The Parable of the Clowns

Josh lives.  Josh walks.  Josh breathes.  Josh speaks. 

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, as one’s core values come to be seen as antiquated and bigoted, how can one rehabilitate one’s popular support?”

Josh spoke thus:

A writer of manifestos was confronted by a tiny car full of clowns.

“Clowning is serious business,” the spokesperson clown said.

The writer of manifestos stifled a smile.  

“I am immensely fond of clowns,” the writer of manifestos said.

“Clowns are oppressed,” the spokesperson clown said.

The writer of manifestos maintained a serious face.

“I espouse the empowerment of clowns,” the writer of manifestos said.

“Clowns are misunderstood,” the spokesperson clown said.

The writer of manifestos swallowed a laugh.

“I advocate a greater understanding of clowns,” the writer of manifestos said.

“Clowns are unappreciated,” the spokesperson clown said.

The writer of manifestos lost his restraint.

“You’re clowns!” he blurted, “You’re clowns in a tiny car!  Everyone loves clowns in a tiny car!”

“Then you won’t help us?” the spokesperson clown asked.

“You don’t need my help,” the writer of manifestos said, “When you walk into a room, children cheer.  When you flap your oversized shoes, when you spin your bow ties, when you trip on banana peels, children laugh!  When you throw your pails of confetti children squeal with joy!”

“No one takes us seriously,” the spokesperson clown said.

“Of course no one take you seriously,” the writer of manifestos said, “You’re clowns.”

“We need a manifesto,” the spokesperson clown said.

“You want a manifesto?” the writer of manifestos said, ”Here’s a manifesto: ‘We’re clowns.  We make you laugh.’  That’s your manifesto!”

“You don’t understand,” the spokesperson clown said, and the spokesperson clown shed a tear.

The writer of manifestos reached for his handkerchief from his suit’s breast pocket to hand to the spokesperson clown.  The handkerchief stuck momentarily, and the writer of manifestos gave it a sharp tug.  The handkerchief came out of the pocket, attached to a second handkerchief.  The writer of manifestos pulled again, and a third handkerchief emerged from his breast pocket.  Successive pulls revealed successive handkerchiefs in a multicolored chain.

The spokesperson clown smiled and said, “So you will write us a manifesto.”

The writer of manifestos replied, “I will write you a punchline.”

The Parable of the Art Critic

Josh lives.  Josh walks.  Josh breathes.  Josh speaks. 

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Master, watching the witness confuse himself before the congressional committee, I have to ask, does the witness not know what the definition of ‘is’ is?”

Josh spoke thus:

An art critic was angered by an exhibit at a gallery opening.

“You will not let me see the object,” the critic objected to the artist.

“It’s like Heisenberg,” the artist told the critic, “If you see the object, you will become the object, and the object will no longer be the object.  And the object is to avoid being the object.”

“That’s nonsense,” the critic said.

“That’s art,” the artist said.

“Is it performance art?” the critic asked.

“It is art,” the artist said.

“Is it conceptual art?” the critic asked.

“It is art,” the artist said.

“Is it some sort of meta art?” the critic asked.

“It is art,” the artist said.
“Is it an object of art if I can’t see the object of the art?” the critic asked.

“You are asking philosophy, this is art,” the artist said.

“But I can’t see the object!” the critic shouted.

“You can see the image of the object,” the artist said.

  The critic admitted that he could see the image of the object.  There was a silver picture frame sitting on a bar stool containing a photograph of the object.  The photograph was of a silver picture frame sitting on a bar stool containing a picture of a silver picture frame on a bar stool.

“And you can see an image of the image of the object,” the artist said.

The critic admitted the he could see an image of the image of the object.  There was a mirror behind the bar stool that contained the image of the silver picture frame sitting on the bar stool. The image in the mirror, however, was not of the picture frame on the bar stool directly in front of the mirror.  Such an image would have shown the back of the picture frame, and the image in the mirror was clearly of the front of the picture frame.

The critic turned to see whether there was a mirror behind him that could reflect the image of the image of the object in the mirror.  There was none.  The critic already knew that the mirror reflected a picture frame and a picture and a bar stool hidden behind a mirrored wall.  He could see the mirrored wall.

His anger was that he was not allowed to look behind the wall to confirm the presence of the bar stool, the picture frame and the picture.

Accustomed to having his way, the critic barged past the artist and behind the wall.

A bright light flashed, and the blinded critic was led back to the front of the exhibit.  When his vision cleared, the critic saw the picture frame, the critic saw the picture, the critic saw the stool, and the critic saw the critic: the critic in the picture, the critic in the mirror, the critic looking at the exhibit.

“I don’t get it,” said a nearby critic, “How does it work?”

The artist replied, “That’s the object.”

The Parable of the Refugee

Josh lives.  Josh walks.  Josh breathes.  Josh speaks. 

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”How do we give illegal immigrants a path to citizenship without amnesty?”

Josh spoke thus:

A ranger was tracking alligators in a swamp when he came upon a refugee hiding in a hole in a tree.

“What are you doing in that hole in a tree?” the ranger asked the refugee.

“I’m hiding from escaped pythons,” the refugee said.

“Why don’t you go somewhere where there are no escaped pythons?” the ranger asked the refugee.

“There are no escaped pythons in this tree,” the refugee said.

“There are no escaped pythons in this swamp, it is the wrong kind of swamp,” the ranger said.

“There should be no escaped pythons in this country, it is the wrong kind of country,” the refugee said.

“Where do you live?” the ranger asked the refugee.

“I live in this hole in this tree,” the refugee said.

“Where do you work?” the ranger asked the refugee.

“I don’t work,” the refugee said, “I live in a hole in a tree.”

“How long have you lived in this hole in this tree?” the ranger asked the refugee.

“I have only just started living in this hole in this tree,” the refugee said.

“How long do you intend to stay?” the ranger asked the refugee.

“I will stay until there are no escaped pythons,” the refugee said.

“There is no food,” the ranger said.

“There may be squirrels,” the refugee said.

“There is no water,” the ranger said.

“There may be rain,” the refugee said.

“There are no escaped pythons,” the ranger said.

“Then I will leave,” the refugee said.

The ranger left to continue tracking alligators.

The ranger found no alligators that day, and he returned to town.  Passing the diner, the ranger saw the refugee inside.  The ranger stepped inside and approached the refugee.

“You left your hole in the tree, I see,” the ranger said.

“You were right,” the refugee said, “There were no escaped pythons.”

“There were no alligators either,” the ranger said.

“Then we are brothers,” the refugee said, and they shook hands in brotherhood.

The ranger went home.

The refugee had no home.

The Parable of the Totems

Josh lives.  Josh walks.  Josh breathes.  Josh speaks. 

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, how can I prevent my accountants and my lawyers from blurring the focus of my company?”

Josh spoke thus:

There was a carver of totems who carved the finest totems.  People from all over came to him for totems, because no other totems pleased the household gods as well as his.  It was well known.

What was not well known was that the carver of totems was poor.  Surely, it was believed, a carver of such fine totems, whose totems were so in demand, and whose totems brought top prices--surely such a carver must be rich.

Everyone knew that his materials were costly.  Everyone knew that totems were labor intensive.  Everyone knew that quality demanded a high premium.  All were willing to pay the premium.  The household gods were happy.  And everyone knew that you couldn’t put too high a premium on the happiness of the household gods.

Everyone was wrong, though.  They were not wrong about the costliness of the materials.  They were not wrong about the intensity of labor.  They were not wrong about the happiness of the household gods.  They were wrong about the premium.  The carver of totems did not charge a high premium.  He barely charged above material cost.  A premium did not make the carver of totems happy.

What made the carver of totems happy was the fineness of his totems.

What made the carver of totems happy was the pleasure of his customers.

What made the carver of totems happy was the happiness of the household gods.

“That’s fine,” a banker told the carver of totems, “But I can show you how you can be rich.”

“Why should I be rich?” the carver of the totems asked, “My totems are fine, my customers are pleased and the household gods are happy.”

“Because you will be old, and you will be unable to carve totems,” the banker said, “Your totems will not be fine, your customers will not be pleased and the household gods will not be happy.  Your totems, your customers and your household gods will abandon you.”

The carver of totems saw that this was so.  Already he needed glasses to read.  Already his hands were less steady.

“But the household gods will guide my eyes, and the household gods will guide my hands, and I will carve totems until I die,” the carver of totems said.

“Crosses are cheap,” the banker said, “Stars are high profit.  Moons are a growth market.  Divest the totems.  Invest in the new gods.”

So the carver of totems carved crosses and stars and crescent moons, and he was rich on the day he died.

Blind and crippled with arthritis, the carver of totems fumbled for his cross beside his death bed.  

“Where is my cross?” he asked, desperate not to die without it.

The household god did not reply.

The Parable of the Canary

Josh lives.  Josh walks.  Josh breathes.  Josh speaks. 

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”How can carrying a baby to term prove rape?”

Josh spoke thus:

There was a man who could not sue anyone for his death because he had not died.

He would die, of course, he was sure to die.

But not being dead, he could not sue.

The mine in which he worked was work at will.  He had been informed of the risks, and he knew the risks, and he accepted the risks.

He had signed no waiver.  He might have sued against a waiver.  A lawyer might have found a clause, might have found a word, might have found a participle that levied culpability.

He might have joined a class action, perhaps.

There was no class action, though, only his job, the jobs of his shift mates, the jobs of his foremen.

All could quit at any time, if they wanted.  The man could quit at any time, if he wanted.  He had often wanted to quit.  He had just as often not quit.

Jobs were scarce, and jobs were getting more scarce.

So he would die, of course.

Knowing this, he resented that he could not sue.

Who could he sue, the company, for agreeing that he would go down the hole and dig?

Who could he sue, the dust in his lungs, that might choke him?

Who could he sue, the rock over his head, that might fall?

Who could he sue, his ax, that might spark gas?

Who could he sue, himself, for putting himself there?

Who could he sue, his wife and child, that might make him leave the mine, and doom him?

Who could he sue, the government for not making it illegal for him to work?

Who could he sue, the canary that might by dying warn the man that he was about to die?

That would be a lot of suing.  That would be a lot of lawyers.  The man disliked lawyers.

The man disliked the company, for agreeing that he would go down the hole and dig.  The man disliked the dust in his lungs, for choking him.  The man disliked the rock over his head, for its capacity to fall.  The man disliked his ax, for its readiness to spark.  The man disliked himself, for putting himself there.  The man disliked his wife and child, for wanting him to leave the mine, though it would doom him.  The man disliked the government, for not making it illegal for him to work.

Mostly, though, the man disliked the canary, for dying.

The man said to the canary, “You should sue.”

The Parable of the University

Josh lives.  Josh walks.  Josh breathes.  Josh speaks. 

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, which is the higher calling, truth or good?”

Josh spoke thus:

A man sent his son to university, but he did not trust the university.

“Go to the university,” he told his son, “But do not listen to the things they tell you.”

The son went to the university, and he did listen to the things they told him.

He learned that his father had been wrong about many things.  He learned that many of the things that his father had told him had been false.  The son believed that some of the things his father had told him had been lies.  The son suspected that some of the lies his father had told him had been deliberate.

“My father betrayed me with his lies,” the son said to himself, “Now I will betray my father’s lies.”

“The world is not this way,” he told his father.  

The father nodded, but also the father told the son, “You are mistaken.  You have been listening to what they have been telling you at the university.”

“What they have been telling me at the university is the truth,” the son declared, “They have exposed your lies.

“Perhaps,” the father said.  He did not broach is son’s betrayal.

The son denied his father, and his father’s lies.  The son estranged himself, in the name of truth, in the name of his betrayal.

“I wish my son had not listened to what they told him at the university,” the father told his neighbor.

“But you sent him to the university,” the neighbor said the the father, “Did you expect him not to listen?”

“I expected him to listen,” the father said.

“Did you expect him to deny what he had learned?” the neighbor asked.

“I expected him to accept what he had learned,” the father said.

“And did you expect him then not to deny you?” the neighbor asked.

“I sent him to university so that he would deny me,” the father said, “And now we are estranged, and now my heart is broken.”

“And what of your daughter?” the neighbor asked, “Surely you will keep her near you.”

“I will send her to university,” the father said.

“Then she will break your heart,” the neighbor said.

The father replied, “But no one will say a child of mine is uneducated.”

The Parable of the General

Josh lives.  Josh walks.  Josh breathes.  Josh speaks.

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, how is gerrymandering like a filibuster? 

Josh spoke thus:

In the Year of Revolutions, a general had no rebellion to put down.

His neighbor to the north had a rebellion.  His neighbors to the east and to the west each had a rebellion.  His southern neighbor had three rebellions.

The general had no rebellion and his army sat.

The general was old, and the general did not have many years left.  Indeed, the general was near retirement. 

Already members of the king’s cabinet were whispering.  Already the king’s neighbors were naysaying.  Already the general’s colonels were slowly shaking their heads in sympathy behind the general’s back and planning their ascents.

“The general is old and overly cautious,” the cabinet members whispered, “Our neighbors might strike at any time, and where would we be?”

“The general is old and irascible,” the naysaying neighbors said, “He’ll get us into a half-cocked conflict.”

“The general is old and out of date,” his colonels agreed among themselves, “His tactics need replacement.”

The general had fought in many wars.  The general had fought on several continents.  The general had fought for more kings than there were now kings ruling on this continent.  The general was wise, and the general was clever, and the general was a tactical genius.  But the general had never before commanded an entire army of his own.  Now he had an army of his own.

The general had prepared his army to be ruthless.  The general had prepared his army to be swift.  The general had prepared his army to be precise in action and efficient in execution.

All of the general’s neighbors feared him.  The northern, the eastern, the western and the southern armies knew better than to fight him.  Twice at least, a disastrous conflict had been prevented by a careful word behind closed doors, a military expert to a king, advising against a war with the general.

As a result, the general commanded peace while his neighboring generals tilted against rebellions.

So on a crisp autumn morning, the general invaded his neighbor to the north, the general invaded his neighbors to the east and west, the general invaded his neighbor to the south.  

“Why did we invade?” the public asked the king.

The king needed a justification for the war.

“We invaded our neighbors because their rebellions are a threat,” the king told the public, “Our neighbors covet our peace.”

Then the king asked the general, “Why did we invade?”

The general replied, “How is it you know so little about war?”

The Parable of the Caribou

Josh lives.  Josh walks.  Josh breathes.  Josh speaks. 

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”What do children learn from violent video games and violent movies?”

Josh spoke thus:

A boy was watching a caribou die.

“Why do you have to watch that?” his mother asked the boy, “Why don’t you find your friends and play a game?”

“I’m watching this,” the boy said.

“You’re always watching something,” the mother said.

“There’s always something to watch,” the boy told her.

“You don’t have to always be watching,” the mother told her son, “You should stop watching.”

The boy did not stop watching the caribou.

As the boy watched, the caribou was dying.

The caribou had been wounded by a huntsman’s bullet.  The hole in the caribou’s left flank was slowly sapping the caribou’s strength.  Each breath was more shallow than the previous breath.  A broken rib, perhaps, prevented proper lung expansion.

The cold, also, was a strain on the caribou.  Deprived of oxygen by the inefficient working of its shallow-breathing lungs, the caribou had collapsed in knee-deep snow.  The snow was not what froze the caribou, however.  The caribou was slowly sapped of heat by each beat of its heart.  Each beat of its heart pushed blood out of the hole in the caribou’s flank, and with the blood, heat.

Steam jetted from the nostrils of the dying caribou.

The boy eyed each exhalation with the curiosity of the predator.

“This really is too much,” the mother said.  She tugged at the boy’s arm.  “You are a boy.”

“I’m not a girl!” the boy exclaimed, “It’s okay for boys to see death.”

“If you were a girl, you might know not to watch,” the mother said, “You might know pity.”

The caribou was beyond pity.  Its last breaths were labored despite its visceral determination not to die.  The boy may have noted the pinkish tinge of blood in the steam from the caribou’s nostrils.

“It’s dying,” the boy said.

“Of course it’s dying,” the mother said, “You don’t have to watch it die.”

“It’s bleeding to death,” the boy said.

“Of course it’s bleeding to death,” the mother said, “Come away.”

“Let the boy watch,” the boy’s father told the mother.

“No boy should watch that,” the mother told the boy’s father, “How can you let him watch that?”

The boy’s father replied, “I didn’t shoot that animal for the boy to turn away.”

The Parable of the Coffee

        Josh lives.  Josh walks.  Josh breathes.  Josh speaks. 

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, in this bitter winter, is global warming not exposed as a hoax?”

Josh spoke thus:

One year in March, a scientist at the South Pole watched that winter’s only sunset.

His companion, a helicopter pilot, said to him, “Good night.”

The scientist wished the helicopter pilot a good night, then turned to step inside.

That same year in September, the scientist watched that winter’s only sunrise.

His companion, the helicopter pilot, said to him, “Good morning.”

The scientist wished the helicopter pilot a good morning, then turned to step inside.

Neither the scientist nor the pilot commented on their momentary vertigo at the sudden end of constant dark.

Neither the scientist nor the pilot made note of the fact that neither was made dizzy by standing on the axis of the spinning globe.

Neither the scientist nor the pilot motioned at the sky to indicate the massive magnetic bands born of the churning molten iron core of the planet, as if to say, “But for the grace of that gigantic shield the solar winds would pop us like corn.”

Neither commented on the enormous convection of water, cloud and sky that churned the open seas, that flattened forests, that lowered mountains and raised ice shelves, a convection set in motion by a wobble in the world.

Neither made note of the closeness of the moon that had commanded their heaven for three months.  Neither noted the regularity of waxing and waning, a syncopation out of time with the stars it dwarfed, with the sun it reflected, with the earth it courted.

Neither admitted it was the cycle of the moon they would miss most.  Dreaming was easier in a lunar cycle.  And a world of constant night demanded dreaming.

Neither said that science and soul held hands like cautious lovers when stars and Antarctic peaks brushed against each other on the near horizon.

They did not mention that lips chapped instantly in the antipodean winter.  They did not brush each other’s cheek and feel the shyness of unprotected capillaries.  They did not press their tongues against slightly parted teeth to feel the sudden sharp ingress of spring.

The scientist stepped inside, the helicopter pilot followed.

The helicopter pilot asked, “Is there any of that Brazilian coffee left?”

The Parable of the Oxbow

        Josh lives.  Josh walks.  Josh breathes.  Josh speaks. 

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, “What is the place of a new feminism in an age of newly constricted women’s reproductive rights?”

Josh spoke thus:

In a year of harsh winter, the hunger and the cold drove a kingdom to madness.

“Our children will starve,” the people wailed, “And we will starve with them.”

“We must slay the children,” the king decreed, “Or else our children will be the death of us.”

In the hunger and the cold, the king’s decree was wisdom.  The children were slain.

Now it happened in this kingdom that the king’s surveyors were careless, and the border badly mapped.  One child, by virtue of an oxbow that may or may not have been in the bordering kingdom, was not slain.

Believing all the children slain, the king was overjoyed.

“If the people will slay their children for me,” he reasoned, “What will they not do?”

The warm spring melted the madness from the heads of the people, but their hearts remained unthawed.  How could they love who had slain their very children for the hunger and the cold?

Frozen in a state of lovelessness, the kingdom withered, and its neighbor’s army, unopposed, deposed the king and seized the kingdom as their own.

“How can this be?” the newly deposed king despaired, “The people did nothing.  They sacrificed their children for hunger and for cold, yet they would not stand against an invading army.”

The mother of the one unslain child demanded of her husband that her family flee the kingdom.

“What do you fear?” her husband asked her, “The king that would have slain our child is deposed.”
“I fear the new king worst of all,” the wife replied.

“Are you afraid this new king will slay our child?” her husband asked her.

“He won’t slay our child,” the wife replied.

“What is it you fear, then, of the new king?” the husband asked her.

“I fear he will spare our child,” the wife replied.

“And how is that bad?” the husband asked her.

The wife replied, “One king’s sparing our child is a gift of fate.  A second king’s sparing our child is a debt.”

The Parable of the Pastry Chef's Wife

        Josh lives.  Josh walks.  Josh breathes.  Josh speaks. 

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, “The official second inauguration of the first African-American president falls on the birthday of Martin Luther King.  How can the most powerful man in the world match his most powerful inheritance?  One has to surpass the other on this day.  Who should we most celebrate?”

Josh spoke thus:

There was a famous pastry chef who made delicious and beautiful birthday cakes.  He made pastries, of course, sweet and sharp raspberry tarts, elegant and creamy eclairs, jammy danishes, fluffy croissants.

His birthday cakes, though, were what made him famous.

They were elegant, his cakes.  They were light.  Their icing was as airy as lace, their fillings were as profound as Sophocles.  They were not tall, but their architecture soared.  They were not small, but their geometry was compact.

They were flavorful his cakes, and never in ways that were expected.

This one was almond, until it was maple.  That one was chocolate, before peach.  Caramel morphed to cranberry.  Apple ripened to brandy.  Each forkful was a new delight, every crumb an astonishment.

The birthday cakes of the famous pastry chef were unsurpassed.

Every year, therefore, the wife of the famous pastry chef did not welcome the birthday of the famous pastry chef.

“I will not bake you a birthday cake,” she told him every year.

“Please do not bake me a birthday cake,” he agreed every year.

But every year the wife of the famous pastry chef would bake the famous pastry chef a birthday cake.  It was her little joke for him.

And every year the birthday cake that the wife of the famous pastry chef would bake for the famous pastry chef would be a triumph.  

There would be no lace, no profundity.  The cake would be hutch low, the cake would be sometimes circular, sometimes square.

Modest chocolate flavored the cake baked by the wife of the famous pastry chef.  Humble vanilla, on occasion, replaced the chocolate.  Once, on a dare, there was coconut.  Once.  Even this ambitious cake, this coconut boast, was a bijou for the famous pastry chef.

So why, one year, was the famous pastry chef crestfallen at the introduction of a charming single-layer devil’s food?

Was the icing too rich?  The icing was not too rich.

Was the chocolate too dark?  The chocolate was not too dark.

Too moist?  Too dry?  Neither damp nor dusty.

Too gaudy?  Too plain?  Neither proud nor petty.

Why the fallen crest, then, asked the disappointed wife of the famous pastry chef.

The famous pastry chef replied, “I have always hoped for roller skates.”

The Parable of the Witches and the Moon

        Josh lives.  Josh walks.  Josh breathes.  Josh speaks. 

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, “The federal government seems incapable of protecting our borders.  There are Mexicans in Georgia.  There are Drug Lords in Arizona.  We have terrorist cells in Detroit.  They sell Chinese steel in Pittsburgh.  Cubans sit in our bullpens.  How can we protect ourselves, our jobs and our families?”

Josh spoke thus:

There was a man who watched for witches in the sky.

Others watched for witches among their neighbors.

“The old widow down by the iron works, she is a witch,” one claimed.

Another was sure that the young fair-haired girl with the curiously short hair was a witch.  She passed in front of his sporting goods shop every day, and he said hello to her, but she gave him no reply.  Neither did any other of the young men in the town get so much as a how-do-you-do from her.  She worked at the university, which was always suspicious.

The postmaster general’s wife was thought to be a witch for a few weeks, but that had turned out to be a brace of undercooked potatoes she had used in a pass-around salad at the Sunday social.

A few high-school girls we seen collecting dodgy mushrooms in the woods one spring day, but that was the sort of thing high-school girls were wont to do.  Still, it was best to keep an eye on them.

The man who watched for witches in the sky didn’t waste his time with high-school girls.  The man who watched for witches in the sky knew that the one true way to know a witch was by her silhouette against the moon.  He pointed out all the disguises modernity provided to cloak the contemporary exercise of magic.  Pharmacies replaced potions with pills.  X-rays and radios mooted divination.  Who noticed eye of newt or a mandrake root when there was cola nut and morphine?

No, it was the silhouette against the moon, the hat, the broom that showed a witch for what she was.

“It is a well-known fact,” the man who watched for witches in the sky would say as he sat beside the churchyard, moon in view.

“Well known by whom?” a newspaper man asked.

“It is a well-known fact,” the man who watched for witches in the sky said.

“What if there is no moon?” a wit inquired, “What if there are clouds?  Is it a waxing moon, or waning moon, or does the moon need to be full?”

“It is a well-known fact,” said the man who watched for witches in the sky said, “The only way to know a witch for certain is when she flies across the moon.”

“And what of ghosts and goblins?” asked the sheriff, “Do you watch for ghosts and goblins too?”

The man who watched for witches in the sky replied, “What do you think I am, crazy?”

The Parable of the Boars

Josh lives.  Josh walks.  Josh breathes.  Josh speaks. 

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, where is the moral dividing line in suing the government when your stockholders feel that the aid the government gave to your company to keep the company a going concern undervalued the stockholders’ capital?”

Josh spoke thus:

In ancient Iberia there was a circus arena whose primary entertainment was a battle of crazed boars.  The staff of the circus would madden a herd of boars with spears and thirst and hunger, to heighten their natural malice.  The staff would then drive the maddened boars out onto the burning sand of the arena, where the boars were blinded by the brilliant Iberian sun.  Mad and blind and angry and full of more than their natural malice, the boars would lash at each other with a viscousness of which only mad and blind and angry boars were capable.  

The boars would attempt to charge at each other with their sharp, quick steps.  They would try to gore each other with their sharp ivory tusks.  They would seek to slash each other with their sharp black hooves.  Of course, the boars were weak from spears, and the boars were weak from thirst, and the boars were weak from hunger.  And of course the boars were blinded by the brilliant Iberian sun.  Hampered and insane, the boars never maimed each other, but their malice was exciting.

The crowd roared in appreciation of the boars’ sharp, quick steps, the boars’ sharp ivory tusks and the boars’ sharp black hooves.  But the crowd’s highest approbation was for the malice of the boars.  Blinded by the sharp, quick steps, the sharp ivory tusks and the sharp black hooves--and perhaps by the brilliant Iberian sun--the crowd did not see the impotence of the angry boars.  It was madness the crowd came to see.  It was insanity the crowd cheered.  The crowd applauded blindly, and the crowd roared madly.  Blind and mad, the crowd and the boars burned in the brilliant Iberian sun.

Now the manager of the circus arena knew that maddened boars could not sustain a spectacle of nearly charging, nearly goring and nearly slashing.  The manager of the circus arena knew that the maddened crowd could not sustain its madness and its blindness.  Therefore, the manager of the circus arena took care to end the battle before the boars and the spectators exhausted their fury.

It is important to remember that although the maddened boars would rarely harm each other, they were still a crowd of maddened boars, and this was a crowd of maddened boars that needed leading away at the height of their spectacle, at the height of their fury, at the height of their madness.

No man could lead a crowd of maddened boars at the height of their madness.  No man was that strong, no man was such a fool.

Bears, by contrast, were strong, and bears were not wise.

  So the manager of the circus arena always sent a bear to chase the boars out of the burning sand of the arena, out from the maddened fury of the crowd, away from the insanity of the brilliant Iberian sun.

This was the climax, the bear among the boars.  It lifted the excitement of the crowd to ecstasy.  The bear, unlike the boars, could charge and bite and slash, and the bear did charge, and the bear did bite and the bear did slash.  Always one boar would die.

“It is a pity,” said the keeper of the boars one day to the manager of the circus arena, “With its sharp quick steps, with is sharp ivory tusks, with its sharp black hooves, with its ecstatic madness beneath the brilliant Iberian sun, the boar attains a singular beauty.  It is a pity that such beauty should be slain at its zenith.  It is a pity.”

The manager of the circus arena shrugged and replied, “That is how maddened boars are herded.”

The Parable of the Damaged Deer

Josh lives.  Josh walks.  Josh breathes.  Josh speaks. 

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, why is it that Israel is Israel, and Palestine is Palestine, when Isreal is plainly Palestine and Palestine is clearly Isreal?”

Josh spoke thus:

There was a man who walked into a shop in a town, and in this shop were deer.

These deer were dead.  These deer were stuffed.  Some were mounted on plaques that hung from the walls, just their heads.  Some stood on wooden plinths.  Some sat.  Some balanced on two hind legs, others bowed on folded forelegs.  All were incomplete.

All, of course, were disemboweled.  They were stuffed.  I do not mean they had no viscera when I say they were incomplete.

The mounted heads, of course, were disembodied.  But all those deer with bodies had bodies with body parts not there.

Some had no heads.  Some no tails.  Some were missing midsections--just fronts and backs, with no middles, placed the proper distance they would be apart were their middles not missing.  Some lacked forelegs, some rear feet.  Some had fronts but no backs.  Some were backs with no fronts.  They were an incomplete grouping.

Behind the counter of this shop stood a shopkeeper.  A complete shopkeeper.

“Why do you mutilate these deer?” the man asked the shopkeeper. 

“I do not mutilate the deer,” the shopkeeper replied, “I am a shopkeeper.  The deer man brings me the deer.”

“Why does the deer man mutilate the deer?” the man asked the shopkeeper.

“The deer man doesn’t mutilate the deer,” the shopkeeper replied, “These deer are mutilated before the deer man rescues them.”

“From what does the deer man rescue the deer?” the man asked.

“The deer man rescues the deer from meaningless death,” the shopkeeper told the man, “These deer were not food for the hungry pack.  These deer were not trophies for the sporting game man.  These deer were slain by cars.”

“They’re roadkill?”

“When the deer man found them, they were roadkill.  Now they are beautiful art.”

“Weird art.”

“It is a difficult thing to make beauty of roadkill.”

“Why roadkill?” the man asked, as the shopkeeper wrapped the man’s purchase.

“You mean, why not songbirds?” the shopkeeper offered, “Why not pheasants, why not grouse, for example?”

“For example,” the man agreed, “Why not butterflies?”

The shopkeeper replied, “Have you seen what happens to a butterfly when it’s hit by a car?”

Parable of the Two Mayors

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, “Teacher, why is there insistence that we all need guns?”

Josh spoke thus:

There was a town, and a river ran through the town.  Around the town were fields, and the river ran past the fields.    Unfortunately, because the river ran far below the fields, the fields were dry.

In the town, there was a farmer who wanted to be mayor.

"Vote for me," said the man who wanted to be mayor, "And I will provide water for your fields."

So the farmer voted for the man who wanted to be mayor.  Many other citizens also voted for the man who wanted to be mayor, so many so that the man who wanted to be mayor became mayor.

"Provide me with water," said the farmer who voted for the mayor.

"Provide us with water," said the other citizens of the town who had voted for the mayor.

"Provide water for us," said the citizens of the town who had not voted for the mayor.

"I can not provide you all with water," the mayor told them, "So you must decide who will be provided."

"But how shall we decide?" asked the citizens of the town.

"Whoever designs and builds a water conveyance to carry water from the river to the fields," said the mayor, "That is who I will provide with water."

Nobody could design and build such a conveyance, so the mayor provided no water for the fields.

The farmer who voted for the man who wanted to be mayor, the citizens who voted for the man who wanted to be mayor, and the citizens who didn't vote for the man who wanted to be mayor, were all angry.

When it came time again to vote for who would be mayor of the town, a new man wanted to be mayor. 

The new man who wanted to be mayor of the town told the people, "Vote for me and I will provide water for your fields."

This time the farmer who voted for the man who wanted to be mayor voted for the new man who wanted to be mayor.  Many other citizens also voted for the new man who wanted to be mayor, so many so that the new man who wanted to be mayor became the new mayor.

"Provide me with water," said the farmer who voted for the new mayor.

"Provide us with water," said the other citizens of the town who had voted for the new mayor.

"Provide water for us," said the citizens of the town who had not voted for the new mayor.

The new mayor did design a conveyance to carry water up from the river to the fields, but when it came time to build a conveyance for each of the citizens, the citizens refused.

The new mayor asked the farmer who voted for him why he refused to help build a conveyance for each of the citizens.

The farmer replied, “Why didn't you build the conveyance when the other man was mayor?”