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Regarding Mike Dahn And The BSides Controversy

This is really an issue for my security blog, but this week’s blow-up over alleged mismanagement of Security B-Sides connects with me on a personal level best expressed here.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/KIb-6oaCTPU

A couple days ago, a Security Errata article appeared detailing financial mismanagement of the Security B-Sides events. It singled out Mike Dahn, one of BSides’ founders, for mismanaging things and lying about it. Dahn published a response in his blog yesterday.

I’ll let the security community chew over who is right and who is wrong. I’ve had my say in the security blog here and here.

I just want to make a few personal observations here.

First, I’ve read Security Errata and Attrition.org for a long time and trust these guys. They do their homework and serve a critical role in the security community: Keeping the rest of us honest. When I saw their article about Dahn, I wasn’t happy for two reasons:

1. I consider Dahn a friend.

2. The folks who write the Security Errata material have an ironclad reputation and when they point a finger, it’s hard to dismiss.

This is one of those cases where you want to believe both sides. But you can’t really take both sides when someone suggests financial mismanagement, can you? And yet I’m going to try anyway.

I think the truth here lies in the middle. Security B-Sides got really popular really fast. I can’t keep up with financial and legal administravia on my best days. If I were one of the B-Sides founders, I probably would have had all the finances screwed up midway through the first day. But then that’s why I don’t get involved with planning these things.

Still, given the freakish growth of B-Sides, it’s not difficult to see how things could go haywire even if you’re a master at finances and legal documentation.

That’s the problem with anything run by humans. Humans are flawed to the core, and so is everything they touch. The hope is that somewhere in all the screwing up, you get something good that benefits a lot of people. In this case, I think Security B-Sides has been good for a lot of us. It has offered the security community fresh perspective in an industry where conferences offer too much bling and not enough substance. I’ve forged relationships at BSides events that have helped me do my job better. That’s for certain.

In this story, I’m not interested in where the blame belongs. I just want those involved to come clean and explain the steps they are taking to fix what needs fixing.

Whatever happens going forward, just try to remember:

We all fuck up, all the time.

Maybe our failure is in mismanaged funds.

Or maybe it’s an addiction we can’t shake that’s destroying everything good about our lives.

Or maybe we just have a habit of thinking we’re better than the next guy when we know nothing about the next guy’s situation.

You know my faults. I’ve covered them in this blog at length in an effort to show that I’ve learned from my mistakes and that there’s a better life to be had if you simply own your weaknesses and face them down. As you’ve seen, despite my progress, I still make mistakes on a regular basis.

None of us are damaged beyond repair.

Neither are our works.

That includes BSides.

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THE OCD DIARIES, Two Years Later

Two years ago today, in a moment of Christmas-induced depression, I started this blog. I meant for it to be a place where I could go and spill out the insanity in my head so I could carry on with life.

In short order, it snowballed into much more than that.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/IKpEoRlcHfA

About a year into my recovery from serious mental illness and addiction — the most uncool, unglamorous addiction at that — I started thinking about sharing where I’ve been. My reasoning was simple: I’d listened to a lot of people toss around the OCD acronym to describe everything from being a type A personality to just being stressed. I also saw a lot of people who were traveling the road I’d been down and were hiding their true nature from the world for fear of a backlash at work and in social circles.

At some point, that bullshit became unacceptable to me.

I started getting sick of hiding. I decided the only way to beat my demons at their sick little game was to push them out into the light, so everyone could see how ugly they were and how bad they smelled. That would make them weaker, and me stronger. And so that’s how this started out, as a stigma-busting exercise.

Then, something happened. A lot of you started writing to me about your own struggles and asking questions about how I deal with specific challenges life hurls at me. The readership has steadily increased.

Truth be told, life with THE OCD DIARIES hasn’t been what I’d call pure bliss. There are many mornings where I’d rather be doing other things, but the blog calls to me. A new thought pops into my head and has to come out. It can also be tough on my wife, because sometimes she only learns about what’s going on in my head from what’s in the blog. I don’t mean to do that. It’s just that I often can’t form my thoughts clearly in discussion. I come here to do it, and when I’m done the whole world sees it.

More than once I’ve asked Erin if I should kill this blog. Despite the discomfort it can cause her at times, she always argues against shutting it down. It’s too important to my own recovery process, and others stand to learn from it or at least relate to it.

And so I push forward.

One difference: I run almost ever post I write by her before posting it. I’ve shelved several posts at her recommendation, and it’s probably for the best. Restraint has never been one of my strengths.

This blog has helped me repair relationships that were strained or broken. It has also damaged some friendships. When you write all your feelings down without a filter, you’re inevitably going to make someone angry.

One dear friend suggested I push buttons for a good story and don’t know how to let sleeping dogs lie. She’s right about the sleeping dogs part, but I don’t agree with the first suggestion. I am certainly a button pusher. But I don’t push to generate a good story. I don’t set out to do that, at least.

Life happens and I write about how I feel about it, and how I try to apply the lessons I’ve learned. It’s never my way or the highway. If you read this blog as an instruction manual for life, you’re doing it wrong. What works for me isn’t necessarily going to fit your own needs.

Over time, the subject matter of this blog has broadened. It started out primarily as a blog about OCD and addiction. Then it expanded to include my love of music and my commentary on current events as they relate to our mental state.

I recently rewrote the “about” section of the blog to better explain the whole package. Reiterating it is a pretty good way to end this entry. You can see it here.

Thanks for reading.

"Obsession," by Bill Fennell

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When Being Smart Becomes A Burden

Our oldest has an intellect well beyond his 10 years. He absorbs details with little effort and I can’t remember the last time he DIDN’T achieve high honors. But sometimes I forget that he’s still a kid.

Mood music:

He likes to tell us he’s a tween. To that, I tell him he’s more like a half tween.

But he is mighty mature for his age, nothing like the immature, messed up kid I was at 10. I’m proud as hell of him for that, but I think I sometimes put to much pressure on him as a result.

We spend a lot of time working with Duncan to manage his ADHD. Making matters more complicated, Duncan recently broke his arm, which means even more attention for the younger brother.

I sometimes wonder if, in that craving for order I sometimes get when my OCD is running hot, I put the greater burden on Sean because getting a mess cleaned up quickly is more important to me than making sure they each do their fair share. Since it can be hard sometimes to get Duncan to do what I want when I want, I immediately turn to Sean.

I’m starting to see it for the unfairness that it is.

Ironically, though I had nowhere near the intellect Sean has, I can still relate to the very pressure he might be feeling.

I started my life as the youngest of three kids, the proverbial baby of the family. Michael was the oldest, and in the Brenner family much has always been expected of the oldest son.

My father was the middle child of his generation, but he was the only son. My grandfather, who came off a boat from the former Soviet Union with all the typical old-school values, expected the world of my father. As my grandfather descended deep into old age and illness in the mid-1960s, my father became increasingly responsible for the family business.

Growing up, my older brother became the one my father leaned on the most. Michael was encouraged to chart his own course and was studying to be a plumber. But he was expected to help out with the family business and do a lot of the grunt work at home.

I was the baby, and a sick and spoiled one at that. I came along almost three years after my sister Wendi, and by age eight I was in and out of the hospital with dangerous flare ups of Crohn’s Disease. I got a lot of attention but nothing hard was expected of me. I was coddled and I got any toy I wanted.

The result was a lower-than-average maturity level for my age. At age 10 I acted like I was 5 sometimes. I would crawl into bed with my father for snuggles, just like a toddler might do.

During Christmas 1980 — the first after my parents’ divorce — I wanted it to look like Santa had come, even though I knew by that point that he didn’t really exist. I clung hard to the delusion, because my parents played Santa all the way up to their last Christmas as a couple, when I was nine. So on Christmas Eve 1980, I took all the gifts I had already opened and arranged them as if Santa had dropped them in my living room. I even wrote a “To Billy from Santa” note. Christmas morning I got up, went in the living room and expressed all the excitement of a kid who discovers that the jolly fat guy had come overnight.

My maturity level hadn’t changed much by the time I hit 13. I probably regressed even further right after my brother died. But as 1984 dragged on, I was slowly pulled into the role of oldest son.

All the stuff that was expected of my brother became expected of me, and I wasn’t mentally equipped to deal with it. My brother had a lot of street smarts that I lacked.

So I have to shake my head and wonder if I’m causing history to repeat itself.

I hope not.

I am indeed proud of Sean for all he is. But I don’t want to force him to grow up too fast.

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Is It Bad That Two Family Members Are In Therapy?

If more than one member of the same family is in therapy, is that a sign that the family is seriously screwed up?

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/iFAweWkqqjk

That’s the question we are asking ourselves these days. As the reader knows by now, I’ve been in therapy for OCD and related issues for seven years. Duncan sees a children’s therapist to help him work through his ADHD.

Is this family a basket case? In my opinion, it’s exactly the opposite.

I wouldn’t be enjoying the equilibrium I have today if not for the years of therapy.

Meanwhile, Duncan is learning a lot of helpful techniques to help him focus and control his anger.

I’m a staunch advocate of therapy as a tool for mental health. I think too many people are embarrassed when it’s suggested that therapy would do them some good. People who stay away from therapy because they feel it’s a mark of weakness have no idea what they are denying themselves. That makes me sad.

It’s a funny thing when I talk to people suffering from depression, addiction and other troubles of the mind. Folks seem more comfortable about the idea of pills than in seeing a therapist. After all, they’re just crazy “shrinks” in white coats  obsessed with how your childhood nightmares compromised your adult sex life, right?

I’ve been to many therapists in my life. I was sent to one at Children’s Hospital in Boston as a kid to talk through the emotions of being sick with Chron’s Disease all the time. That same therapist also tried to help me and my siblings process the bitter aftermath of our parents’ divorce in 1980.

As a teenager, I went to another therapist to discuss my brother’s death and my difficulty in getting along with my stepmother (a wonderful, wonderful woman who I love dearly, by the way. But as a kid I didn’t get along with her).

That guy was a piece of work. He had a thick French accent and wanted to know if I found my stepmother attractive. From the moment he asked that question, I was done with him, and spent the rest of the appointment being belligerent.

That put me off going to a therapist for a long time. I started going to one again in 2004, when I found I could no longer function in society without untangling the barbed wire in my head. But I hesitated for a couple years before pressing on.

The therapist I started going to specialized in dealing with disturbed children and teenagers. That was perfect, because in a lot of ways I was still a troubled kid.

She never told me what to do, never told me how I’m supposed to interpret my disorder against my past. She asked a lot of questions and had me do the work of sorting it out. That, ladies and gentlemen, is what a good therapist does. They ask questions to get your brain churning, dredging up experiences that sat at the back of the mind like mud on the ocean floor. That’s how you begin to deal with how you got to the point of dysfunction.

She moved to Florida a year in and I started going to a fellow who worked from his house. I would explain my binge eating habits to him, specifically how I would down $30 worth of McDonald’s between work and home.

“You should stock your car with healthy foods like fruit, so if you’re hungry you can eat those things instead,” he told me.

That was the end of that. He didn’t get it. When an addict craves the junk, the healthy food around you doesn’t stand a chance. The compulsion is specifically toward eating the junk. He should have understood. He didn’t. Game over, dumb ass.

The therapist I see now is a God-send. He was the first therapist to help me understand the science behind mental illness and the way an inbalance in brain chemistry can mess with your thought traffic. He also provided me with quite an education on how anti-depressants work. Yes, friends, there’s a science to it. Certain drugs are designed to shore up the brain chemicals that, when depleted, lead to bi-polar behavior. Other meds are specifically geared toward anxiety control. In my case, I needed the drug that best addressed obsessive-compulsive behavior. For me, that meant Prozac.

That’s not to say I blindly obey his every suggestion. He specializes in stress reduction and is big on yoga and eliminating coffee from the daily diet. Those are two deal breakers for me. Yoga bores the dickens out of me. If you’ve been following this blog all along, I need not explain the coffee part.

I also find it fun to push his buttons once in awhile. I’ll show up at his office with a huge cup of Starbucks. “Oh, I see you’ve brought drugs with you,” he’ll say.

Our relationship has settled into this banter back and forth, and it continues to serve its purpose. We go over everything happening in my life at that given moment, and if he suspects I’m thinking in unproductive ways or lying to myself, he calls me on it.

I’m better for it.

All that is the long way of saying I think it’s absolutely healthy if multiple members of one family are in therapy at the same time.

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Pepperspray, Waffle Makers And Other Black Friday Stupidity

This post is all about the folks who make it hard for me to keep my faith in humanity. Consider it a momentary indulgence where I give thanks that for all my screw ups, I don’t behave like this.

I spend a lot of time in this blog looking at the brighter side of human nature — examples of people rising above the odds and living to the fullest despite the hand they’ve been dealt.

This is not one of those posts.

Really, people — you’re acting like apes throwing feces over a waffle maker.  This is the problem with Black Friday. We spend the day before giving thanks for all the things we have. Then at midnight we go out and resort to greed-driven animal behavior.

I’ll give you this — you’re making me feel pretty good about myself right now. I may struggle with OCD and addictive behavior, I may have trouble expressing my emotions and I may be a bit of a control freak.

But I will never go out at midnight and dive into a quivering mass of angry humanity over a waffle maker.

Damn, I’m thankful.

But the waffle fight wasn’t even the biggest low.

One asshole shot a shopper who wouldn’t relinquish his purchases outside a San Leandro, Calif., Walmart store, leaving the poor guy hospitalized in critical but stable condition.

The Washington Post and the AP report that at another Walmart in a wealthy suburb of Los Angeles, a woman trying to get the upper hand to buy cheap electronics unleashed pepper spray on a crowd of shoppers, causing minor injuries to 20 people, police said.

That’s some interesting behavior in a country where much of the population is supposedly out of work and unable to afford the products they’re fighting over.

To be fair, there ARE a lot of people out of work who can’t afford these things. But, fortunately, the majority appear to have more self control than these other Black Friday kooks.

Here’s hoping that yesterday was just a freakish blip on the screen in which the human experience is played out.

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Here’s To The Forgiving Souls

A friend of mine was taken aback yesterday when I used a text she sent me in a post. I thought it would be OK because I was keeping her identity a secret. But in hindsight, I should have asked first.

That’s the challenge with a blog like this. I need to take things right to the danger line to make points I feel need making. But sometimes I step over that line. I’ve worked on being extra careful, but it’s obviously a work in progress.

But there’s a bigger point to this than my own foolishness. My friend was not amused by what I did and she made it known. But she quickly forgave me and on with life we go.

That’s one of the many things I admire about this friend. She’ll get angry and sound off, but she doesn’t hold a grudge and freeze out the folks who get on her bad side.

As many of us know, holding grudges is the easiest thing in the world to do. So is NOT holding grudges.

That’s a sign of deep character and strength. I’m lucky to have her as a friend, despite myself.

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Schoolyard Gossip And The Damage Done

I’ve made a lot of wonderful friends among the parents in my children’s school community. But like every community, there are people who blow things out of proportion.

Mood music:

I guess you could lump me into that class of parent. I needle people, especially when I like them, and I can be like a bull in a china shop at school events. I’ve also engaged in gossip with some of the parents.

It’s easy to forget your own faults when your kid suddenly becomes the subject of that schoolyard gossip. But that’s what happened Friday afternoon.

I was sitting in my living room doing some work when I got a text from a friend whose daughter is in Duncan’s class:

“Just wanted to give you a heads up that a lot of moms are pissed at school … I guess Duncan was telling (his classmates) that Santa doesn’t exist and that the parents (do the work). Some of the moms are sending texts to everyone! I have gotten six so far!”

Duncan told us about a month ago that he figured out that Santa, the tooth fairy and the Easter Bunny don’t really exist. Ironically, he reached this conclusion because, as he told me, “To do what they do they would have to use magic. And magic isn’t real.”

That’s his point of view, of course, and truth be told we were sad about the whole Santa thing. No one wants their child to shed innocence before the age of 10, right?

We asked Duncan not to discuss it at school because a lot of his classmates still believed, and that they should be allowed to believe. We apparently needed to give him more than one reminder.

As I learned that several moms were texting each other wildly that Friday afternoon, warning parents that Duncan Brenner told kids at school Santa is a fraud, my blood ran cold and my head got hot.

How dare these moms trash talk my son, I thought. There they are, texting each other like some big emergency is afoot, in this case the potential destruction of Christmas.

The suggestion in this kind of parental banter is that the kid who can’t keep his mouth shut is a troublemaker. His parents must be troublemakers, too.

My first instinct was to get the names of the parents and apologize on Duncan’s behalf. Then my mood shifted and I wanted to tell them all off. Now, with my attitude somewhere near the center again, I’m writing this out, looking for the right perspective.

A few things occur to me:

–Kids in the school yard are going to talk about all kinds of things we’d rather they not talk about. There will be profanity and bad jokes. We parents should intervene whenever possible, but we’re not always going to be in the right spot at the right time.

–If someone is worried that their kid’s Christmas will be ruined over this, do you think it might be time to re-examine what Christmas is supposed to be about?

Here’s what really bothers me:

We all have a habit of gossiping. It’s a very human thing to do. But you know what? It’s wrong.

Schoolyard gossip rarely accounts for the things that are really going on with the kids and parents at the center of all the chatter. We make harsh judgments without having all the facts.

A good example is the mom who started trash-talking about a pair of siblings, suggesting they had anger issues over their parents’ impending divorce because the older sibling refused to work with her son on a class project.

Missing from that bit of gossip was the fact that the girl didn’t want to work with him because he was slacking. Also, he’s been teasing and tormenting her since Pre-K and she finally decided to take a stand.

This is a community and, like it or not, we are all responsible for making it work. Many parents already work tirelessly to that effect, but some do too much complaining about others who don’t march in lockstep.

That’s mean. It doesn’t inspire other parents to get involved and help. It’s not OK. We all have flaws and so do our kids. It also never accurately captures the reasons some people do what they do. We have no idea if someone is acting out of depression, heartache, work stress or any number of other things.

We can’t shield our kids from all the unpleasantness of life. Nor should we. When we coddle our kids too much, we do them a disservice by not preparing them for the challenges of life.

We should let them deal with some of the unpleasant topics of a schoolyard during recess because they just might learn something valuable in the process.

We should remember that when one kid says something other kids aren’t ready to hear that it’s not the end of the world. It’s may lead to unpleasant dinner conversation at home that evening, but it hardly qualifies as a crisis.

Above all, we should all remember that gossiping is mean, and kindly knock it off.

I’ll try to do better on my end.

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Should I Be Upset About This Report Card?

I’ve gotten word that a reader and dear friend was upset over last week’s post, “Reading Between The Lines Of A Bad Report Card.” She shouldn’t be.

Mood music:

http://youtu.be/qga5eONXU_4

She said that she would never have sent such a bad report card to her adult child. I think she was also upset at the suggestion that my parents weren’t paying adequate attention to me back then.

I don’t mind, though. In fact, I’m happy to have that old report card. It put things in perspective for me. It was a snapshot of a difficult time. I used to get angry when thinking about those days. I had a lot of hate in my soul over it.

I don’t feel that way anymore. I think everyone did the best they could with the tools they had back then. The problem was that the tools weren’t that great.

But everything turned out fine.

Below is the original post. Have a look and tell me if you would be upset if such a report card were sent to you.

And to my friend: I appreciate your reaction to the original post very much. Yours is a friendship I treasure, and I don’t want you to worry about this one. Hence the sequel post.

Reading Between The Lines Of A Bad Report Card

My mother found my fourth-grade report card the other day and mailed it to me. On the surface it shows a chronic C student who doesn’t give a damn about anything.

But when I read between the lines I can see exactly where my 10-year-old head was at.

If you look at it on the surface, you see a straight-C student who occasionally sinks to a D in social studies and math. On the back of the report card are comments each quarter from my teacher, describing me as a kid who puts no effort into anything.

My first thought on reading it was that this teacher didn’t like me, and that the feeling was mutual. In reality, I don’t think she disliked me. I think she saw a kid adrift and was trying to scare my parents into a more rigorous study routine at home.

Unfortunately for her and me, she wasn’t the type of teacher who was going to get through to me. She took the academics very seriously, but did little to appeal to the more creative side of me. Teachers before and after her would have a lot more success in that regard. She didn’t get me and I didn’t get her. A troubled kid needs nurturing personalities to intervene.

Even as an adult who has enjoyed a fair amount of career success it’s the same:The more nurturing bosses get more out of me. The ones who shove a 13-point plan in my face and tell me to do it get nothing but trouble. Luckily for me, I’ve only had a couple bosses like that along the way.

I have been both types of boss myself, and I’ve found that most people do better with supervisors who are nurturing souls.

In the 1980-81 school year at Theodore Roosevelt School in the Point of Pines, Revere, Mass., I needed a lot of nurturing.

My parents divorced in the summer of 1980 and it was not a civilized, amicable process. The yelling and instability sent me on to such soothing pursuits as lighting things on fire and shoving the garden hose into an air vent on the side of the house.

I was also sick most of the time with Crohn’s Disease. If you look at my attendance record, there’s a 20-plus day absence in the fourth quarter. That was for one of my extended hospital stays. I missed the class picture shoot that spring, which is probably for the best. I wasn’t a pleasant site.

 

Erin was pained to look at my report card. She never got grades so consistently bad. She felt sympathy for the teacher, who was obviously trying to get my parents’ attention. But in the raw wake of divorce and the illnesses me and my older brother suffered from, they obviously were distracted. I don’t blame them.

I suppose I should have felt sad looking at the report card, but I don’t. I see it for what it was — a snapshot of a difficult period of time. I survived it, and turned into an excellent student once I had a couple years of college under my belt. I would argue that despite it all, I turned out just fine.

What makes me even happier is that at least to date, my children do well academically. Duncan has some ADHD-related challenges, but his grades are mostly good and he has a heart I didn’t have at that age. That heart will take him far.

Sean is currently the same age I was when I brought home that report card. He’s razor-sharp academically, though like me at that age, he often rushes through his homework, the most notable evidence being his sloppy penmanship. We can work with that.

I’d like to think that their better academic luck reflects that we’re giving them a good home life — better than mine was, at least.

To me, the big lesson is that when a kid brings home a bad report card, it’s not enough to just look at the grades and brand the student a success or failure based on the letters and numbers alone.

There’s always a story behind the grades, and taking the time to know the story is key to helping that child going forward.

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Facebook Defriending Syndrome Takes A Ridiculous Twist

People see Facebook as an online place to hide from the real world. But for a growing number of unstable minds, Facebook IS part of the real world.

Mood music:

A woman in Iowa was arrested and charged with setting fire to the home of someone who “unfriended” her on Facebook. Here’s the story from Internet Broadcasting (as run on the WMUR website):

Jennifer Christine Harris, an elementary school teaching associate in Des Moines, was charged with first-degree arson and was being held in the Polk County Jail on $100,000 bond, the Des Moines Register reported.

The fire broke out at around 1 a.m. on Oct. 27. People were asleep inside, but everyone was able to escape. The home was damaged and a detached garage destroyed in the blaze. According to the Register, Harris had been close friends with one of the inhabitants, Nikki Rasumssen, until they began fighting over comments Harris allegedly made about Rasmussen on Facebook. Rasmussen responded by unfriending and blocking Harris on Facebook.

I’ve touched on my own obsessions concerning my Facebook friend count in the past. In August 2010 I wrote:

My current Facebook friend count is 1,169. That may seem like a freakishly high number, but it makes sense when you consider that those connections are a broad mix of family, friends, associates in the security industry and people who “friended” me simply because they read this blog. Here’s the stupid part, though: It was 1,174 a few days ago. So now I’m worrying about who I might have offended. But I have so many connections that it’s pretty much impossible to go through the entire list to see who’s missing.

Most of us have integrated Facebook into our realities so deeply that we would take these things personally. In my case, the result is obsessing over how I might have offended people because in the end I just want to be liked.

In the case of the woman in the news item above, the thirst for revenge took over.

On some level, I understand how a person could do such a thing. If my own challenges with mental illness have taught me anything, it’s that a lack of sanity can make us do just about anything. Those of us lucky enough to maintain a sense of right vs. wrong would never light someone’s house on fire over this or any other reason. But for some people, the wiring in the brain gets far too twisted to know good from bad.

As for my own situation, the paranoia over unfriending has diminished considerably since I wrote that initial post. One reason is that I’ve made peace with the fact that I can only be myself and if someone doesn’t like it they should leave. I know of several people who have defriended me over the volume or nature of things I’ve written about. So be it. No hard feelings.

I’ve also decided that if several of my Facebook friends can constantly complain about work or significant others, or get all mushy and lovey-dovey with their significant others, or post reams of political tirades full of bad spelling and grammar, or make self-evident statements, well…

I’m going to write what I feel and post it as often as I want. Fair is fair. Once I made my peace, I braced for the exodus of my online friends.

As of Nov. 7, 2011, my friend count was 1,805 — well over 600 more connections than last year. Go figure.

Either enough people find value in what I’m doing or they’ve just learned to tune out my noise.

Whatever the case, if you decide to unfriend me, have no fear. I’m not the type of guy that will torch your house over it.

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Christian Intolerance Or Universal Snobbery?

Though I’m a devout Catholic, I sometimes shake my head in disgust over how some of my Christian brothers and sisters behave.

I’ve mentioned before how some in my church community are quick to judge other people and how others seem to think you have to be a member of a specific political party to be entitled to Christ’s love. Democrats are often labeled as abortionists. A friend shared this cartoon this morning and I think it speaks a lot of truth:

There does indeed seem to be a lot of anger among so-called right wingers when you try to offer a more moderate position.

That last frame in the comic, where the woman screams about being persecuted, rings especially true. When a person’s beliefs are questioned, they instantly become victims.

To be fair, Christians have not cornered the market on hypocrisy and intolerance. I’ve had many a conversation with people who think anyone who believes in God is a sheep or an idiot.

I’m a Christan. I believe Jesus Christ died for my sins. But that doesn’t mean I think everyone has to believe the exact same thing. I really don’t care if you’re a Wiccan, Buddhist, Jewish or Atheist. A good person is a good person. A bad person is a bad person.

When you label someone a bad person because their beliefs aren’t perfectly aligned with yours, that makes you an asshole.

Here’s the element people seem to be most consistently daft about across the board: The idea that a person can be figured out and branded for life based on what their current belief system is.

Today’s right-wing nut job isn’t necessarily tomorrow’s right-wing nut job. Today’s satanist isn’t necessarily tomorrow’s satanist. We are constantly evolving.

We should really stop haggling over this stuff and focus instead on being the type of people we want others to be. Not Christian or Agnostic or Islamic, but kind, open-minded and willing to admit along the way that our belief systems need fine-tuning.