by David Schrott

Facebook is too public for private matters. Everyone’s there. Even those who pay me. They should not be privy to the private. (Did I just say myspace is less public? Truth. No one’s here. That’s why).

Mr Kalas passed yesterday (I prefer not to euphemize, but, to-day, I will). He was the voice that was larger than baseball itself; at least for the Philadelphia area. Even I, a Philly-Sports hater and diehard fan of all things Pittsburgh loved the voice of Summer. I loved him even more than our own dear Fratare, and he was special in my 10, 11 and 12 year old heart (think: Bonds and Bobby-Bo). Yet even when someone that special leaves us, the world does not stop its spin, the game goes on, and though we grieve, their vapor has passed. The world and yes, even the game, stops for no one. What a humbling thought this is. We are only specks in the theatre of life; life that has stretched countless millennia. Our span is nothing.

Yet, though we are nothing, we bear the image of God. This is knee-buckling. Our inherent value is priceless, so much so that God himself took upon himself his own fury and clothed us in his righteousness, sealed three days later that glorious Sunday just under two millennia ago.

We hear this so often, and perhaps we have let it become trite. Saying that this is unfortunate is an understatement of gross proportions. Luther said this truth must be beat into our heads continually, and he is right, but have we dulled the good news so that we are merely beat with a soft club rather than knife-pricked at the heart?

I hope that this year, two days post-Easter, we will take to heart the truth of the matter, and though we are nothing more than a passing vapor or gentle breeze, our identity is found in the one who was from the beginning, who was slain before the foundations of the world, who holds the keys to death and life and who will one day make all things new and dwell with his people.

If the reality of this does not crack our statuesque souls, I cannot fathom anything that will.

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