Mother Earth said, "My humans are a proud, ungrateful species.
     They seem to think they made themselves.
     I fear they have forgotten us, the authors of their shape and sustenance."

Father Sky replied, "I fear so, too.  Well, I could send my coronavirus."  

Mother Earth said, "They think they're better than my other animals.
     Why, they don't even like each other!"

Father Sky replied, "They need a reason to come together, do they?   
     They need a common threat?  My coronavirus is a threat."

Mother Earth said, "My humans are a dirty, wasteful species.
     Every time they have a football game, they generate 14 tons of waste.
     Don't they see how sick I am?
     Plastic clogs my veins.
     Carbon emissions make it hard for me to breathe."

Father Sky replied, "I think I should send my coronavirus.
     It would speak  to their lungs.
     It would speak to their veins.
     They would feel in their own bodies just how choked and feverish you are."

Mother Earth said, "They live too much in their heads and on their screens.
     They have forgotten to be sensual."

Father Sky replied, "My coronavirus would remind them 
     just how good it is to smell, to taste, 
     to touch, embrace, to take a long, deep breath."

Mother Earth said, "Okay."

Two years later, Mother Earth said,
     "My humans are saner, plainer. Ambulances make them think.  
     They have had a taste of post-materialism. 
     They have started to define what's essential."

"All of them?"

"Of course not.
But enough.
Just enough."

Father Sky relied, "I will send my coronavirus your thanks."  


I have something for you.
It will help you get your family back.
And those friends who think you're crazy.

My gift is a word.

Go ahead.  Try it on.
It isn't hard to use.
Say "Maybe the election was stolen,
or maybe it wasn't."
There, wasn't that easy?

Maybe Donald Trump is truthful, maybe not.

Maybe Lee Harvey Oswald shot JFK.
Or was it the CIA?
Maybe the government told us the truth about 9/11.
Or was it an inside job?
Maybe.  I'm not sure.

Maybe on March 4th
Trump will finally be crowned 19th president
and that nasty cabal will be sent to Guantanamo.
You think?  I don't know.
Your guess is as good as mine.

Maybe there really is a nasty cabal that abuses children, 
and keeps them in tunnels under the White House,
or maybe that's just a carryover from the old Illuminati fiction
that was written in the 70s.

Maybe Q doesn't even know it was fiction.
Maybe you don't have to believe everything Q says.
Maybe you are free to pick and choose your conspiracy theories.

And maybe there's no devil.
And maybe there's no evil.
And maybe there are only people who make mistakes
while trying to be good. 

And maybe none of this stuff matters,
all that much.

Sure, life is full of maybes.
But not everything is maybe.
There are, in fact, facts.
Family, for instance, is a fact.

So just relax.
Lay your head on a pillow stuffed with maybes.
Snack on a big bowl of  maybes.
Swim in a sea of maybes.
You'll feel better.



When Jesus comes again, he will delight in the company of post-Christians. He will appear in drum circles and sweat lodges. He will march with Black Lives Matter. He will preach a Green New Deal. He might even sit in, listening quietly, at a Proud Boys meeting. Some evangelicals will take him to court and charge him with impersonating a messiah.

When Jesus comes again, he will try again to tell the world his truth. He will take to Twitter and say, “Here’s what I meant to say. We’re part of one Life and one Light and one Love, and that’s what we call God. All those stories that they told about me? Mostly disinformation.” Some cardinals will want to excommunicate him. Pope Francis will take him aside. “Kid, you just can’t be so blunt. That’s what got you killed the first time.”

Jesus will take to Twitter and say things like “Buddha was right!” After a few news cycles, he will be old news.

But his presence will remain, like the leaven in his favorite parable.


The hypnotist has left the stage.

We stand here, dazed. What just happened?

Some of us were sleepwalking, sleepchanting unmasked, sleepwearing MAGA hats. Others cowered in fear for four long years.

But now the hypnotist is gone. He forgot to snap his fingers. We stand here, dazed.

We look around at brothers and sisters and friends and we say, “What happened to us? Was I mad at you, and were you mad at me?”

The hypnotist has left the stage. He never snapped his fingers. It’s up to us to wake up on our own.


Some call it civil unrest.
I say we’re passing our torches to the new generation.

Some hand-offs have been smooth.
Torches held high
have shone bright light on past and present racial wounds.

Other torches slipped through eager fingers
and got trampled by running feet.

And then there were those
who used their torches to start dumpster fires.

These torches are for light,
not heat.