So I’m starting to compose this post. I’m perfectly sickened by everything that’s been rolling through my Facebook feeds — the infantile tantrums of the left, the smug snarkiness of the right, the eerie messianism of Pres. Trump’s personality cult, and above all the collection of insane clowns, corporate puppets, and pious frauds we must now call the Government of the United States. I’ve just read John Pavlovitz’s rebellious jeremiad, and I’m ready to compose my own Nolo consentire.
And in the background, I hear my mother’s TV set. The Golden Girls are on; she must have watched every episode at least twenty times. Bea Arthur and Estelle Getty are dressed as Sonny and Cher (I’ve seen this one) and singing, “I Got You, Babe”.
Suddenly, everything’s okay. God speaking to me, saying, Dude, I got this. Trust Me.
In case you’re wondering: No, I didn’t suddenly lose all sight of our many social, economic, and political woes. No, I didn’t suddenly gain complete trust in the National Circus. No, I don’t expect that He Who Must Be Called Our President will lead us to a land overflowing with milk and honey or a worker’s paradise. (If it’s a materialist paradise at all, it will be only for the most thoroughgoing materialists in the USA — the one-percenters.) If anything, I suspect that the cascade failure of Western civilization is closer than I first suspected almost seven years ago.
It’s still okay.