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A parable, second draft.
Sep. 2nd, 2005 12:02 pmMonday, 29 August 2005:
The President was watching TV on his ranch, stuffed with birthday cake, calluses pulsating fresh from his fingertips. Down the road, Camp Casey, still seeking and audience with the President, was packing up, leaving for Washington, D.C. All the while, blaring through the First TV in his office, were people screaming for help. Images of people panicking, seeking shelter and packed highways filled his screen.
"Enough of this," the President thought, and changed the channel.
Another image of streets ravaged by car bombs and gunfire after another and another kept coming to him like an oracle warning.
The President turns the TV off, convinced that all this is supposed to be a portent of the End TImes, but somehow, there is this nagging feeling in his gut that something can be done about it. That he has all the power granted to him in the world to actually do something about it.
He walks over to his bed. On it was his suitcase, still open. There is an old, worn Bible sitting atop some blue jeans. He whispers a prayer about guidance and flips open the book. His eyes fall upon one verse located near the end of the Bible in a chapter in an inner book that is rarely referred to.
"What good is it, my brothers," the verse began, "is a man claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save him?"
Seemingly confused at this direction from the Divine, the President reads on. He is temporarily distracted momentarily by the sound of a cars driving away from his ranch, speakers blaring a dated-yet-peppy song from the 1980's about sunshine and feeling good.
The President looks down at his Bible and continues reading. Surprisingly, the next few lines were highlighted by blue-black pen:
"Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to him, 'Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed,' but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it ?"
Astounded and confused, the President closes his Bible. The images, burn through his brain, asking him to help, to help. He begins to compose a comforting speech in his mind, something about staying strong. "That seems to go over well with the poor," he thinks.
Meanwhile, the sound of three-foot-solid concrete shattering against a hurricane wind is muffled by flooding water.
The President was watching TV on his ranch, stuffed with birthday cake, calluses pulsating fresh from his fingertips. Down the road, Camp Casey, still seeking and audience with the President, was packing up, leaving for Washington, D.C. All the while, blaring through the First TV in his office, were people screaming for help. Images of people panicking, seeking shelter and packed highways filled his screen.
"Enough of this," the President thought, and changed the channel.
Another image of streets ravaged by car bombs and gunfire after another and another kept coming to him like an oracle warning.
The President turns the TV off, convinced that all this is supposed to be a portent of the End TImes, but somehow, there is this nagging feeling in his gut that something can be done about it. That he has all the power granted to him in the world to actually do something about it.
He walks over to his bed. On it was his suitcase, still open. There is an old, worn Bible sitting atop some blue jeans. He whispers a prayer about guidance and flips open the book. His eyes fall upon one verse located near the end of the Bible in a chapter in an inner book that is rarely referred to.
"What good is it, my brothers," the verse began, "is a man claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save him?"
Seemingly confused at this direction from the Divine, the President reads on. He is temporarily distracted momentarily by the sound of a cars driving away from his ranch, speakers blaring a dated-yet-peppy song from the 1980's about sunshine and feeling good.
The President looks down at his Bible and continues reading. Surprisingly, the next few lines were highlighted by blue-black pen:
"Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to him, 'Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed,' but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it ?"
Astounded and confused, the President closes his Bible. The images, burn through his brain, asking him to help, to help. He begins to compose a comforting speech in his mind, something about staying strong. "That seems to go over well with the poor," he thinks.
Meanwhile, the sound of three-foot-solid concrete shattering against a hurricane wind is muffled by flooding water.
