Author: Administrator

The Old Hebrew (or Paleo-Hebrew) psalmists were the rock stars of their day — the first Jewish singer-songwriters, ancestors of guitar-slingers like Paul Simon, Neil Diamond and Robert Allen Zimmerman. Everybody loved their chart-topping psalms — the beautiful people, working-class heroes, rich country clubbers and plain ol’ poor folks. But these guys didn’t play six- or 12-string Martins and Gibsons. Their axes were kinnors (also called lyres, or harps) and had 3-22 strings.

This psalm is a dark one — more goth, emo or grunge than a song of praise — a mashup of all the Paleo-Hebrew hits, like “The Devil Went Down to Gaza,” “Everybody Wants to Rule Judea,” and that confessional classic, “I’ve Seen Fire and Brimstone.” The oft-repeated refrain reminds us that we all will die, and that we’ll take nothing with us, not even if we’re as funky as King Tut. It’s like blessing the beasts and children with no voices, no choices and darkness all around us.

This psalm is about a shining city on a hill, where the god of the people resides. It’s talking about Jerusalem, of course, but this place could also be Washington, D.C., as was one old president’s view, or maybe Sao Paulo or Timbuktu. Oh, I don’t know. Are there hills in Brazil?

While I’m at it, why do gods always prefer the mountains to the ocean? I mean, there’s Mount Olympus, Mount Sinai, Mount Zion and Mount Rushmore. Also, Carmel, Moriah, Tabor and Horeb. Mount of Transfiguration, Mountain of Light, Machu Picchu and Gang Rinpoche, right?

And why do our gods need temples and palaces? Do we? I’ve lived as a privileged hillbilly in a mountain cabin, and as a beach bum on the dole. I’ve seen a little brown church in a vale and a solitary cross in the dunes. High country, low country, rich, poor — it’s all the same to the iSoul.

Can one group of people be “chosen” over all others? Really? You mean, certain people are favored over everyone else on earth?

Yeah, I know. One group says so — or, rather, two groups do, with the latter being one nation and the former being a single creed.

But what does history say? Is there evidence (besides their own claims) that “the shields of the earth belong to [only their] God”?

If that’s the case — as we’re often told — then how do they explain so much suffering and so much death? Are their shields still up?

Nature is our sanctuary and comfort when life begins to suck. It’s counter-intuitive, but we don’t have to fear earthquakes or tsunamis, because the wholly universal spirit — of which we are a part — encompasses all that is “good” and “bad” on earth all the time.

The iSoul is like not just a river, but more like the whole watershed — the trickling springs, the babbling brooks, the rocky creeks, and the lazy rivers that flow into the distant ocean. But most governments don’t understand how “climate change” figures into that.

Yeah, shit happens, as far as nature is concerned. The earth shakes, the lowlands flood, flames scorch the earth where sparks find tinder and wind. But we make so many choices — war being one such option — that make natural disasters more or less bearable.

If we weren’t fighting one another over wealth or power or beliefs, we all could work together to make every single person’s world a better place in which to live. The poor or powerless or other kind of believer wouldn’t be forced to live in the “worst” places on earth.

And we could then turn our attention to real problems, like how we can become faithful keepers of this world that some true believers say has been entrusted to us by their god (though they do much to deny that claim). What we value the least we will definitely lose.

Yes, even 3,000 years ago, people were keeping up with the Kardashians, or the Kennedys, or, in this psalm’s case, the King and his royal court. This “song of love” is so fawning that its writer couldn’t say enough good stuff about the King, Queen and their kids — a Hebrew Robin Leach.

This hunky King — with his long sword and heart-piercing arrows — sits on his throne, gripping his huge scepter and wearing great-smelling duds. He lives in actual ivory palaces — more than one, no kidding — and other kings’ daughters wait on him hand and foot. This dude has it made.

He has a hot queen who is loved by all the rich and famous in the land. Their beautiful daughter has the best clothes and the best friends. And the royal couple has many sons to help them rule the world. Champagne wishes and caviar dreams, indeed — with a supersized order of idolatry.

This is yet another longish psalm of war; however, it’s remarkable for one big difference from the others so far — this psalmist admits that his nation ain’t what it used to be on the battlefield and that his people have become “a reproach to our neighbors, / A scorn and a derision to those all around us” and “a byword among the nations, / A shaking of the head among the peoples.” Huh.

This guy starts out like the blowhard who brags that the United States has never lost a war. But then someone whips out their trusty cell phone and fact-checks him in real time on Wikipedia. It says the USA has lost — that’s right, lost — 11 wars and has been involved in 11 others whose outcomes were inconclusive. And some losses and draws occurred long before the Korean War.

So this psalmist must face the truth — something our boastful bigmouth will never do — and he questions why all this rotten luck has befallen him and his people. I’m the same warrior poet I’ve always been, he says. We all follow every inscrutable rule we’re supposed to, he says. And still we’re “killed all day long; / We are accounted as sheep for the slaughter.” Uh, everyone but him.

When it comes to politics, I’m right that some populist movements are just plain wrong. In fact, what’s called Christian nationalism really isn’t Christian at all. As for another disgusting movement, I agree with the psalmist’s words: “Oh, deliver me from the deceitful and unjust man!” And you know exactly who he means.

When the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth finally comes to light, the good people will return to that shining city on a hill; and they will occupy our most sacred secular house, and live out the true meaning of the creed, “This land was made for you and me.” Maybe we, the people, will get it right again.

Like the doe that saunters from the woods to feed at our crabapple tree, I hunger to know what lies before me. Will my last season on this earth begin with feasting but end in famine? Will the wholly universal spirit take a notion to greet me as if I were a tiny raindrop falling into the ocean?

I used to go to church, where I sat in the congregation, sang the hymns, shouted my praise and “thank-you’s,” and every once in a while took some bread in hand and then washed it down with a song and a prayer. But this communion was by rote, as the crusty host never showed his face.

I decided to seek the iSoul in the verdant river valley, on the highest windswept peak, and in the piedmont where one can easily see both hill and dell. I look and listen for the kindred spirit in the mountain waterfall and in the ocean waves that rise, curl and break on the sand at my bare feet.

In the light of day, I celebrate the beauty of the universe with my fading eyesight and cloth-eared hearing. In the darkness of my chamber at night, I reimagine all that I have ever seen and heard under the sun; I consider my deer friend, the doe; and I dream of another day I may never know.

Here’s another psalm — this one thankfully short — about an untrustworthy friend and more dependable enemies. It’s also about news of a famous man’s death being greatly exaggerated in the social media of the day.

This guy is in such bad shape that even his best buddy, with whom he has broken bread, lies about him. With a friend like that, it’s easy then for his enemies to spread misinformation and make people believe conspiracy theories.

The poor fellow just wants to get well enough to put them all in their places — his friend and his enemies alike. He’s actually a solid dude. He helps the poor. He has integrity. And even though he’s definitely ailing, he ain’t dead yet.

Do you ever try and try to get some special person to notice you, and when they finally do, you feel as if you’ve been pulled up out of quicksand and set down safely on solid ground?

You want to throw back your head and sing that person’s praises. You want others to hear about this golden guy or girl. You want to write a love song and sing it loud and sing it strong.

And you hope against hope that they — the singular “they” — will always and forever be a part of your life, that they’ll always be there to share your care, comfort, love and inspiration.

But other people are digging for that gold, too, and some will do anything — lie, cheat, steal — to take it away from you. Your only shot is to keep singing, even if it becomes the blues.