“I read it on the internet, so it must be true,” has been the running joke for years among those who know that information retrieved from the internet is notoriously unreliable. Now we have AI, artificial intelligence; how reliable is it?
On my recent visit with family in Canada, I was not surprised when one of my brothers called me “Pasquale.” He has called me Pasquale as long as I can remember but I don’t remember why. He has nicknames for other family members, their origins more easily recognized, yet, I am Pasquale, and we are not Italian.
Labels can get you into trouble if you don’t know fully what it is to which they refer. A case in point: I was born and raised in a part of Canada where all Americans, northerners and southerners alike, are called “Yankees.” You can imagine the firestorm that ignited when, after I moved to South Florida, in ignorance, I called a native Floridian a Yankee. His eyes blazed, his body went rigid, his face blossomed red, and his nostrils flared to accommodate the building steam. I was grateful that all I received that day was a short, very intense lesson in American history with extra emphasis on what my friend called, “the war of northern aggression.” The label “Yankee” no longer resides in my vocabulary.
I have found that few people object to hearing me say, “I will pray for you.” Most thank me, even those I know who do not believe in God. They understand from my words that I care about them.
My wife and I just spent a week in Canada visiting my family. Gasoline in Canada is sold by the litre (that is how Canadians spell it), and it is expensive – north of $1.30 per litre, over $5 per gallon. The gas prices turned out not to be an issue for us because, following my sister’s advice, we did not drive our vehicle while in Canada. With the increased tariffs and our president’s talk of annexing Canada, there has been a surge in national pride and an increased dislike of the United States expressed in the vandalizing of cars bearing American license plates.
Years ago, I was displaying a friend’s rare Bible collection at a pastor’s conference. He put me up in a nice hotel. The next morning upon exiting my room, I walked to the bank of elevators and pushed the down button. The doors opened, I stepped inside, pushed the “L” button, then stood facing the doors, staring ahead as the elevator made its descent. The elevator slowed, stopped, a chime sounded, but the doors did not open. I had the sense that I was being watched. Turning around, I discovered it was the rear doors that had opened, and other guests, smirks on their faces, were waiting for me to exit.
We have had some beautiful sunsets of late on the Florida panhandle courtesy of drifting smoke from some Canadian wildfires. On behalf of my fellow Canadians, “You are welcome!”
The wider culture has designated this Sunday “Father’s Day,” but if you attend the worship service at COMPASS Church, you will hear me refer to it only as the Lord’s Day, just as I do on the Sunday designated “Mother’s Day.” Our culture is eagerly jettisoning any reference to God, so I have taken this small stand to preserve Sundays as the Lord’s Day, at least among believers. Nonetheless, we do honor our fathers and mothers on those Lord’s Days because it is biblical to do so, not just one day a year, but every day.
