Something on my Mind: The Spirit of Lawlessness

I suppose there is only one thing worse that a police state, and that would be a no-police state. Lawfulness or lawlessness? If we had no other options, I'd chose the former.

If you're like me, you've heard of a growing police state—especially in America (my main source for news). Either that, or we're being fed a pile of [#@!%&] from the press. I would think the truth is somewhere in the middle, namely, there has been an extra dose of unnecessary intrusion and excessive force in recent months, but it may not be as bad as it sounds. I don't know for sure, but, then, neither do you.

So let's discuss here what is rarely being discussed elsewhere, unless you wisely get your news from Glenn Beck or Ezra Levant. In other words, I'm not really commenting on the apparent growing police state, as much as I am on the over-the-top protests and their coverage.

While none of us were at the recent events (in Ferguson and NYC, for example), the professional protesters and liberal media were. That tells me right there that some reporting was skewered, biased, and dangerous.

There appears to be a groundswell movement to attack, malign, and even kill cops these days. I'm choosing my generalization carefully, so you'll need to read between the lines on this one. I see too many people with too much time and too few brains out there, ready and eager for a fight in the name of justice.

"The name of justice" would be an interesting way to put it. I suggest that it's a call for justice alright, but in name only. To demand justice through insurrection is an oxymoron. In my opinion, it's nothing more than a front for lawlessness and anarchy. These justice-demanders appear to hide behind the colour, age, gender, and victimization complex. That strikes me as hypocritical, inconsistent, and frightening.

There are some issues I can't quite grasp: Why did we watch the extensive coverage of the anarchists in Ferguson, night after night, while there was limited coverage of the assassination of two innocent cops in New York City? (Add the death of a Florida cop while you're at it.)

In fact, there wasn't much of any protest, so far as I could tell.

And race seems to be the underlying issue here, or at least that's what we're told. Again, scant coverage when the roles are reversed. That's where the hypocrisy and inconsistency comes in.

Here's what's reported: a black victim killed by a white villain. Here's what not reported: a white victim killed by a black villain. Or the bigger issue, namely, black young men killing other black young men.

On the other hand, do we ever read anything about the significant acts of kindness cops have done and are doing all over the States on a daily basis? Where's the coverage of the overwhelming random acts of kindness provided by white cops to black citizens? Nary a word.

Are cops perfect? Are you kidding me? They're humans just like the rest of us. They are just as prone to lose it like anyone else—be it a rancher, trucker, or contractor. But you never read of those types being vilified the way cops are.

I even read of an accident in Abbotsford, BC, the other day, where an "of-duty cop" struck a pedestrian. I have never read of a off-duty doctor or teacher being identified the same way, so why a cop? Why the slanted reporting?

No, the spirit of lawlessness is a far more scary matter than the spirit of a police state.

When it's open season on cops, and race is in the mix, we're in serious trouble. When the law fails us, lowbrows, deadbeats, and professional anarchists are a deadly alternative.

You don't like cops? Fine: Next time you're in trouble, call a professional protester. They've got the time and the energy. Just make sure you fit the requirements for their selective justice.

Something on my Mind: Auld Lang Syne

I have a little idea (but very little) what the title of this column means. I should; after all, I chose it.

If my facts are right, and my source is something other than Wicked-pedia, it was someone called Burns from Scotland, who wrote it in the mid-1700's.

It's something we say to each other when the clock strikes midnight on New Year's Eve, if we're still awake at this point. I'd even recognize the tune if you hummed it to me as I write this.

However, I'm listening to Celtic Woman right now, so please don't bother me.

I will spend the next few hundred words trying to decipher, interpret, and apply those three words for you. I'm going to do it by looking back into 2014. As they say, you will not know where you're going unless you know where you've come from.

Here goes an Alberta translation of a Scottish title:

Auld. Looks and sound like it's one of those puffin-type birds that live on the rugged coast of some man-forsaken Atlantic Ocean island. No, that would be “auk”--and this would be an “auk-word” moment for me.

It is, in fact, a corruption of the word “old,” as in auld (old) man, auld (old) socks, or auld (old) news. Yes, something old is about to be replaced with something new: An old year has almost slinked away, and we are facing a new one. Here's hoping 2015 will be a better year for you here and you over there—and everyone of you all over the world. Surely, it can't be any worse than 2014.

Well, actually, sorry to say, it can.

Lang. If the writer meant “land,” the least he could do was spell it right. Maybe he was doing headstands when he wrote it and got his letters upside down. It looks like it could be a corruption of “long,” as in the “old long year that just passed,” and the “a” should have been an “o.” “Long” it is.

If that's the case, then the next word that should should be something like “year” or “time,” as in “past long year” or “old last year” or something brilliantly Canadian like that.

But Syne? Seriously, that doesn't look like “year” or “past” to me. It looks like it could be “sin” or maybe even “sing.” “Sing about the past year?” That's a stretch, but you know how these Scots spell. After all, any guy who wears a skirt and eats sheep guts is, well--maybe we'll leave it right there.

It is actually related to “since,” and they're just missing a “c.” After all, we've already had an “a” that should be an “o” (twice). So our phrase could come to be a very clumsy translation of “old long since,” or “that which is past.” Today, we might say idiomatically, “long, long ago”-- like a fairy tale.

But, friends, 2014 was no fairy tale.

There are too many stories to draw from as we look back. Here are a couple: We learned of the horror of the initials “ISIS” that we never knew before. And had you ever heard of Ferguson, Missouri, before you turned purple with rage when a black kid named Brown was shot by a white cop? Didn't think so.

If you're like me, you'd like to hit the rewind button on your DVD called, “2014: The Year That Was,” and start all over. While you wouldn't want to whitewash the news (we'll leave that up to the social and network media types), I personally would like to hear last year's news from a different angle.

But we can't do that; that is, we can't change the past (events or reporting). But what we can do is bring in a new year, with a fresh perspective, fresh resolve, and fresh integrity. And the news starts with you and yours, and works out from there.

You see, there's not a lot you can do about Muslims killing Muslims and blacks killing blacks—which, by the way, goes unreported and unresolved on a daily basis. No place for smugness here, of course. Death and mayhem are still death and mayhem, no matter what the religion or skin colour is.

So 2014, as some toddler might say, was a “yucky” year. While I can't be responsible for what happens in the Iraq-Syria-Turkey Triangle or in Ferguson, Missouri, for that matter, I can be responsible what happens in my little world. And if a enough of us are serious about change, who knows where our efforts could lead to?

I resolve, therefore, to neither rob, vandalize, or kill, nor turn my gracious faith into brutal beliefs.

Now, let me turn “Celtic Woman” down, and with one accord, let us all sing “Awed Lined Song”...”Old Lake Swan”...”Odd Leaning Swing”...

Something on my Mind: Who Stole Christmas? (Part Two)

Not sure how many ordinary thinking people I “converted” last week with my call to consider the reason for the season. That reason is to celebrate the coming of the Christ-child over 2,000 years ago.

And I'm not too hung up as to how exactly you choose to celebrate it. That's really none of my business, nor should the way I celebrate it be yours—and therein lies the catch. If I want to say “Merry Christmas,” have a nativity scene on my front lawn, and take time out to read the historical account of the greatest birth ever (my words, I agree), why can't I? Why should I fear the PCG (politically-correct gestapo) shutting me and my celebration down?

In all fairness, I see those who embrace a traditional view of Christmas are very much on the rational side of this discussion.

I want to be fair to the readers: Many of you may not be familiar with the biblical account, or worse, have only a slight grasp of some version of it. Thus, I will set the Scriptures aside and look at history itself. No fear from here with that approach. Believers love the way history and geography, biology and chemistry—for starters—support a biblical worldview. (“Nough already...)

There may be holes in your history and gaps in your geography, so let's take a reasonable, rational look at the matter. And I promise that the text book(s) we could draw from will have no religious overtones to them.

Outside sources tell us of a special birth in a not-so special place, near the one of two towns in Israel called Bethlehem—a real, geographical place on a map. It deals with people whose names you may or may not know, namely, Caesar Augustus, Quirinius (a regional, elected Roman official), and, nearly two years later, Herod the Great—three historical people in a real world context.

We wouldn't dream of erasing them from our history books, would we? That's unthinkable. So why are we so quick to throw Jesus under the proverbial bus? He's mentioned in the same record as the other two; selective history is very dangerous thing, you know.

Our second history and geography lesson likewise tells us of an entourage—call it a caravan, if you will—of astronomer-kings who saw something unique in the sky and in the extant Hebrew writings. I suggest their entourage was very large (forget the false notion of three wisemen): scores of servants, support staff, and soldiers, plus many other sky-gazers themselves. A long journey demands a lot clothes, food, gifts, and protection.

They, from their home land that we now call Iraq (the most prevalent country in the Bible, next to Israel), had enough information and insight to travel hundreds of kilometres for months on end, as they followed that unique star. Why would they ever make such a (bizarre) trip if the young child was not significant? What did those readers of the sky and holy writings know that we don't seem to know?

Do we disregard their record, too? Do we re-write that chapter of history, just to suit ourselves? Hardly. So again, why are we selective with Jesus' birth and early years? We really need to let go of emotions and fears when it comes to Christmas, you know.

We should be consistent in our assessment of Christmas here: Give it the season the credibility it deserves. If there was no authentic historical birth of the “Christ” of Christmas, why celebrate in half-measures?

Can we talk about chronology, while we're at it? Every time you fill in a cheque, flip a calendar, or have a birthday, you are giving token acknowledgement to the fact that time, schedules, even currency is based on that special birth.

We speak of BC (“before Christ”) and AD (Anno Domini, “the year of our Lord”), corresponding roughly to before His birth and after His death—emphasis on the word “roughly.” So that means you actually acknowledge that special birth every time you write the year down.

However, even that is changing, as we get more and more “liberated” from the so-called bondage of religion, we refer to events in terms of [B]CE ([Before]Common Era).

Be that as it may, I suggest to you that we must wake up to the fact that—even without religion, Bible, tradition, and faith—there was a special birth, of a special person, with a special (and timeless) message, that we should take time out to celebrate.

You want a tree, go ahead. You want to put lights on your house, fine with me. You want to take time out from the demands of life and celebrate the season with family and friends, please ask me over—I love a good mug of egg nog and I play a mean game of Boggle (something I said the same thing last year).

Just don't ignore the reason for the season. You might say that it's either Christmas or Christ-miss, right?

Something on my Mind: Who Stole Christmas? (Part One)

I don't think one has to be a wild-eyed, drooling, right-wing fundamentalist, young-earth creationist, pro-life human to recognize the demise of Christmas as we once knew it. (In fact, I'm not sure if any of those creatures actually exists, or even ever existed.) That's really an unfair portrayal of those of us who hold to a literal, historical, and traditional view the great day that we all enjoy.

No, “Who stole Christmas?” is just a question that simple, rational, and breathing individuals ask when he or she assesses the holiday season we once called Christmas.

Add anyone who chooses to be untouched by materialism, uncluttered by Hollywood, and unmoved by status quo, while you're at it, and you've likely got the same people asking the same question.

While you may not be one of those in my first line, you still may hold to a conservative (and therefore reasonable) view of life and death, history and geography, finances and morals, faith and fact. If you do, I feel better already. You likely share the same concern that I'm going to develop in this column.

Even selecting my target audience makes me sad: You see, one of the marks of the demise of Christmas is that people—which would include yours truly—who place a value on the origin and meaning of Christmas, are seen as wild-eyed, drooling, right-wing...(oops, used that line already).

It's a very sad day in a once-strong society that there is so little tolerance for certain marginalized folk. And people who place a value on faith and facts are getting more and more marginalized.

It is rather ironic, then, that those who have been demonized as intolerant are no longer tolerated by the so-called tolerant. Go figure.

When it comes to celebrating Christmas, there are two extremes today (and I suggest that the truth lies somewhere in the middle): those who believe nothing significant happened 2,000 years ago and those who believe nothing significant happened 2,000 years ago.

No, that was not a miss-print, but a witty commentary on how the two polar opposite opinions are, in fact, actually quite similar. Let me explain.

On the one hand, there are people who have set convictions when it comes to Christmas. They believe in the birth of the Christ-child 2,000+ years ago; they believe it was a significant birth, yet wrapped in insignificant surroundings; and though they recognize it all happened back then, they believe that the celebration today should not be marked by lights, trees, cards, presents, or other forms of hollow joy.

You may not be surprised that I agree more or less with many of their assertions.

The other extreme is the godless greed and confused consumerism that marks many people's version of Christmas. There is no need for a manger, because there is no room for the Christ-child anymore: back then, in the inn; and now, in the hearts of mankind. The light (aka the star) that led the magi to the house where the young child lay has been replaced by gaudy Christmas displays—lights replacing light, if you will, colourful but overdone.

You may not be surprised at how much I disagree with that position.

Surely you're aware that the word “Christmas” is being de-emphasized, even deleted these days, replaced with something generic like “Winterfest,” or “Holiday Joy.” The usual rationale is about being sensitive to the needs and differing views of others--unless you hold to a traditional view, of course.

That's both lame and inconsistent, of course, as there appears to be no sensitivity to the needs and differing views of the generations of families that have cherished the facts of a historical Christmas.

By the way, “Winterfest” and “Holiday Joy,” in and of themselves, are certainly acceptable terms; the rationale behind using them, though, is sad.

And to be shoved aside, then ostracized, because one sees things differently, is a very sad commentary on the state of our society today. Whatever happened to “goodwill toward all men”? Oh right, it got thrown out with the Babe in Bethlehem.

For that matter, don't think one has to be a wild-eyed, drooling, right-wing fundamentalist, young-earth creationist, pro-life human to embrace the true meaning of Christmas. Just a simple, rational, and breathing human being would do just fine.

Something on my Mind: I Believe in the Spirit of Santa

You've just read the title of this column and you assume the worst: Has Funston, you say to yourself, gone batty? Have his students  driven him around the bend, finally? (Well, “I don't think” and “maybe.”)

Before you rush out to buy me something for my mental breakdown, hold on. Let me start with what I don't mean, as some things are best explained by what they're not.

When I speak of Santa Claus, I am not—I repeat, Not—speaking of some fat guy in a red suit and white beard that defies the laws of gravity, environment, time zones, and AirMiles. Nor am I commenting on his ability to zip around the world on a sleigh, being pulled by a herd of reindeer with goofy names and red noses.

No, Santa is a figment of some ad agencies imagination, no matter what historical roots he has. I understand that there may be a Saint Nicholas from western Europe (Holland) a century or two ago, but that guy bore little resemblance to this guy.

So, no, Virginia, there isn't a Santa Claus.

You will notice that I said something about the “spirit” of Santa, not Santa himself. In fact, I suggest to you that one reason that the myth of Santa is so prevalent these past few decades is because of the lack of the spirit of Santa.

This spirit includes the following (and you may want to add more later):

1. The spirit of Santa is about being there--that mature, well-weathered friend who come around just to be present. He looks like the embodiment of happy wisdom and seasoned life skills. Today, he may be represented by those persons we call grandparents, favourite uncles or aunts, or just long-time friends. There is something inherently special about people who come into our lives simply to be there, even if it's only once a year. They stay around but not for too long, are upbeat but not too goofy. They are a safe and soothing presence in our lives.

2. The spirit of Santa is about giving—giving time, money, presents, even a listening ear. It is so much easier to face the day or the problem when surrounded by giving people. I know for myself that I enjoy being around people who are like that. And I like to think I do that for others.

3. The spirit of Santa is about meeting felt needs. Once the baubles are in the wastebasket, the tinsel is on the floor, and the presents are returned to Walmart, there is still an emptiness at Christmas that presents and turkey can't fill. The spirit of Santa is a person, not a thing; it's relationships, not things.

4. The spirit of Santa is about everything that is real and genuine; thus, it can be copied, counterfeited, and captured by those who want to use it to their own advantage. We see that today, and it's one of my motivations to write about it now. Even if there was a historical figure, it's unfortunate that forces at odds with that fact have hijacked the meaning of that person and have turned him into something quite different.

One of the challenges of loving history, theology, and accuracy, is that it often produces a counter-perspective on life's customs today. Many of you may have an idea where I am going with this, and I welcome your measured (dis)agreement with me. Just make sure you follow the same rules that I do, namely, base your opposition on history, theology, and accuracy.

You see, Santa is a counterfeit of something (better stated, someone) very real. Or better, the myth is the counterfeit, but the spirit is not counterfeit. As stated a few paragraphs before, Santa's presence—no, Maurice, not Santa's presents—reveals that there are some heart-felt humanity issues at stake here, often revealed at (but not limited to) the Christmas season. Part of this is because of the excessive emphasis on fun, family, and friends.

Yes, I believe there was a something resembling today's Santa, but I don't go to Holland to find him. I go to Israel. In terms of disciplines, I use history, geography, astronomy, theology, and economics to confirm everything. I see some daring similarities of what the spirit of Santa is with the one I'm referring to, and I find it a little unnerving. Or maybe that would be exciting.

Do what you want to do with the myth of Santa; just don't forget to embrace the spirit of Santa. If so, your world will be a better place for it, all year-round.

Something on my Mind: Hugs-R-Us

You will not believe one of the latest ventures I just read about. While it may be a new venture, it's not a new practice. It's an old habit that has been turned into a business. Lovers do it, grandmas do it, old friends do it. Even forest-anarchists do it.

It's a word that starts with an “h” and ends with a “g,” and it involves “you” (a terrific play on words, Maurice).

If you said h-u-g, you get to snuggle with a stranger-- that entrepreneurial young woman in Portland, Oregon, who—get this—cuddles with other people for a living. Most of us hug for free—she hugs for a fee.

Based on her rates and her projected customers, she could make thousands of dollars a month Not a bad haul at all. That's almost as much as a hockey player, only they hug just when they score a goal.

That is a bizarre amount, and while probably won't get it on a regular basis, it just goes to show you what a little ingenuity and initiative can get you. The figure was based on the phone calls, texts, and emails that she got. Her rate is a dollar a minute dollars per hour, multiplied by the number of enquiries.

I am responding to this news at different levels, fodder for the rest of this column.

First, I am thrilled to see something different, in terms of a new business. Not frozen sweets, not another fast food outlet, not yet another clothing store. Not part of a chain, not a joint-venture, not a re-making of an old venture.

In other words, no booze, no chews, no hues.

The closest vocation would be a massage therapist, chiropractor, or reflexologist...sort of. However, I think each of these professionals would be up in arms with me lumping their skills in with this practice.

“Up in arms” is a tempting bait for a quip, but I refrain.

Hugs are a commodity that do not involve inventory, shelf life, or back orders—though I'm tempted to (once again) get quippy about the words “back order.”

Second, I am worried that something so innocuous could turn into something vile. Two bodies, tightly wound together, one bed—do the math. Will it happen? I can't judge, but humans tend to gravitate towards depravity, not towards piety, you know.

Everything appears public and under those ubiquitous surveillance cameras, so let's cross our fingers. I am thinking of the type of customer that continuous cuddling may may attract on occasion. I am not thinking of the proprietor herself.

Third, and this is the kicker, why do we have to put hugs in a box, so to speak, and commercialize them? Is there actually a price tag for hugging? Hugging at what cost (pun intended)? I think the very fact that turning hugs into a business venture is clearly an indication of a greater, bigger, and deeper problem in our culture.

I certainly don't hug like I should—but I do send a lot of emails. But that's absurd, thinking that something cold and electronic can take the place of something warm and personal. No matter how many exclamation marks one uses in one's text, emails are not the same as a hug.

We may think that homeless kids, widowed mothers, and disaffected teenagers all need hugs. Very true, but so does that successful businessman, that competent female teacher, that macho rancher. Even a county-famous columnist could do with a hug or two.

Hugs are the cheapest, quickest, and happiest way to express love, affirmation, and connection, all in one simple squeeze. Granted, there are hugs and then there are hugs. The most appropriate in my view between guys and gals are the side-by-side ones. I think being sensitive as to hugging is good; touching in sensitive areas is not good. Today we would call that “inappropriate touching.”

This American hug shop is a clever idea, but it reveals how far we have fallen in terms of appropriate intimacy. Husbands don't hug wives (mea culpa) like they should; parents don't hug kids like they should. Good-byes are often limited to a fairly warm handshake or a simple wave of the hand.

Hugs are close-up and personal; hugs send the message that one person wants to be close to another, without the ghastly inappropriateness that some touching can produce. Like any other form of touching, we need to be careful how, when, where, who, and why.

But there's no question about the what: Arms are made for hugging, not fighting.

Something on my Mind: A Good Death

I don't know if anyone missed me, but I was away in Vancouver this past weekend. I had to drop everything, re-arrange an already-busy schedule, in order to attend a friend's funeral. He wasn't a young man, per se: He was probably sixteen to twenty years my senior, though he never discussed his age with me.

It was a new type of funeral—you know, burial first, then the service. I kind of like it myself. I don't question why people rarely avoid funeral services where the body is present, along with all the accompanying morbidity.

My friend—we'll call him Len—had lived a good, full life. He had raised five children, spent years growing a successful insurance business, and spent many months out of many years helping out in missions work in El Salvador, the birthplace of his wife, Silvia. In fact, he learned the language and the culture well, two things I that never did during my one-year teaching stint there.

Life had a twisted end for Len, at least during his last two years. Despite his years of service, his positive contributions to society, and his pro-active faith, he suffered from all sorts of cancer. In fact, everytime I tried to talk to him over the past year or so, I could literally hear a deterioration in his voice, cognitive skills, and perspective.

One of the greatest blows within those last two years was when he had to bury one of his daughters. He had already buried another daughter years ago, owing to some moral missteps. This most recent death, however, was owing to missteps of another sort, namely, she literally slipped on some steps and suffered some very serious head damage. She succumbed to those injuries just a few days after her fall.

As a friend and a fellow-Christian, I wonder about these circumstances that befell Len. And I know that I am not the first one to ask the big question, “Why?” Why do good people suffer bad things? Why do we suffer so much pain and disappointment, in every sense?

Then there's the question of an apparently impotent Being—I'll call Him God, if you don't mind (and actually, I'll still call Him God, even if you do mind)--Who seems incapable or at least unable to stop the pain.

Not so, of course, but we have erased God from the public arena, with Christmas being the latest event under attack. Not sure how much I can develop this thought in a column without some of the populace getting up in arms. However, I'm sure many of my readers have a spiritual bent.

Back to Len. I was amazed at the upbeat nature of the funeral service. We will all miss him, but we all had fond memories of a life well-lived, of a death well-faced. According to his understanding of the Good Book, he knew where he was going, to a place called heaven, where there is no pain or disappointment, no grief or sorrow.

And no angels strumming harps on fluffy clouds, either.

This funeral was a reality check for me at different levels. I saw many of my friends from the past and noticed how they had aged. Of course, I had too. I saw the sadness yet the joy in those left behind, and most of them shared Len's hope of life beyond life, if you will. And I saw life (and death) in a slightly new perspective: We're not here for a long time--nor a good time, by the way. We are here for a full time, and we need to make the most of it.

I feel fine today, but that may change by tomorrow. Three years ago, Len would have said the same thing. He didn't anticipate a two-year run of cancerous masses, excruciating pain, and constant trips to the hospital. He didn't know that the next significant death on his timetable within those two years would his eldest daughter.

He was here, and now he's gone. We're all better for the gift of his life, and strange to say it, the gift of his death. It was good to reflect on the things that matter, and dying is one of them. We try to avoid it, re-name it, excuse it, and deny it, but it does happen once in a lifetime to all of us, 100% of the time.

It is my earnest desire that when it comes to my turn to pass on, there may be as many people moved to tears and laughter, fond memories, and impact statements as I saw the other day. I would think you want the same.

I also want to make sure that when it comes to dying, I will have no regrets, no remorse, and give no resistance.

Something on my Mind: A Matter of Missing Meanings

As an admitted wordsmith, writer, and teacher of writing, grammar, and vocabulary, I'm into words in a big way. Words are to me as tools are to a carpenter, pots and pans to a cook, and cows to a rancher.

I am aware that words have shifted meanings over the centuries. It's hard to know what words once meant, compared to what they mean today. I'm sure there's a legitimate reason for the change.

In other words, if this were a history lesson, I would discuss the re-working of “awful,” “presently,” and “peer.” For the sake of my fellow-lexophiles, “awful” once meant full of awe (not terrible), “presently” meant in the future (not the present), and “peer” as someone in the social strata above you (not at the same level as you).

Then there are the broken rules, with texting being a good (or bad?) example--so “are you” becomes r u). Or when a new meaning is applied (eg., a “six-pack” morphs from being a small case of beer to some hunk's muscular abdomen). Does that mean if you drink too many six-packs yours becomes a one-pack? Confusing, I know, but don't blame me.

My main thrust today is about those other words whose meanings have shifted simply for the sake of convenience. Some have taken such a shift that I hesitate using them for fear of misusing them, then having some twit out there snickering—and I hate being snickered at.

Remember, for instance, when “gay” used to mean happy? It means anything but happy today. You will recall when “cool” once meant not warm. Someday I should write about the shift in the meanings of “hot,” and “chill.”

A few other words come to mind as I write this missive. These are hot-button words, loaded words, politically-correct words. My complaint is that words have shifted meaning for apparently no rationale reason. Bad enough to create confusion (the opposite of clear communication), but for those who don't embrace the new meaning, they are considered social outcasts or moral pariahs.

For instance, I remember when I was once able to use the words “boy” and “girl,” and everyone knew what I meant. Boys always dressed like boys, acted like boys, and went into the boys' bathroom. Not so any longer in certain circles. The same applies to girls.

Another word that's taken a beating is “absolutes.” We can no longer hold to absolutes apparently—and we've been told that in absolute terms. There's a serious flaw in that camp, whereby those who claim we can no longer be absolute about anything anymore...state it absolutely. If absolute doesn't mean rigid, firm, and definite, then don't ream me out rigidly, firmly, and definitely. That's called a double standard; worse, it's called hypocrisy.

Whatever happened to my next word, namely, “tolerance”? Tolerance used to mean allowing for differences, putting up with opinions and viewpoints opposed to your own. I think I've done my fare share all my life. However, today I must “tolerate” certain lifestyles, habits, and vices, but notice how those who demand tolerance of me are, well, not very tolerant of my view, if it's different from theirs. Hypocritically, tolerance seems to go only one way.

Worse yet, I hear how we must be tolerant of each other and allowing for differing views (repeated for effect, thank you), but then it stops when it comes to same basic moral issues. In fact, I am seen as an enemy of the state for having a differing view.

Have you thought of the shift in the meaning of “choice”? The term “pro-choice” apparently means balanced, wise, and selective. Nothing, of course, could be further from the truth. It simply means to choose to kill a helpless baby, conceived by selfish, unrestrained sex. The correct term is pro-death. Even writing this term should get a few people upset (which is not my intention), but it is the correct term. Sugarcoating it with fancy talk doesn't change the meaning behind the message.

So, when it comes to absolutes, tolerance, and choice, it appears their current use goes only one way—the opposite direction, you might say, from all civil, rational thought. By adjusting the meaning, moral imbalance and ambivalence becomes the norm.

The list is endless, or at least so it seems, so I must wind up. One more word: “friends.” Thirty years ago, friends were people you felt safe with, dropped your guard with, got deeper with—usually in person and over coffee.

These days we can have 200 “friends” on Facebook. There are some noble uses of Facebook (quick dissemination of news, for one). But equating folks who make regular, shallow comments on a computer as “friends” is a stretch. Not sure I want to be friends with those who spend inordinate amounts of time hanging out over a computer screen.

So what do you think, wasn't this a “swell” column?

Something on my Mind: The Worst E-Word Ever

In a world of human rights, preferential treatment, and “me-first” mentality, I am happy to announce yet another winner in the “worst-word-for-that-letter” category. These words are meant to tease and provoke you. If you're better for it, then I'm better for it, as I will have reached my goal.

You may recall that we discussed the F-word recently. Now we look at an E-word. With the help of an active, creative mind, I may actually make it through the alphabet over the next, say, year or so—depending how much the wit machine gets lubricated.

When was a kid, I had a lot of “E's” on my report card: A friend told me that “E” stood for “excellent” and that “A” stood for “awful.” Needless to say, I felt very, very good about my grades for years. It wasn't until my third go-round in grade nine that I clued in to the realities of the grading alphabet.

While E could stand for a number of words, I suggest it stands for “entitlement,” that sense that you deserve something that you don't, or that snitty, arrogant sense that something should be yours.

In other words, it's the assumption of rights without responsibilities.

In a free society (something we once enjoyed), there should be a general catalogue of privileges that all people rightfully enjoy. I speak of freedom of (and from) religion, of safety in everyday living, of respect and dignity. These go without saying; however, they are not the thrust of today's column.

Let me expand a little: In a free society, I should have the right to worship as my faith and conscience (and Bible) allows, and so should you. There should never be a heavy-handed, top-down demand for a a state faith, a confined truth, or a denominational standard—not to be confused with an ultimate faith, truth, or standard, of course.

The liberty to worship God is a timeless opportunity that has been a hallmark of every free society for the past 10,000 years. When that freedom is eroded or even encroached upon, that society is less free than it realizes.

Beyond the scope of so-called religion, I think of personal safety. There is a fundamental principle that allows me to be able to protect my family and possessions from anyone who would endanger us. That's why gun control is so flawed.

I hesitate to use the word “entitlement” when discussing the above, unless I recognize the complimentary qualities of rights and responsibilities. Disconnect them, and it's seriously flawed.

You see, when you take on a new job but expect the same rights that a twenty-five-year veteran has, that's flawed entitlement. Or when you walk into any relationship—dating, marriage, employment, ownership, etc.--with the sense of receiving all the rights but none of the responsibilities, that's flawed also.

The shoplifter will feel he or she is entitled to have the item (rights) without paying for it (responsibility). The philanderer will want the gratification (rights) without the duty of fidelity and parenthood (responsibility). The lazy student wants the good grades (rights) without the effort (responsibility) to earn them.

My way or my demands, these assumptions of personal rights, are components of entitlement, and they contribute to a myriad of challenges that plague our planet today. If we are ever going to discuss human rights, we should really discuss human rights and responsibilities—but we never do.

Unfortunately, there are too many examples all around us: For starters, road rage (= my right to harass you because you irritated me) and abortion (= this life growing within the womb is going to destroy my pleasure, so I must destroy him or her).

Let me add a couple more: bullying, namely, the right to harass others without taking responsibility; petty lawsuits, where when there is a mere whiff of an offense, it goes to court. There's more, but I'll refrain for now.

I can see that learning through life's lessons and working with a variety of people is one of the best ways to offset this evil of entitlement. If nothing else, I think I am at least entitled to that opinion.

And for that matter, maybe I was “entitled” to those crummy marks in school, after all.

Something on my Mind: A Safe Person (Part Two)

There are two types of people in the world: those who are safe people and those who need safe people. More often than not, they can be the same person (just not usually at the same time).

Last week's challenge to all, yours truly included, was to have a safe person to turn to, and be a safe person to turn to. It's so foundational and necessary for successful relationships. The second of the two questions is our starting-point today, namely, “Are you a safe person?”

If you need a further explanation, let me re-phrase the question: Can you be trusted by others without having a meltdown? Do others find you approachable and understanding, knowing full well you won't blow their confidence in you? Can individuals drop their guard in your presence?

If you said “Yes,” I'll be right over.

Let me add quickly that we all need others to listen to us, to understand us. To deny this need, or worse, even to acknowledge it, yet don't seek help for it, is tragic.

Perhaps we're afraid of being criticized. That's a legitimate fear, but there are times we need to be criticized—hopefully more constructively than destructively.

Indeed, being a safe person means you also have the right to correct wrong thinking or wrong actions. That allows you to fire or flunk someone; it means you can have a curfew for your kids, as part of the rules in the house. To think otherwise is, well, stupid: As a society, we're too edgy to either connect or confront, so nothing's safe anymore.

That previous statement, by the way, is a classic example of saying “no” or “wrong” when it's necessary.

Being a safe person means we're not overly-critical, but neither are we non-critical. The balance lies somewhere between allowing nothing and allowing anything. We, as wannabe safe people, often fail this litmus test because we're unclear of our role, we fear reprisal, or we don't want hurt those who trust us.

And the key is how, when, and why you react the way you do. The difference, simply put, might be in knowing when to speak up and when to shut up. (Kids, noticed how I used the term “shut up”?)

On the other hand, if you're looking for a safe person, one of greatest favours they can do for you is to lovingly correct you; unchecked, your issue(s) could lead to worse consequences than you can imagine.

Safe people want the best for those who trust them, so they should never want to do them any real harm. Safe people know the crucial needs of those who come to them, so they never do anything to turn them away. The recipient may choose to turn away for other reasons, but that's their problem, not yours.

Just keep in mind failure is not the same as determined defiance; nor is it the same as repeated mistakes. We need to allows others (and ourselves) liberty to fail, and have the freedom to admit it.

I think one of my greatest shortcomings as a father, and pardon the public confession, is that I believe I have not been perceived as a safe dad, a person who allows honest mess-ups. I have struggled in allowing myself to fail, and as a consequence, I have been too harsh on family members.

As I reflect over the past couple of decades, I should have been a bit slower to emend and a bit faster to embrace. Probably many parents feel the same way; trouble is, we just have one go at this momentous task of parenting our kids.

I assure you, I am attempting to make up for lost time--'nough said!

But enough about me: What about you? Do you see yourself as safe person? Do others see you as a safe person? Ask yourself the same questions I asked about fourteen paragraphs ago.

The key is to know how to be a safe person, then practise being a safe person and creating a safe place.

Strangely enough, over the years, I have found this column to be a bit of safe place for me: I have felt the freedom to opine, criticize, and whine a little, with limited fear of reprisal. I assure you, I guard this trust you've given me very seriously. I would like to think that you feel the same way, namely, that you find in this column a place where you can read it in the privacy of your own home, have an opinion, launch a criticism, and whine a little, when I appear to be off my rocker.

Well, you're welcome to my safe place anytime.

Something on my Mind: A Safe Person (Part One)

One of my goals as a classroom teacher this year is to provide a safe place for kids. I say classroom only because that is part of my world; in your case, it could be a class of a different sort or a community team. I simply speak of any sphere where the most vulnerable of our society need a place of refuge.

Kids need this because things can get rough out there--”out there” meaning places where people are. The classroom is a great example, where there can be bullying, or confusion about a concept. In moments of frustration or fear, kids need a person or a place of security.

Because I set the dial for the emotional climate in the room, that would mean that I must be perceived as a safe person—and I do mean person, not merely teacher.

Adults have the same needs, too, of course, and we'll discuss this next week. Suffice to say (or, just to keep you anticipating), adults tend to hide their lack of a safe haven through a wide variety of means—many of them masking deep-rooted pain.

This “safe” vision actually starts in my personal life—namely, me, in my own home, with my own family. I want my home to be a safe home for my family, as well as for all who enter in. Beyond that, I want to be a member of a safe church, and live in a safe community. Communities make up countries, and, well, you draw your own conclusions.

And the kids that need a safe classroom are the same one who really need that safety to start at home—but it often doesn't. I may be naive, but the home is foundation from which all this should be the most evident.

Probably before we get any further, we need to define our terms. Sometimes definitions, at least initially, are best understood by what they aren't; this gives us parameters for discussion. Within that fold, then, we can clearly define what we're talking about.

“Safe” is not simply tolerating destructive behaviour that's breaking the law (at any level). Nor are “safe” actions permissible where anything goes and where there are no consequences. Either one of those terms falls into a liberal, socialistic, and anarchistic mentality. We see enough of that in our “tolerant” culture.

Let's play with words (surprise, surprise) for a moment here: When I use the words “safeguard, safety net, safe house, and safety valve,” you have a sense that everything is all right, that there's a sense of security and well-being. So I think“safe person” is an appropriate term.

A safe person (the key to all of this), whether it's in the home, workplace, classroom, church, and community, is one who allows for failures and foibles, mix ups and mistakes of others--and is there to pick up the pieces. He or she allows said family member, child, friend, colleague—even stranger-- to drop their guard, to be free, open, and honest.

This means people in our care can use any given word incorrectly and not get their head taken off; mispronounce another word and not get yelled at. They can give an off-base opinion, dump and dump some more, even whine a little.

People need other people with whom they can think out loud; in other words, vent, opine, criticize, and disagree.

There is real liberty in the freedom of expression, even though some expressions of freedom need to be challenged and monitored. It calls for real discernment on the part of the safe person as to where to draw the line. Too many of us either draw it too soon or don't even waste time drawing it.

It's almost like Confession without the religious overtones, victim impact statements without the trauma, or criticism without its wounds.

If we all made an effort to be safe people, and tried to create safe places, I believe there would be a huge upgrade in our families, workplaces, and any other social environment. There would be a huge impact in our financial, moral, educational, even physical lives.

Life is like one big classroom: One, there are a lot of bullies out there; and two, sometimes life is just not fair. It would nice if there was someone we could feel safe with, someplace we could go for refuge.

Do you have that safe place? Are you that safe person?

Something on my Mind: Nothing to Eat

There are some fundamental differences between males and females. Kids, if you need to know what they are, ask your parents; parents, if you're still not sure yourself after all these years, ask your kids.

The main difference that comes to mind is the following: Women look into a closet chock-full of clothes and say, “I have nothing to wear,” whereas men look into a fridge chock-full of food and say, “There's nothing to eat.”

If I had any doubts as to my gender, which I don't, I confirmed this week that I am a male: When I looked into my closet, I was reminded that I have too many clothes—thanks to thrift stores and cheap sales—but I at least had plenty to wear. The problem was with the fridge (or, better stated, with the guy looking into the fridge): It was full of leftovers, fresh baking, plenty of beverages—and that was just the first shelf.

I solved the problem of “no food” by eating at the local golf course.

The reason we're on our own is that my wife and one of the kids have gone to BC for ten days or so (not home yet, so I have to add the “or so” part to be honest). The happy occasion is that one of my married daughters has given birth to another son, so Mother has stepped up to the plate, as it were, to help take of the other children, cook meals, and so on.

In the meantime, the few of us left at the Back Thirty must fend for ourselves.

We're doing okay, so thanks for asking. And for those who didn't ask, we 're still doing okay.

I should quickly add that the one daughter still at home is a marvelous cook like her mother; as well, I have a son who likes to dabble in the kitchen. Between the two of them, my needs are well taken care of. It's the time between when one or the other isn't available that's the crunch for yours truly.

Even at a skeletal roster of only four kids and parent, we hardly sit down together and eat a meal. Maybe that's normal in many households; if so, that's too bad. But in our case, we have kids working either full-time at the Post Office or part-time on a grain farm or a feedlot, or the old man (Maurice, bite your tongue) has gone to school a few days over the ten days, plus a gazillion (slightly colourful exaggeration) tasks and projects.

So it's tough to find time to eat together. But before that happens, one needs to find the food in the fridge, then prep it--which brings me full circle back to my opening quip (“nothing to eat in the fridge”--in case your memory is too short).

There's an expression in the Good Book that sounds like this: “Every man did that which was right in his own eyes.” We have adopted and adapted that one--making it a revised version, you might say-- when it comes to meals at the Funston household, namely, “Every man ate what was right in his own eyes.”

My wife is a magician when it comes to putting meals together. She can look into the same full fridge that I do and come up with a gourmet meal that rivals any good restaurant. How she does it, I cannot tell. I think it has something, once again, with the female genes versus the male genes: She sees what it could be and heads for the oven, whereas I see what it is—and head to the nearest cafe.

One of my specialties when my wife is gone is the “BF Pork Roast”: The “BF” part is my late father's initials and the “Pork Roast” part is actually more pork than roast, and to be truthful, more beans than pork. Okay, okay, I really exaggerate: it's simply a cold can of pork and beans, eaten right out of the can...cold.

I even make it gourmet when I add a thick layer of cheese on top, nuke it, and dump it over toast.

People, I'm just doing my environmental thing by not wasting gas to cook it, nor water to wash it. I'm sure it's the staple food of the Green Party.

Next time you see me, you'll observe that I'm not wasting away. In fact, I'm more waist than waste. These trips away from home are good for me, even though I'm not the one who's going. It makes me appreciate what my wife does when it comes to meals, if nothing else.

Now if there was some way I could get a little more creative with that can of beans...

Something on my Mind: I Lie at Night

I am a parent (one of two), the son of a set of parents, the father of parent (or two), so I have some experience with family life—warts and all. One of the greatest parenting challenges (though they all seem to be tied for first place) is teaching kids character, guiding them in their moral development.

Children raised in homes where character, virtue, and principals—all components of moral development—are not taught, are deprived. Parents have a fundamental responsibility to train their own children. The neighbourhood doesn't raise the kids, nor does the society at large—and that includes the school and the church.

These various communities can all help, to be sure, but the parents have the priority in this matter.

That, of course, is the ideal model, and in a fallen world of imploding families, multiple lovers, transient homes, cyber babysitters, my previous analysis now seems so archaic. I sadly agree, but it doesn't stop me from stating my case, or even aiming for a goal.

And within the book of moral development, you might say, there is one chapter that really stands out, in my estimation, that of telling the truth. Re-packaged, we could call it being honest, having integrity, speaking straight, not lying, and so forth.

“Lie” is a very short word in your Oxford Canadian Dictionary, but it's your Thesaurus that you want to consult at this point. Better still, read this county-famous writer who is intent on giving a vocabulary and moral lesson in the same breath (that would be me.)

If you want a synonym (not cinnamon, Cousin Reggie) for “lie,” I can assure you it's going to get personal. You see, we (me, you, and us) lie frequently, without even thinking of it. It has become so prevalent in our confused and wasted culture that it is now normal and acceptable.

When I sign up on a credit card but refuse to pay the balance at the end of the month, that's lying; and giving some wussy excuse to the bank about our financial extremities, when in fact we wasted our money on vices instead of essentials, that's also lying. Or referring to that as an “oversight” by saying we “forgot,” that's lying.

Fudging on our scheduling chaos, but explaining it away could be considered a very pretty lie. Feigning misunderstanding instruction when, in fact, we weren't listening or didn't want to do it, is a very clever lie. And messing up words (“you mean 'me' meant 'me'?”) is a very winsome lie.

You might say it's about repackaging the truth—and that's not a good thing at any level.

We can even lie without moving our lips: Silence, they say, is golden; it can also be be misleading—another fancy word for lying. Ever heard of body language (with the emphasis on “language”)? We can say a lot about ourselves, what we want, who we're teasing, by simple body language.

Misleading statements, gross exaggerations, padded facts, and any form of flattery, can all be summed up in one word: lies. You see, you can wash a pig, put a bow on its snout, and call it Patsy, but at the end of the day, it's still a pig.

Parents can be guilty of lying when they make promises to kids they know they won't keep; teachers can lie with threats of phone calls and punishment that they don't intend to deliver; politicians, media, car salesmen...well, you get the picture.

Even in a retail context, we are surrounded with lies: hamburgers look bigger and better in pictures than they do in real life; things on sale are actually not always cheaper in the long run; and promises for tried and true results rarely come through.

We lie because we want to be polite and not offensive (good); we want to avoid conflict (good); we don't want to disappoint people (good); or we fail to be open and honest with each other because we don't want to be vulnerable and get hurt (makes sense to me).

But somehow we need to develop the art of honesty without compromising the truth—a fine line indeed—just like I'm trying to do with you right now.

Sugarcoating this column would be just another example of lying, one reason why I try to : “shoot straight”—and that's the truth.

Something on my Mind: Double Double

I'm sure we have all been disgusted with the growing ISIS plague that's splattered all over northern Iraq and parts of Syria, and so we should. In addition to that is the grisly public beheadings of journalists and aid workers.

What little I have seen is horrifying. I understand from sources (high school students who will remain nameless) that there are actual Internet sites that you can go to to watch the deed being done. Not sure who in their right mind would watch it, but I'd probably lose mine if I did.

But thinking about the whole publicity thing has really provoked me, to somewhere just above outrage and a little below civil disobedience. Not sure if there is anyone else out there, but does anyone smell what I smell?

By that, I mean that I smell something fishy in what is reported, and ultimately, in what is read, by those who believe everything that the media reports—and doesn't report.

Can you spell “d-o-u-b-l-e s-t-a-n-d-a-r-d?”

In other words, with regard to ISIS, there is a worldwide outrage with the sick and heartless way certain people have been put to death—and so there should be. And I am sure we don't know the half of it.

Then further afield, there's a muted outcry with what is happening (note: present tense) in Iran, China, North Korea, even Mexico, and other rogue states—and that's just within the past few years.

Or let's go back a couple of decades, to the Balkan War of the '90s: Does anyone remember how many thousands of Muslim males were butchered? Didn't think so. And beyond that, hundreds of executions that went unreported.

Going back further, has ISIS's actions been any worse than the atrocities during World War II (you pick the country)? I suggest to you they haven't been. The key difference is the way the news is reported,. Space, time, and heart do not allow for a discussion about the murderous bloodbath of all and sundry resistance movements over the past 100 years alone.

But the real double standard is that North America butchers more people on a daily basis that ISIS will ever kill. It falls under the euphemistic category of “pro-choice”; we rational thinkers call it abortion, or, the murder of defenceless babies.

My son recently heard a teacher explain it this way: He had a hundred grains of rice in his hand, representing the number of people killed by ISIS; then he showed a twenty-five pound bag of rice, representing the deaths of innocent victims in North America over the past decade or so.

Which is more newsworthy? Which should get our attention first? Why no news coverage about those murders of innocents?

Have we become so soft, so skewed in our thinking and values, that we don't even think about anything other than what we're told by the media? That alarms me, and so it should likewise alarm you.

Double standards are hard to combat. I struggle with some myself, but never—I repeat, never—do it intentionally. We are all human we all have feet of clay; I can live with that--but that's not what I'm talking about.

The double standard of selective reporting, of ignoring some of the crucial facts is both unethical and immoral. Fairly strong words, I'd say, from a lowly, ordinary citizen in some small Alberta town. It's the word “some” that's integral to this argument: If we were being whitewashed all the way, we would be outraged; however, we are being whitewashed a little bit of the way, but we should still be outraged.

So let's try to pull this all together: One, there are some gruesome atrocities out there in the Middle East; two, however, they are no more gruesome than what we have heard or seen over the past few decades; and three, if we're going to report gruesome, barbaric murders, let's start with what we North Americans are doing to our own children.

This misplaced horror strikes me as inconsistent at best, hypocritical at worst. Perhaps some genuine reporting about America's own death chambers for its babies would be in order.

It seems to me that there is selective indignation, and not only spells a double standard, but it spells double trouble.