"You'll Love It! . . ."

A fellow I know came into the store here a few days back and suggested I open a website to view a film which he said I would find “interesting.”

Like the damn fool that I sometimes can be, I did as he requested.

Up on the screen came an underground production the likes of which I have never seen – and I’ve seen some radical stuff.

This “documentary” featured a group of contemporary men who live in a vast land north of China but south of Russia. We used to call it Mongolia.

The men, all horseback, had trained a number of golden eagles as their falcons.

It was impressive to see a bird of this size come to a perch on his trainer’s gloved hand.

But the film soon became “interesting.” A high-tech camera zoomed out into a snow-covered meadow to pick out the tiny form of a black fox, a kit.

One falconer sent off his giant bird. The camera recorded the “action,” the harsh real-world reality, as the eagle swooped down and killed the baby fox.

Before I could regain control of my own computer, images of other such incidents appeared before my very innocent eyes.

We saw the killing of a coyote, adult foxes, and yes, even a huge wolf. It was somehow great sport, employing one beast to kill another. Worse yet, the film permitted vicarious enjoyment of the grotesque spectacle, multiplying the cruelty worldwide.

I’m not used to this. We don’t even have a television in our home, and we haven’t been to a movie in years.

These days, the average person’s eye must be accustomed to such a plethora of images, numbed by volume to the realities. My eyes no longer appreciate “the movies.”

As my personality dictates, I’ve been gnashing over this event since then. I think what bothers me the most is that my acquaintance knows me so little that he thought I would enjoy the spectacle.

For the record, I didn’t.

Pulp fiction

Back in the day when we did have a television set and a video player to drive it, an acquaintance recommended a film to us. “You’ll really like it,” he said.

Like the damn fools that we can be sometimes, we did as he suggested.

We started the movie and we kept thinking, “This wouldn’t have been recommended to us if there wasn’t something to it.”

What we did see was movie actor John Revolting, puffy with opulence and rapid aging, tragically far removed from his innocent role as Fonzi on Happy Days.

Finally, good sense overcame us. That is, when the flood of blood started bubbling across the screen, we looked at each other and clicked the off switch.

Can’t remember ever having viewed any such mindless horseshit as “Pulp Fiction.” It did permit us to vicariously enjoy murder and the spilling of gallons of blood. Had we desired.

As my personality dictates, I’ve been gnashing over this event since then.

I think what bothers me the most is that our acquaintance knew us so little that he thought we would enjoy the spectacle.

For the record, we didn’t.

The Biker Church

Some weeks ago a good and true friend of mine telephoned with exciting news.

“We went to Fort Collins with our friends today and guess what? They took us to the Biker Church.

“Everybody who was there came on a motorcycle. It was just like a regular church except everybody was a biker.”

(Drum roll precedes his next comment. Are you ready?) “You and Laura would have really loved it.”

I’m not always the damn fool that I appear to be, so we didn’t just rush out the next week to attend “services” at the Biker Church.

“They even rode their bikes down the aisle and through the church,” my friend had reported.

For once, the verbal description was enough. I didn’t have to see it for myself. My imagination is sufficient. I have no problem imagining the smell of oil and exhaust fumes in the House of God. I can enjoy it vicariously!

Wait a minute. What are we worshipping here, God or motorcycles? Does this sound vaguely familiar to any of you Bible readers?

Think “Golden Calf.” Think idolatry. Think Ten Commandments. No other gods before me. Sound familiar?

There is a certain segment of the biker population which idolizes the machine itself. Know what’s really sick? Most of these people don’t even have Harleys!

As my personality dictates, I’ve been gnashing over this event since then.

I think what bothers me the most is that our acquaintance knew us so little that he thought we would enjoy the spectacle.

For the record, we wouldn’t.

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Word of the Week: Idolatry. Once again, it’s from Latin and Greek, idolatria and eidolatreia. It means worship of idols. It means excessive devotion or reverence for some thing.

Some people idolize the Denver Broncos. Some idolize actor heroes, their American Idols. Some people idolize television programs. Even cowboy hats (the Cowboy Church). Even motorcycles (the Biker Church).

Idolizing cruel falconers in a far-off land is the same error as idolizing a motorcycle here. The ancient Hebrews fought a long and historical battle with idolatry. Apparently we haven’t improved on their shameful weakness.