Why is this man wasting his mad skills with these people in glittery jackets?

Between Mexico defeating France in the World Cup, and the Lakers beating the Celtics, cars have been honking non-stop for over 8 hours now. This has been punctuated by fireworks and the occasional flurry of police, firetruck, and ambulance sirens.

I suppose I should just be happy I don’t live downtown.

I have nothing substantial to say about this, only how great it is that it’s named after Thelonious Monk.

So, at 2pm I suddenly hear a mess of horns honking outside. I go to my window to see what’s going on, and the first thing that drives by is a huge pickup with a full-size Mexican flag sticking out the passenger side window.

“Oh,” I think, “Mexico just won a game in the World Cup.” And of course I was right:

In a game that will be celebrated in Ireland and viewed as justice in most of the soccer-viewing world, France fell to Mexico 2-0 Thursday night.

As an American of Irish and Mexican descent, there’s nothing about this I don’t like.

From Episcopal Life Online,

The forgiven woman of the city is sister to the prodigal son. They are both our siblings. We can join that family if we’re willing to let go of that fearful veneer of righteousness. It covers our yearning to be fully known, because we don’t quite think we’re lovable. That veneer is the only thing between us and a whole-hearted “welcome home.” It’s risky to let that veneer be peeled away, but all we risk is love.

Via Commonweal,

I would never have expected to see something like this come from Christianity Today:

And the oil spewed forth for some forty days and forty nights, for the wickedness of the people was great, and the judgment of the Lord was upon the face of the earth.

The management of Faith and Theology — inspired by W.H. Auden — has composed an impressive number of clerihews about theologians. If you’re one of the few dozen people on earth who find this kind of thing amusing, you can read them here.

My favorites, in no particular order:

Karl Barth
Had to hire a cart
Having no other tactics
To transport his dogmatics.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer,
Theological cartographer,
From Tegel, in fetters,
Wrote the Lord letters

David B. Hart
Is not terribly fond of Bultmann, Bonhoeffer, Tillich or Barth,
Crucially not to mention
Balthasar, Jüngel, Lash, Moltmann, MacKinnon …

Stan the Man
Is more peaceful than
A quiet Christmas night.
But he loves a fuckin’ fight.

Robert Jenson,
Lively and fun,
Is known to enjoy a good Barthian feud
And to talk about God as Hegelian fugue

C. S. Lewis
Must have smoked cannabis
With Narnia creatures to write the banality
Of Mere Christianity.

Jack Spong
Is so very long
That it’s hard for him to kneel.
But then to whom to appeal?

Paul Tillich
Had an incurable itch
For God and being and demons and dirt
(And skirt).

Simone Weil
Malheureuse, très outrée,
And so severe it hurt:
The Categorical Imperative in a skirt.

Bishop Rowan,
All-knowing, ho-ho-hoing
Like Santa, he’s weird:
Maybe it’s the beard

Bishop Tom Wright
Stays up all night
Writing and writing (and writing) books about the apostle to the nations.
And a resignation.

John Milbank
Some think a crank,
Others well worth citing –
Those who can read his writing.

William Stringfellow,
His heart soft as marshmallow,
Fought with each breath
Against powers and death.