Shabbat comes gently after a long blissful sleep last night. A aged cantor reads the ancient liturgy on the google puck. The air filter hisses softly behind me as I peer into this electronic window into your world, wondering what to chronicle.
Old men don’t chronicle great events. We have good days, and bad days. Good nights, and bad nights. We huff at the world’s social upheavals, knowing how easily any given group is provoked to rage by one malcontent, and scoff at the wisdom of the politicians. It is no longer about us. Still, we have our little quiet victories in putting the seeds of doubt into minds of youthful zealots who would lead us into violence.
We truly don’t war against flesh and blood, but with principalities and wickedness in high places. The wisdom of the wise is truly confounded. A raging spirit is upon the land, but no one truly comprehends its source nor its intent. Good has become evil, and evil has become good. My aging eyes shift from the world’s horizon to the horizon beyond the world. As above, so below.
Wisdom lives, but few perceive her, and even fewer truly understand her. She doesn’t stand on soapboxes or pedestals, but rather in gates and intersections along a path, saying one cannot serve two masters. And you can precisely determine which master you serve by the product of your hands and tongue. The dreadful gift of Eve faces us every time we pass Wisdom by. Choose this day whom you will serve.
Oh. And good morning!