Food for Thought
 

The Harvest of Blame


The senseless slaughter at Columbine High School in Littleton, Colorado, has sparked considerable debate in our society. Human nature being what it is, we’re desperately trying to blame someone (or something) for these senseless acts that have been committed by fellow humans. It’s easier for us to deal with these situations when we can firmly and decisively blame someone else, even if that blame is undeserved. Some are blaming the existence of firearms in our society, arguing that guns should be outlawed, thereby preventing future acts of violence. Others blame the assailants’ parents for not noticing their hobbies of sawing off shotgun barrels and building bombs. Still others blame the computer killing game “Doom,” which, they say, trained the two young men to become cold-blooded killers.
When I look at the situation, and America’s reaction to it, I see a farmer standing in a field of ripe, mature soybeans ready for harvest. The farmer is angry and frustrated, because he doesn’t want soybeans in his field-he wants cotton. Cotton prices are high, soybean prices are low, and he’s standing out in the middle of his bean field, yelling and fussing and jumping around, cussin’ those soybean plants and trying to convince them to become cotton plants.
The farmers in our readership know how silly that would look. Our farmer has a field full of soybean plants, because he planted soybeans there. If he had wanted cotton, he should have planted cotton-but in the Spring, when he planted the field, he thought soybeans were a better crop. Now, he’s going to harvest soybeans, no matter how much he wants the field to be filled with cotton. Just as Paul told the Galatians, “A man reaps what he sows.”
Blame whomever you will; there is still an underlying truth that cries out to be heard: It’s harvest time for America, and America is, indeed, “reaping what we have sown.” We have raised a generation of children who have been mentored by the “one eyed babysitters”-TV, video games, and computers-whose role models are fantasy characters and day care workers, whose weary mothers and fathers have pursued “success” as defined by our society, only to find its promise of satisfaction to be hollow and empty. We have abandoned the barbaric concept of discipline, in the name of “building self esteem.” We have educated our children in schools where prayer-even voluntary prayer-is forbidden, and the very mention of the reality of God can cause a good teacher’s career to come to an abrupt halt. We have taught our children that there are no absolutes, removing anything resembling a solid foundation for living, and taught them to “seek their own reality” at a time in their development when they don’t even know what reality looks like. We have devalued human life by making it easy and legal for girl to kill her unborn baby for the sake of convenience. We have bombarded our children with images of violence and bloodshed, and stripped them of the joy and innocence of their childhood by making images, situations, and dialogue, that would have once been considered pornographic, standard fare on prime time network TV.
Then, like the farmer in the bean field, we wonder why they’ve turned out so warped and twisted. We wonder where in the world they got their values (or lack thereof); and, in a true exercise in denial, we look for someone (or something) that we can blame for the things that they’ve done.
Are there answers? Is there any hope? Yes, there most certainly is, and it is found within a verse of Scripture that we have heard used so often in recent years that perhaps we’ve learned to take it for granted. I invite you to “read it again, for the first time:”
“If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and will heal their land.” (2 Chronicles 7:14, NIV).
The answer is clear: It’s time for Americans to get on our faces before the Almighty God of the Universe, and pray earnestly-for crop failure.
Anon

What's wrong with soybeans?

Re: Food for Thought
 

I hope I have this wrong. If my generation is "the crop," you want us to fail?

If so, just keep spending government/borrowed money like your generation does, God won't have to trouble Himself with doing anything at all to/for us.

BTW, I don't think it'll happen. Few seem to truly understand that history repeats itself. We ARE Rome...victims of decadence and success.

Everything was rather quiet in the hundred acre wood. The trees whispered to each other as the wind rustled their leaves. Under a large oak tree, there lived Pooh bear. From inside Pooh's house, there came a steady bang...bang... bang!, that was making his honey jars rattle on the sideboard. The light came through the window, and in the evening sun Pooh raised the axe once more and brought it down on the tattered remains of Christopher Robin. "Why...won't... he...fit..." puffed Pooh to himself as the axe came down once more. There was a small pile of earth, and a hole next to it, which Pooh had hidden with his favourite rug. Christopher Robin, selfish prat that he was, didn't quite fit in the hole Pooh had dug, so instead of making it wider he had decided to hack Christopher Robin's legs off. "A far more sensible idea", thought Pooh, and hummed a little song to himself as he cut the last tendon and rammed the rest of the body in the hole, finally covering it up with the rug. "Always too bossy", thought Pooh, "Always too bossy, always grabbing me by the paw and saying' Come on Pooh lets have an adventure'
or 'Pooh you are silly!' in that affected cutesy spoilt brat voice, and his stupid little shorts - bastard!"

Pooh had waited all afternoon for Christopher Robin to come round, humming a little tuneless song to himself whilst gazing blankly into the fire and fondling the oaken handle of the axe. When C.R. had finally turned up, squeaking in his child-actor voice "Come on Pooh! Open Up!", Pooh had answered the door normal as anything, talked about the weather, and then went to the cupboard and fetched the axe. While C.R. had sat there, prattling on about what a silly bear Pooh was and how he had very little brain (which wound Pooh up no end) Pooh had raised the axe high and brought it down with a satisfying thud on Christopher Robin's skull, cleaving it virtually in two, with just some muscle fibre in place to keep the pieces upright, and freezing C.R's eyes wide in horror that Pooh, lovable Pooh, could do such a thing! Pooh giggled a little and wiped some saliva from his mouth with a shaky paw. Then Pooh, calm as anything, had mopped up the blood, washed the axe and begun to dig the hole.

Piglet had wondered why Pooh had not called for him that morning, to have his tea and biscuits, and so he decided to visit Pooh instead. He admired the evening sun, blood red, and listened to the birds singing.
Pooh watched him get nearer and nearer, and plugged in the drill.

Piglet had no time to realise what had happened - the drill pierced his skull, sending a beautiful fountain of blood all over Pooh's orange hide. He rubbed the blood in and all over himself, licking, licking, always licking. Then he pulled Piglet inside and put him in the cupboard. The syringe lay on the sideboard, and Pooh picked it up, paws shaking and sweating, and filled it full of solution of the funny white powder that had been given to him by a strangely spaced-out Rabbit. It was a strange effect at first, and Pooh thought he had seen many strange things, but then experienced a euphoric feeling of power. It made him irritable, and C.R. and Piglet had everything that was coming to them, no doubt at all. When night had fully fallen, Pooh dragged the bodies out and buried them in a makeshift grave.

"Adios, dear 'friends'", Pooh giggled, "Things are going to change around the 100-acre wood now I'm in charge" he laughed hysterically and went indoors.

The next day Tigger and Roo made their way happily to Pooh's house, to see if he knew where C.R. and Piglet were, as no-one had seen them since yesterday. They were sure Pooh would know, as he had had tea with Piglet yesterday and was meant to be playing Pooh-sticks with C.R. in the morning.

When they reached Pooh's house the door was wide open and Pooh was nowhere to be seen. Tigger and Roo looked inside Pooh's house and noticed a large hole in Pooh's floor and a notice was stuck on the wall with a large blob of congealing honey "OWT CHAGIG THE DRAGGN" (spelling had never been one of Pooh's strong points).

"That's odd", though Tigger, "there are no dragons in the 100-acre wood only heffalumps. What is that silly bear up to now?"

Not even Tigger would have imagined what Pooh was up to at that moment.
That morning Pooh had woken with a splitting headache and a rather snotty nose. So he had taken a large dose of the white powder and a little while later had a brilliant idea! He left the house with a container marked insecticide in big red letters. He took the container and went to Eeyore's favourite patch of thistles. "This will serve that manic depressive donkey right" laughed Pooh aloud, "always cheating at Pooh-sticks, cheats never prosper", Pooh said to self.
Then he hid behind a tree to watch the unsuspecting Eeyore eat himself to death - sheer poetic justice ought Pooh as he dumped the nearly dead body of Eeyore in the same grave as C.R. and Piglet. "Shouldn't cheat should you?", shouted Pooh as Eeyore's eyes stared with disbelief.
"You're lucky I didn't chop you up into little bits and feed you to Tigger!", laughed Pooh manically, before he covered the makeshift grave over. Pooh didn't return to the house until dinner time as he was totally spaced out all morning. So when he returned to his house he was in an awful mood and all he needed to make him absolutely mad was the sight if Tigger and Roo bouncing up and down outside his house singing "bouncy, bouncy, fun, fun, fun, fun, fun, the wonderful....".
"'Wonderful'?", thought Pooh aloud, "My foot, you'd think the writer of this ****ty story could think up better lyrics for a song than that, and to think, they released the sound-track album on cassette and CD; a lot of people are going to get ripped off." This lightened Pooh's mood somewhat, but the respite was brief.

"What was that you said?", asked Roo. "God does he never stop asking pathetic questions?", Pooh thought furiously. "I'm going to have to deal with these prats as well. Is there no-one in this place with intelligence apart from me?" Pooh asked despairingly."

Pooh felt himself extrmely lucky as Roo had to go home for his afternoon sleep and that left Tigger at his mercy. Even better, Tigger suggested that himself and Pooh go and play Pooh-sticks; Pooh had smiled slyly as an idea formed in his overactive brain, and agreed. "What an opportunity", Pooh whispered to himself as he followed the innocent Tigger to the bridge.

Once on the bridge, and the rather pointless game of Pooh-sticks was under way, Pooh thought he'd much rather push his stick up Tigger's arse, rather than throwing it into the stream. Tigger was leaning over the side of the bridge looking for his stick. So he did not see Pooh's wide horrific grin as he outstretched his arms and moved toward Tigger with the intent of pushing the stupid cat into the stream. "Cats hate water, tee hee, he'll drown."

There was a loud splash as Tigger hit the wa ter and started to struggle as his head was covered by water, he gulped and choked. Pooh was holding on to the rail of the bridge and jumping up and down with excitement and was joyously shouting at the drowning Tigger.

"Why?", spluttered Tigger as he slowly started to turn blue with the cold, which Pooh found hysterical, after all a blue Tigger? How absolutely silly. "I'll tell you why you bastard", screamed Pooh, "It serves you right, hiding behind doors and jumping out, and scaring the **** out of people." Tigger did not hear Pooh's answer as he was already floating downstream face down in the water, dead. "Good riddance", laughed Pooh, and looked athis watch. "Still time to get that little dick-head Roo before he wakes up."

Pooh sneaked to the sleeping form of Roo's mum and saw Roo's ear poking out of her pouch. "Now I've got you, you little git", Pooh thought, smiling, as he threaded a needle with extra strong cotton. He was jolly grateful for Piglet's sewing lessons now, because he would be able to sew up Roo nice and tightly, so he would not be able to get out and his mum would not be able to rescue him. So very slowly and carefully Pooh began to sew Roo into his pouch and thereby suffocating the annoying idiotic twit. After the deed was done Pooh made his way back to his house wondering how Roo's mum would take the death of Roo. Badly, hoped Pooh, as he began to cough uncontrollably and felt general nausea overcome him.

By the time Pooh got home he had puked up several times and was very desperate for some moreof the white solution. He trembled as he picked up the syringe and gave himself the remaining amount. An awfully large amount, one might say, for a small little bear like Pooh. In fact too much, Pooh died of an overdose, but he died with a smile on his face: he was dreaming that he was the only teddy bear made with a willy and dreamed how he surprised Eeyore one day - but that's astory for another day.

Thom, that was funy as he!!. Does that make me a bad person?
I wa actually laughing out loud.

now that's a good story!

What dark things crouch and wait in the deep recesses of your mind.
Jeez Thom, you know there are people who can help you!

Jesus hates soybeans.

That was the only Pooh story I've ever enjoyed.

Thom,

dude,

get help.

That was the funniest **** I've read in a while.

Had a crappy day, thanks for the laughs.

Scott