Unless a bayonet is in their back, people are typically not compelled to observe another man’s pieties. That’s frequently a shock to those other men. I’m reminded of a personal example from when a few friends convened to sit on the back patio exaggerating old stories while oppressing women and blacks in the background.
One of our group, Steve I’ll call him, had recently embraced a sort of clean-living, whole-person, self-improvement program. He had also embraced the sometimes supercilious evangelism that frequently accompanies such things. So when another of our party, Pete, reasonably inquired as to where the beer was stashed, Steve archly responded: Alcohol is poison to the soul.
Without a hint of disagreement, Pete replied: Yeah. So where is it?
That’s a trite anecdote, but one that would do more work mitigating our children’s misery than a book of thousand word essays.
Pete could have dug ruts in…
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