“How are the mighty fallen, and the
weapons of war perished!”

—2 Samuel 1:27
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I first heard the news in my truck as I was returning to the office around noon that day. Eliot Spitzer, the Governor of New York, had been caught in a prostitution sting, patronizing a call girl. A huge scandal. I gave an involuntary little whoop of triumph, reflexively rejoicing in the news.

Immediately cognizant of the Scriptural admonition, in Proverbs, I think, not to rejoice when your enemy suffers misfortune lest the Lord withdraw His wrath from him, I tried to restrain myself. So the Lord wouldn’t withdraw His wrath. Wouldn’t want that to happen. Restraint was difficult. Racking my brain, I reasoned that Spitzer was not my personal enemy, but a cultural one. Restraint fled and my joy flowed forth again. I reveled basely in his misfortune.

It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving perp. Eliot Spitzer is a vile little weasel of a man who aggressively created a fearful reputation over the last decade or so as the Attorney General of New York. He developed a particular fondness for hounding Wall Street businessmen, sometimes trumping up charges where none existed. During his mad scorched-earth tenure, he ruined scores of families, and imprisoned men who had committed no crimes along with those who had.

All because he could. Because he had the power. Raw, unvarnished power. Power that defined his existence. Power he drank as a nectar. And he used it ruthlessly for his own personal benefit, to forge his own career path, all the way to the Governorship of New York state.

Raised in soft comfort of staggering wealth accumulated by his real estate magnate father, Spitzer grew up with a golden spoon in his mouth. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. He attended the finest private schools and graduated from Princeton, an elite Ivy League college and later Harvard Law School. Nothing wrong with that either.

He emerged from his educational track with a singular goal. Change the world to his own image. There was something drastically wrong with that.

He wasted no time establishing his reputation as a tough ruthless prosecutor. Pushed the limits of his official power to the extreme. Wall Street bigwigs soon quaked and turned pale at the mere mention of his name. He went after high profile CEOs and squeezed ruinous settlements from petrified victims. Once-vibrant companies were left bankrupted in his wake, often with no charges proven against them. He continued his destructive swath unabated. No one could stand up to him.

His anti-business fanaticism did not go unnoticed by the media. Before long, he was the toast of the liberal elite, who despise business. The darling of the Left. They loudly cheered Spitzer on, elevating him over time to the realms of the gods. He preened and basked in the false glory of their soaring adulation.

But the gods, as the Greeks said (or was it the Romans?), have feet of clay. Especially puffed-up little liberal human moral crusaders. As Spitzer was soon to discover.

Somewhere along the line, around ten years ago, it turns out, he developed a particu-lar fondness of another sort. He began soliciting call girls. Breaking the very laws he so publicly and adamantly enforced. He got away with it for years. But the whole sordid mess was unveiled a few weeks ago. Because of some stupid amateurish mistakes he made moving his funds to pay the escort service.

The mighty little god crashed to the earth in ruins. Poetic justice prevailed. His weapon of war, the law, triggered his own destruction.

At the peak of his power, with almost unlimited future potential, he threw it all away. His power. His prestige. His office. His public reputation. More importantly, his family. A beautiful wife, who may or may not have known of his shenanigans. And three lovely daughters. His life in shambles.

His children, I’m sure, have banished him to his own personal Hades.

To be fair, we are all capable of doing what Spitzer did, I suppose. The human heart knows no boundaries of depravity. Including our own. But most of us don’t do what he did. Because most of us are restrained by some standard safeguards such as con-science, morals, or just plain good old fashioned fear of getting caught, and publicly shamed. Whatever our reasons, whether our motives are pure or impure, we just don’t do it.

The revelations of his crimes instantly smoked out the usual vast army of left wing apologists. Singing their litany of excuses. Victimless crime. Wouldn’t raise an eyebrow in Europe. America is so prude and old-fashioned, to ruin a good man for such normal activity. Many of the apologists had not been seen in this capacity since the Clinton years. The spittle-spewing Alan Dershowitz, virulent atheist and prominent Clinton defender, was especially vehement in excusing Spitzer’s actions. (And no, I DON’T watch news programs at home. I saw it at the gym and read it in the paper.)

Why did he do it? Why would a man in his prestigious position pursue such a reckless course? Gamble everything, put so much on the line? For so little?

Probably because he actually believed all the fawning accolades of the liberal press and his elitist friends. Because he was nihilistic. Above the law. He was all-powerful. The rules didn’t apply to him. For no other reason than he was who he was.

Hubris. Arrogant pride. Subject to no laws but his own. He was a god.

Only he wasn’t. No man is.

The hubris bug stings a lot of people a whole lot less prominent than Eliot Spitzer. In their own little fiefdoms. Who believe the rules don’t apply to them because they are who they are. Who selfishly plunge about in pursuit of their own agendas, with no thought or consideration for anyone but themselves. Who embrace devastation and worship desire.

They wipe their mouths and say, “I have done no wrong.”

When they have.

But there is always a price. A day of reckoning. In the end, their arrogance will be futile. Their power and pride reduced to ashes. As was Spitzer’s.

They too will learn what he learned, or die absorbing the lesson.

The real God’s laws will see to that.
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When it comes to the culinary arts, I relate to the Apostle Paul, who considered himself the least of all the saints. I consider myself the least gifted, the least capable, the most unskilled of all cooks. I don’t do it. Period. Unless you count grilling as cooking, which it might be. I consider heating prepared soups an accomplishment. And toasting bread.

A few weeks ago I met my friend Allan for coffee. He spoke glowingly of the bean soup he’d made in his crock pot. I perked up. It sounded simple enough. And I had a crock pot at home.

Allan was very enthusiastic. Nothing to it, he claimed. Just soak the beans overnight, throw them in the pot the next morning with some meat and water, and presto, a delicious concoction is born.

So I bought a one-pound bag of beans at Giant. A 16-bean mixture. Looked delightful in the bag. On Saturday night I called Allan for final instructions. Soak overnight, place in crock pot the next morning with bacon and water, turn the crock pot on high, and go to church. Oh, and I’d need a medium onion. The onion. I’d forgotten it. I immediately rushed to Giant and bought one.

I soaked the beans overnight. They swelled tremendously. The next morning I poured them into the crock pot with water and a dozen chopped up slices of “Steve Beiler” organic bacon. Diced and added half the onion. Stirred in pepper and a few spices I found in the pantry. Left the pot turned on high.

When I returned from church, a delicious aroma wafted through the house. The soup looked succulent. Juicy and rich. I opened the pot and poured in a spoonful of sea salt and mixed it in. I turned the pot to low and left it to simmer through the afternoon.

Around six, my friends Allan and Bill arrived to help me eat the soup. I was a little nervous. Figured I’d order pizza if the beans were inedible. Needn’t have worried, though. The beans were just plain mouth watering. We wolfed them down with slabs of homemade bread and great hunks of Swiss cheese. I couldn’t believe how delicious it tasted. I felt like a five-star chef. My guests were generous with their accolades.

I definitely plan to experiment with more bean concoctions in the future. I’m thinking barbecued beans with sausage. Or other exotic sauces. Maybe I’ll even add beans to the menu of my famous summer cookouts.

About five years ago at work I sold a post frame garage to a customer. A young guy and a bit of a hothead. It was a small project and I babied him along through the three or four days of construction. He was happy with the building.

A year later he called me. He had installed an opener on the garage door. It had mal-functioned and the door cables were tangled up, immobilizing the door. He wanted me to send someone down immediately to fix the mess for free. I politely pointed out to him that we had not installed the opener. I could send someone, but we would have to charge for a service call.

He argued. Became increasingly heated and irate. I stood firm in my refusal. Then he cursed.

“(Bleep) you and your (bleeping) company,” he shouted and slammed down the phone. I quietly filed his name in my memory.

The years passed and I thought of him sometimes. I don’t get cursed at every day. Very rarely, in fact. I wondered if we’d ever hear from him again. Then one day recently, out of the blue, he called. He was moving and wanted a quote for a new garage. To be built ASAP. I heard and immediately recognized his name. He was the man who had sworn so savagely at me.

I would not work with him again. I conferred with the office staff and asked for a volunteer to deal with him. Andy offered to take the quote. I refreshed him on the situation and told him word for word what the customer had said when he cursed me. Andy looked indignant. We decided to add a hefty extra fee to the quote just for the hassle of dealing with his temper.

Andy prepared the quote. I asked how much he’d added for curse insurance.

“Seventeen hundred dollars,” he said. I gulped. It was a bit more than I had expected, but I let him run with it. The customer, of course, was free to go elsewhere for his building. There’s plenty of competition out there. He could take or leave our quote.

He bought the building. His heated moment, loss of temper and six unfortunate words had cost him $1700.00. Calculates to around, let me think, oh, about $283.34 per word. Pretty expensive swearing.

Spring is here, but it’s still March. Among other negative things, March is the month of the sports drought. Football long gone, baseball still weeks away. I abhor basketball. I yawn at March Madness and the Final Four. Nascar is on, but only a few hours a week. I’m in withdrawal here. Come on, April. Come on, baseball.

Congratulations to John and Dorothy Wagler of Bloomfield, Iowa on the birth of their daughter, Kara Lyn, born on March 18, 2008. Her sister Vanessa and brother Brandon welcome her.

Easter is here. As early as it ever comes. I observe it as a Holy Day, but don’t usually attend the sunrise services. I’m just not a morning person.

A BLESSED EASTER TO ALL MY READERS.