Finding My Way to the Incarnation

Ah, it is Christmastime once more in the vast wasteland of the Inland Empire. The bell-ringer at our local Wal-Mart is wearing a t-shirt and shorts as he sings of warm fires and snow-covered rhapsodies in a beautiful baritone -- hoping to persuade the rushed and harried passing by to cough up a bit of Christmas cheer for the less fortunate. But in a rough town teeming with so many who exist on the edge of solvency, his words and presence only seem to stir their guilt, and they steer a wide berth around that large African-American Santa. Oh well, such is Christmas in San Bernardino: a bankrupt city composed of threadbare dreams on an 81 degree afternoon -- A hard luck paradise; the bitter fruit of Progressivism's strong delusion. At home, the mail lady delivers her bevy of packages and Christmas cards with the world-weariness of one who views Christmas as more work for the same pay. As I open those cards and mull over the same stock generic phrases and the insufferable annual brag...(Read Full Article)