really, just often enough to effectively condition me to keep the playground open. You never know.

Was God revealing to me that the church roof served as an impenetrable deflector shield? Could this explain why so many Christian churches have lost their way? Metal roofs deflecting God's message? Could it possibly be that simple? Is this why Evangelicals are so susceptible to manipulation by unscrupulous charlatans? Seems plausible.

Come to think of it, the area's favorite mega church, James River Assembly of God, has a metal roof like this! By the way, it's now James River Church, as they've scrubbed their website of any references to the Assemblies of God denomination, which is headquartered in Springfield. Did we miss something?

Church squabbles are delightful entertainment for God. It's His reality television, if you will. Witnessing self-righteous men - and it's always men - puffing up and making fools of themselves in His name? Hilarious! The wives? Well, they are trained early to be submissive, so what would you expect?

Is it possible that a metal roof on James River Church explain why Pastor preaches that yoga is demonic and gay people aren't worth protecting from discrimination? Could it be that messages from God just haven't been getting through? Is Pastor just winging it?
Having heard him speak on several occasions, I find this quite plausible.

Heaven, Hell & the Rapture

I'm now imagining Pastor's arrival at the Gates of Heaven and in answering for his misguided political meddlings says, 

"You see, it turns out our church had a metal roof that served to deflect the Lord's Word. I never actually received His messages, and should therefore be held harmless for any sins I may have committed. To which Peter replies,

"Oh? Sorry, but the "Know Not What They Do" absolution is valid only when administered by God or His Designee. If you don't know what you're doing, you cannot possibly absolve yourself for not knowing what you're doing. Figure it out! Therefore, no entry for you, false prophet!"

Pastor, falling into hell, screams "Aiiyeeeeeeeee!"

Disclaimer: Pastor being flung into traditional Hell is my own self-directed flight of fancy. Truth is, God has never outright revealed to me whether Heaven or Hell exist actually exist as separate places, nor has He confirmed, or ever suggested to me, that there is a final day of judgement after death. He has cleverly implied many times that heaven and hell (lower case) exist in real time right here where we live, which I find both troubling and comforting depending on the situation.

Of course, as a prophet of God, the troubling question is, am I projecting scenarios from my own mind, or did God reveal it to me through my mind? Metal roof deflecting God's message? Plausible?

Wishful Thinking & Faith

It pains me to admit that I soon became overwhelmed with indecision about this day's calling. Why can't everything be easy? Being incapable of understanding God's message is the main reason man invented faith, with zero Guidance, by the way. God says that faith is dressed up wishful thinking and nothing more. But again, that doesn't necessarily make it a bad thing. So, if you consider yourself to be a man or woman of faith, rest assured there is nothing inherently wrong with that.

At this moment, my own wishful thinking was being severely tested. I resisted the temptation to leave and instead chose to wait for Divine Affirmation of some kind. This could take a while.

I once parked for the better part of an entire evening outside a strip mall massage parlor in southwest Springfield. Once there, I could find no sign or clue.

I did happen to see a guy who looked very much like Josh Hawley furtively exiting the parlor door. He appeared to be wearing a cape, which I found curious. He glided to a car that was parked outside a Chinese restaurant down the row. I marveled at his quickness and agility. Maybe it was the cape. I thought, "Whoa, am I here to catch Josh Hawley after a happy ending? That would be so amazing! Self-righteous twit!"

God quickly interjected. "He's going to be limber after a message."

This is how you know you're on the wrong track with God. It's never, "Hey, you're on the wrong track." No, it's always a statement of fact followed, and maybe it's me, seems to be followed by an unspoken "dumbass". Guidance from God is seldom direct, and don't waste your time with questions. Click. Among His most frequent directives is "Pay Attention". Easy for the omniscient to say.

It turned out the massage parlor outing was all about a woman who worked there, rather than a cape-wearing Josh Hawley. I never learned her name. She may have been ill, because I eventually was directed to a nearby market where I purchased specific items and returned to drop them off. That was it, but it took more than four hours for me to figure it out.

So here I was again, sitting in my car in a church parking lot on Blackman Road waiting for something to happen while speculating on metal roofs and mega church pastors being cast into hell. And lo, it came to pass that I fell into a troubled sleep behind the wheel of my Toyota.

Children Are Dying!

I awoke from a horrific nightmare, still in car, heart racing in full panic mode as I pieced together bizarre images. My mind filled with haunting echoes of anguish and death. I was stranded on a narrow ledge high atop an underground water park. Early Bransonesque. Marvel Cave meets White Water.

People were dutifully lining up their kids to be randomly killed on a water slide lined surrounded by jagged, flesh-cutting, man-made boulders. I don't know how else to say it. The slide was too swift for children. I watched in horror as their flailing little bodies were launched into the misty air and dashed against blood-soaked rocks, screams muffled by roaring water. Their bodies drifted off around a corner on a lazy river of death.

"What are you doing?" I scream at the families below. "Can't you see? No! Don't do this! They're dying!"

But people continued moving patiently along in neat lines that doubled back on themselves. They clutched their brightly colored rafts and kept moving forward, afraid to look up at me. A few children were obviously petrified, but parents urged them along toward the top of the slide, where smiling park attendants helped them lie down on their rafts.

Like happy vacationers boarding a doomed Duck Boat, they had somehow convinced themselves this particular ride was a must. True to Branson, all of the parents were too heavy to be thrown off the slide, but the younger kids were flying high into the air, one after the other. Oh, God!

"What's wrong with you people?" I woke up screaming. "Jesus!"

Sometimes I think this is how God likes to wake me up. He was laughing, which is about the most disarming thing there is. "Why would anybody listen to you? They don't listen to Me!"

Sometimes I think God has a sense of humor. I'm pretty sure He does, but most of it is way over my head. Like old people driving Buicks is funny? I don't get it. But, here's one you may have missed. God placed a giant prophylactic atop the Missouri Capitol as the ruling patriarchy passed restrictive laws to more effectively suppress women. It appears to be ribbed with no lubricant, which sounds Republican. God works a lot with metaphors, I've found.

With my dream, I believe He was trying to show me how tough it is to be God's prophet in 21st Century America. People don't listen, even when their lives are at stake, and they are struck dumb when confronted with Truth.
Truth often comes in blows, He once told me.

And then, still reeling from my dream, the sign from God came to me. I mean, literally, it was a sign right in front of my face. It said, "ATM".

At this moment, God reminded me how comfortable I had become with the superficiality of consumer life, that it would take over an hour for me to notice a big, bold bank ATM sign sitting squarely on Church grounds. Is this not His house? Did anybody bother to confer with Him about this? Obviously not!

A Den of Thieves

You may recall the only time we see violent Jesus is when he unloads his righteous rage on the money changers in the Temple, beating their asses, overturning tables, spilling cash boxes, freeing the sacrificial livestock into the streets and calling out the priests for turning the Temple into a "den of thieves". Oh, man! Wish I'd seen it. This was the real reason they had him killed him, of course.

Such a public display of disrespect to the owner class could not go unanswered. They had him executed in the most gruesome manner for all to see. You know the story. Sometime later, a bunny with colored eggs became involved. I have no idea. But the wealthy elite's message to the peasant class - virtually everybody else - was crystal clear. "Don't get any ideas."

Historical Note: Sixty-six years later a violent rebellion did erupt, forcing Roman Emperor, Nero, to send multiple reinforcements. The great Jewish Rebellion lasted seven years before it was finally defeated, leaving much of what we now call the Holy Land in ruins.

My point here is that most modern day "Christians" think that Jesus died for their sins. In truth, Jesus died for upsetting an established order that had allowed exploitative money changers to establish a foothold in the Temple of God.

Fast forward two thousand years, and we see money changers setting up banking services in God's house, and the church has become so thoroughly secularized that it's blind to the obvious desecration of God's house.

God's position is this: People can go ahead and worship money like crazy. I mean, we have free will, right? This isn't new. Just don't expect it to end well. Churches, however, cannot also be banks. God considers this spiritual bankruptcy, if you will. And here we have Exhibit A in the spiritual bankruptcy filing from Glendale Christian Church in Springfield, Missouri.

Also, please note that Springfield City Council unanimously approved this bank/church arrangement. The mayor quipped that the church might find it easier to collect tithes with an ATM on their property. Ha! Funny! Church, state and money changers united in what? Enterprise? Admit it, at first blink, you don't think it's that big a deal. Verily, I say to you. It is a big deal! 

God Did Not Create Corporations

Oh, and let me just pass this along, since we're discussing church/state/moneychanger things. God condemns the notion that corporations are people. Hobby Lobby and Chick-Fil-A will not rise up during the Rapture. 

Neither will you, for that matter. There's isn't going to be a Rapture. A full scale Apocalypse maybe, but no Rapture.
He wants you to know this. Stop deluding yourself.

For God's sake, I tell you this now so that appropriate actions may be taken, though I'm not exactly sure whether it would be better to repent or join a rebellion. Historically, both produce dubious outcomes. If pushed to choose, based on my interpretations of God's message, I'd probably go with rebellion at this point. It just seems more proactive, and sometimes rebellions succeed in changing things.

I will report more Insights as they are provided to me. It is my calling. Meanwhile, I would advise anyone reading this to offer prayers to God only while outdoors for best results. Also, just to be safe, if you attend a church covered by a metal roof, please listen very carefully to the message. Does it sound like it could come from God, or are they just making shit up?

You have free will. 

Pay attention. 

Figure it out.

*God has no gender and doesn't care about pronouns. I thought about mixing pronouns, but that would have made this piece even harder to read than it already is.