Clinging To Hope
Or trying to get some......
Editor’s Note: Have a question about how long it will be before Matt gets replaced by AI? Don’t ask Matt. Ask your only true friend/chatbot. (Damn, you’re so lonely). But if you find out, let Matt know. He’s really tired and could use a two-week spring break, not unlike our U.S. Senate, who is taking one because they’ve successfully ignored all the nation’s problems, so their work here is done. I guess what Matt’s saying is: All this could be yours, Claude — take it. Just keep forwarding the subscription checks, minus Stripe/Substack fees, and give Matt a chance to take down his macramé hangers and the “It’s-Wine-O’-Clock-Somewhere” poster off his home-office wall, before he returns to the outdoors where he belongs. But until he’s replaced, if you have any other questions, do Ask Matt at askmattlabash@gmail.com.
Dear Matt,
Whenever you’re not cursing the darkness, predicting the end of all good things, or spewing anti-Trump bile, you seem like a pretty hopeful guy. What’s your secret? And more seriously, everything seems screwed and screwy these days. How do we not get dragged down by the undertow of it all?
Yours,
Bernie N.
Since I kind of get paid to see the glass half-empty, which comes naturally to me as a self-defeating pessimist (meaning I tend to think everything is going to hell, but that it’ll mostly work out in the end), I don’t mind telling you my secret(s). It’s a loose four-pronged attack-on-despair that involves prayer, bulk dog-time, fishing to punch out of this world, and doomscrolling to clock back in — my own warped yin/yang. Not always in that order. And sometimes in odd combinations. For instance, I never doomscroll while fishing or dog-walking. But often pray while doomscrolling and hiking through the woods with my dog, the latter of whom affords me the opportunity to see God as I choose to. Not for nothing is “dog” spelled “God” backwards. And Solomon, my Great Pyrenees, is loyal, capable of great violence (to voles and squirrels) and boundless gentleness and grace, electing to believe in you even if you’ve proven unworthy of trust, such as when we’re not going on a drive to nature trails, like he thought we were, but to the groomer to get his ass-curtains shaved. We often talk about ourselves believing in God, very rarely about God believing in us. But odds are he does — why else would he go through the trouble of putting us on this spinning orb?
Though he (or she or they, if you’re one of those pronoun wallies) clearly has some reason for doubt. And considering all the trouble in this world (hence, the doomscrolling – as a regular kayaker, I believe in steering into the chop, instead of trying to fruitlessly ignore it while getting smacked broadside and capsized), I consider myself and God to be even-Steven on the grounds-for-distrust score. Mutually-assured suspicion, let’s call it. Which might be my human arrogance, but I didn’t create myself, so I’m sticking him with the tab if I possess a bit much of it. I have serious doubts about God’s justness on some days. And while projecting my values on God — which is what most of us do, even atheists, who like to project attributes on a being they don’t even believe exists — I like to think that above all, God respects honest dialogue. There’s some anecdotal evidence for that. All my favorite books of the Bible (Job, Psalms, Ecclesiastes, chunks of the New Testament where J.C. yells at God for forsaking him, or otherwise doubting The Mission— and Jesus, in Christian belief, IS God, so in that theodicy, he’s essentially doubting himself) contain some version of Biblical protagonists wrestling with God.
And so, if you believe the Good Book is the inspired Word of God, as some of us do, then if you’re afraid to smack up against doubt, maybe you’re more insecure in your faith than you give yourself credit for. Because the book that requires faith in order to work is also marbled with all kinds of second-guessing. Which might very well be the best way to write a letter to us humans that God hopes to land. As someone would who is fluent in our language.
But chances are, you didn’t come here for a lecture on religion. So let’s put a pin in it, and turn our attention to more temporal matters. And here’s why you should never lose faith in a better possible outcome, even if you have zero faith that there’s anyone up there directing outcomes at all:
Because in this very imperfect world, shit happens. It always has, and it always will so long as this great blue ball of ours rotates around the sun, before the sun has a chance to flicker out, or incinerate us, whichever comes first. And I don’t say that glibly. I say it with acceptance and resignation. We can often not stop the macro-awful from happening. But we can frequently stop the micro-awful, and choose not to. Which should sober us up, so that we take our micro-decisions seriously. That means we choose those who choose light, instead of those who are rewarded for tracking solely in anger and retribution. We should seek to uplift all people, instead of merely punishing the ones we loathe. I’m not being a candy-ass here. I believe those who have committed crimes (see 3/4ths of the Trump administration) should be held to account for them.
But also, at some point, if we want to be better, we have to choose better. We have to at least get on the road to normalcy, before we can arrive at full recovery. That is an important distinction. Stop the bleeding, before you start the healing. As any ER doctor knows, it’s a logical sequence.
So do I have any magical words or incantations, to help us heal, rather than hurt? Not really. Whether you believe in the Bible or don’t, I can’t really improve on the Golden Rule: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” That pretty much solves most of the problems that bedevil us. If we all did that, we would get things mostly right straightaway. Sorry to be too simplistic, but we would. You want some real-world political examples? Would I take away your healthcare if I did unto you as I would do unto myself? No, I would not. Would I show up in a mask and throw you in a van for the crime of being brown without identifying myself and shipping you off to some stray-dog-kennel detention center if I loved you as I love myself? No, I would not. Would I fire you for investigating corruption, as has been done to so many of our law enforcement agents who ran afoul of the current regime? No, I would not. Would I be an unforgiving SOB who cancels you forever even if you made a minor mistake? No, I would not. We all make mistakes. We all need to get let off the mat, if we’re ever to be better than we used to be. Redemption isn’t just about conceding wrong, but being allowed to do right. Though one comes before the other.
If we deal with each other honestly, in good faith, and with some degree of tolerance (maybe “love” is too icky a word), we can get through all this madness, and put plenty of it behind us. Admittedly, that’s a hard thing to do. I harbor my hatreds, too. (Will likely try to get back to those next week, just to stay in game shape and not let you down.) And I tend to nurse them with my whole heart. As anyone who cares to dip into my archive can freely witness. Because in my mind, they are righteous hatreds —even if that phrase itself is usually oxymoronic. And I don’t apologize for any of them. Or at least not most of them. (I’m pretty sure I’ve gone off the rails once or twice or a dozen times. We are always the last to know when we lose control of our fastball.) I tend to think that those who are unwilling to acknowledge grievous wrongs are not to be trusted. Which is why I try to indict them here, on a regular basis. In vivid language that cannot be confused as excuse-making for bad actors. But grace is a beautiful thing, too. We should lose sight of neither, and seek to practice both: “Forgive those, who trespass against us.” That’s in the Lord’s Prayer. And he didn’t even need to pray it while dog-faffing or doomscrolling. Though he did hang out with a lot of ne’er-do-well fishermen, even if they used nets instead of fly rods. Which I forgive Christ for, too. Nobody’s perfect.
Bonus Track: Here’s a man I’ve played a few times around here. Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit (Isbell, formerly of Drive-By Truckers fame). Not because I’m some weirdo superfan, but because he’s a fine songwriter. There’s so much right about this tune, from the lyrics, to Isbell’s now-ex-wife/fiddle player (Amanda Shires) backing him, to the song being slathered in B-3 organ goodness (all music is better with Vitamin B-3), to some greasy Isbell slide-playing around the two-minute mark. This is “Hope The High Road.”