Since returning to Boston, Pathos et wife and I have attended several different versions of Sabbath Services. Thus far we have found sundry interesting conceptions amongst the faithful, perhaps the least shocking that the Anglicans seem to be terrified of theology and embarrassed by it. One of the ministers of whom we are fond asked me to teach a lesson to the children of the parish this Sabbath past. Apparently, it was not well received. Here is the gist of what occurred: As I read from 1st Samuel… Me: …Why camest thou down hither? and with whom hast thou left those few sheep in the wilderness? I know thy pride, and the naughtiness of thine heart; for thou art come down that thou mightest see the battle… Little Girl: What is pride? Me: Pride is a feeling of happiness with oneself. Little Boy: Is pride good or bad? Me: Well, there is a kind of pride that is good and a kind that is bad. Little Boy: What do you mean? Me: Bad pride would be when one man believes himself to be better than another, based solely on something as fleeting as birth or wealth or position. Little Girl: My daddy is on the Governor’s Council. Does he have bad pride? Me: Are his shirts made of linen or cotton? Little Girl: Silk, actually. Me: Well then, he’s definitely on the swift boat to the Hades. Same Little Girl: What’s Hades? Me: It's a suburb of Newark, New Jersey. Little Boy: What about my daddy? Does he have bad pride? Me: What does he do? Little Boy: He is a merchant. Me: What does he import? Little Boy: Mostly tea and pewter. Me: He should be fine for now, but I’d keep an eye on him, were I you. Yet Another Little Boy: What about my daddy? Me: What does he do? The Little Boy Again: He’s a fisherman! Me: Sounds like a good fellow. The Little Boy Again: But my mommy is a lot younger than he. Me: By how much? The Little Boy Again: At least twenty years. Me: Nothing wrong with that father of yours, at all. You can learn a lot from him, Jimmy. The Little Boy Again: My name is Thomas. Me: Like I care. Little Girl: So what is good pride? Me: Good pride. I saw it in action. September, 1760, it was. We had surrounded Montréal and the French governor had decided to surrender. We demanded the French Army turn over their battle flags to us. These are the flags they had carried thro’ five years of war, many victories, few defeats. They were torn by musketballs and cannon shot, and covered thick in the blood of those brave Frogs who carried them. These men had seen their comrades blown to tiny pieces, impaled on British bayonets, shot apart by volley after volley of musket-fire, and still the fought on, thro’ the blood, thro’ the guts, thro’ it all. If you’ve ever seen a fellow lose his head to a cannonball, you know how nasty and bloody it can be for a soldier, wading thro’ the innards of your tent-mates, splattered all over the green grass. And do you know what those magnificent b-----s did? rather than surrender their proud flags to the enemy, they lit fires in the city and burned them, thread by blood-soaked thread. Now that’s pride. That’s beautiful pride. It was a shame we had to kill so many of those bloody papist wine-swilling cheese-eaters. So! Any questions? The children stared at me, horror-struck. When I teach, I like to make the lesson stick.
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