St. Peter’s New Book

Cold and tired, beaten and disgusted, the Apostle Peter sat in a Roman prison cell with Paul some 2,000 years ago, writing the story of his life and waiting to be executed.  Two millennia later, the autobiography has been found and has just been published.

At  least, that’s the tale spun by author Bill Lazarus.

Call him the finder of lost books.  In his first novel, The Unauthorized Biography of Nostradamus, he supposedly recovered the biography of the great seer, a book misplaced for 500 years.  In this novel, the subject is Peter, who is thought to have died around 64 C.E.  Lazarus said he has no more “lost” books waiting to be found.  “I only did two novels this way,” the Daytona Beach resident explained.  “Other books are more conventional.”

In reality, there really may be an autobiography of Peter floating around somewhere. 

“There actually is a Gospel of Peter,” said Lazarus, who is also a biblical historian who has written several published books on that subject, including Comparative Religion for Dummies.  “Early Church leaders weren’t fond of the book, which survives only in fragments.”

There’s no such trouble with The Last Testament of Simon Peter, which includes an historical introduction explaining how the book was “found” and footnotes in the text as if it truly was an historical document.

“Bill knows this era backwards and forward,” said critic Lester Myles of the Richmond (VA) Times.  “The reader feels transported into a totally different era.”

“The book is historically accurate,” explained Lazarus, who spent several years gathering information on the era before writing the novel.  “Unfortunately, we don’t know much about Peter.”

Although Peter is the first disciple of Jesus, New Testament includes little information about him, including his hometown, his job as a fisherman and the fact he was married.  Beyond that, Peter appears only in a series of episodes with Jesus or, before the religious council of the day to be reprimanded for his views.  In the Epistles, largely written by Paul, Peter is seen disagreeing with Paul over Jesus’ teaching. 

That disagreement serves as the crux of the novel.  Peters says he is writing his account to counter Paul.  However, by the end of the book, having endured beatings and disappointments, Peter reconciles to Paul, realizes that both of them are trying to achieve an understanding of God, but from different directions.  The novel ends with Peter’s heart-rending usage of Paul’s real name, something he had steadfastly refused to do previously.

“There have been a variety of novels with Peter as the main character,” said book reviewer Randall Lancaster of the Revere River (MA) Daily.  “This is the first one that provides an accurate historical context in a dramatic context that is both completely believable and highly entertaining.”

That’s because the text is laced with Lazarus’ usual humor, something that characterizes all of his writing.  For example, Peter meets a would-be, money-hungry mystic named Alexander who is baptizing acolytes in the Jordan River.  Peter gets in line only to be left standing, naked, because, as Alexander notes, he did not pay in advance.  Peter then spends some time in thoughtful contemplation of the deeper meaning of Alexander’s words.

In another anecdote, his bread-baking attempts leave local housewives with aching jaws and angry comments.  Peter’s grandfather’s attempts to explain the intricacies of Jewish religious rules are also achingly funny.

Amid the humor, however, there is great tragedy, including the drowning death of Peter’s older brother and the crucifixion of his father. 

“Those events are the reality of that day,” said Lazarus, who teaches courses in writing at Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University and in religious history in the Stetson University’s Continuing Education Department.

Surprisingly, considering Peter’s important in Christianity as the first disciple of Jesus and the man who holds the keys to heaven, Jesus actually plays a small role in the book.

“I was not trying to attack anyone’s belief and felt that any attempt to portray Jesus would offend someone,” Lazarus explained.  “The book places Peter in an historical context, creating a real person instead of a religious icon wandering around with a halo.”

 

That was Lazarus’ motive in writing the book.  “Biblical characters like Peter and Paul 2,000 years ago didn’t know they were supposed to be saints and were completely unaware that religious people today would hang on their every word,” he said.  “They were simply trying to live as best they could in a tumultuous era filled with war and death.”

“Only someone with the unique background in history, religion and writing could create novel like this,” Lancaster wrote.  “Peter was immortal before.  Now, he has found a voice.”

The Last Testament of Simon Peter

Halifax County

2011

244 pages

$19.95

Available on Amazon.com, www.halifaxcounty.com, Kindle and www.williamplazarus.com

Talking with God -- Again

God has spoken again.  This time, He told Republican presidential hopeful Herman Cain to get out of the race for the nomination.  That’s a change of heart.  Before, Cain said, God told him to run.  In a November 12 speech, Cain said, "When I finally realized that it was God saying that this is what I needed to do, I was like Moses: 'You've got the wrong man, Lord. Are you sure?'"

Cain was right.  He was the wrong man.  However, that makes God mistaken.  Who would have guessed that?

Of course, God also told Michele Bachmann, Sarah Palin, Rick Perry and Rick Santorum to run, too.  He must have been covering his bets. 

On the other hand, maybe God was suggesting a nice restaurant for the evening or a new Commandment, and they just misheard.  That’s possible.  After all, as the Bible records, God has a “still, small voice.”  (1 Kings: 19:12) Candidates who are a bit longwinded may have trouble translating comments uttered sotto voce.

There’s another option:  maybe God wasn’t the one taking.  Maybe Cain heard his girlfriend chatting on the phone in another room and misunderstood.  That could be true for all the people who recently claimed God had whispered in their ears.  A search of the internet turned up the following bits of supposed divine guidance.

• A man who said he killed his young son because God told him to save the boy from the antichrist.  A New Zealand man who chopped off the heads of two women and shot a man following God’s directions.

·      

• A woman asking for advice after a man approached her in church and told her God chose her to be his wife.  Presumably, the same tact was used in the polygamist sects to convince little girls to become wives.
 

• A Texas pastor who paddled eight women because God told him to.
 

• The Rev. Pat Robertson claiming God told him that the U.S. would be attacked by terrorists – that was in 2007.  God hasn’t apparently got around to following through yet.
•  
• President Obama said God wanted Congress to pass his jobs bill.

Unless God is talking out of both sides of His mouth, someone else must be mouthing off for Him, sort of how English Prime Minister Winston Churchill had a sound-alike give speeches for him during World War II.  To this day, no one knows which radio speeches Churchill actually delivered. 

Maybe that’s the same thing with God.  He designated a stand-in who tells the candidates what to do.  They think it’s God and fall for it.

Why stop with today’s run of mediocre politicians?  Maybe God didn’t really speak to Abraham, Moses or Samuel.  Maybe that was his stand-in or, worse yet, Satan acting like a ventriloquist.  Was Muhammad misled?  Or Joseph Smith?  They are among multiple religious leaders who said they received the divine word.  Maybe the gods who spoke through the Delphic Oracle, the Sybil and other renowned visionaries were perpetrating a cruel hoax.

How would anyone know? It’s not like there’s a recording somewhere of God to compare the latest message to.   The CIA did that with tapes made by Osama Bin Laden, confirming their authenticity.  God’s vocal pattern remains a mystery.

Maybe God didn’t say anything at all.  Maybe Cain’s libido gave him the impetus to run, noticing that candidates have unfettered access to unlimited numbers of women ala Tiger Woods.

Maybe Bachman’s smug conceit served as the impetus or Palin’s lofty intelligence.

Maybe the mouthpiece who told Joseph Smith to look for golden tablets with a fable about Jesus visiting Native Americans was the same one that told former Massachusetts Governor and master flip-flopper Mitt Romney to run for president.

We can only guess.

Or we can consider the words of retired author and Christian pastor Robert Tillman Kendall:

“Most often we mention Him for one reason: to elevate our own credibility. It is not His name we are thinking of, it is our reputation. Adding the weight of God's name to our words gives us authority and respectability. But the truth is, we're not thinking of God's name and glory when we do this — we're thinking of our own.”

While making sure God gets the unwarranted credit.

Bill Lazarus regularly writes about religion and religious history.  He also speaks at various religious organizations throughout Florida.  You can reach him at www.williamplazarus.com.  His books are available on Amazon.com, Kindle, bookstores and via various publishers. 

Devils Food: Part 3

This is the third and final part of a short story about when all hell breaks loose in a nice Daytona Beach neighborhood.

By late morning, the entire front lawn was covered by an impromptu, swaying congregation.  Rev. Goren alternated hymns with harangues.

The Seabreeze High School marching band had joined the festivities.  The school was located only three blocks away, and the band apparently had been practicing.  Their director had noticed the crowds and decided to take advantage of the audience.  They were playing “When the Saints Come Marching In” with unrelenting enthusiasm as they stomped up and down Georgetown and North Peninsula Drive.

Several squads of Daytona Beach officers were there, too, to direct traffic.  They also had to keep a careful eye on a small group of spike-haired men and women holding up signs in support of the Devil.  They were somewhat isolated, yet undeterred.  They happily chatted with the reporter and preened themselves as a television truck from Channel 2 TV hurried into the festivities.  A reporter and a cameraman quickly began asking questions and filming.  No one exactly knew what was going on, but no one hesitated to smile, wave and say a few words.  The reporter dutifully repeated all the innuendos as if they were solid facts.

On several occasions, scuffles broke out between the more aggressive supporters of the devil and their opponents.  Police subdued one teen-age devil supporter by holding him down by his pointed hair and putting on handcuffs.  He was taken away in a police car while his opponents smirked nobly.

Venders had arrived to hawk miniature blue devils, apparently replica team mascots.  They all had the word “Duke” splashed across their tint chests.  Someone else was selling Wake Forest University insignia, the hard-faced “Demon Deacon.”  DePaul was not overlooked either.  Someone else was selling witch-related paraphernalia, while a third with an ecumenical bent was offering Bibles at a discount, as well as crucifixes, crèches and mezuzahs.

Inside the house, McKinley had move beyond despair to something approaching comatose.  In the living room, Bradley and Mr. Scratch were finishing up a project that analyzed the ashes created by burning small samples of magazines, newsprint and IRS forms to determine chemicals being released into the air.  In the family room, Gerald was setting some old Egyptian game, Mincala, that Mr. Scratch had created from cups and a few rocks.  He would play with Gerald as Bradley burned the samples, then return to help with the analysis.

In the bedroom, Connie was packing.

“I’ve had it,” she announced.  “It’s like being in the middle of a parade.”

“Where are you going?” McKinley asked listlessly.  He felt completely helpless.

“To a motel.  I’ll let you know which one,” Connie snapped, haphazardly tossing several blouses and shorts into her soft suitcase.  She straightened.  “Maybe.”

“Honey,” he pleaded.

“All I did was ask for quiet.  That’s all.  The same consideration I gave you,” Connie sputtered.  “But, no, you couldn’t do that.  Listen to this place.  It would be quieter inside a jet engine.”

“Honey,” McKinley tried.  “It’s Spring Break.  The hotels are filled with wild teenagers, parties, loud music, drinking to all hours.”

“Ah,” said Connie sarcastically, “peace and quiet.”

McKinley leaned against the door.  His whole world was spiraling apart, like a modest airplane that lost its rudder.

Ignoring him completely, Connie finished throwing clothing into her suitcase.  She then grabbed the handle and heaved.  The suitcase thudded to the floor.  McKinley feebly offered a hand.  His wife pretended not to see him, but struggled out the bedroom door into the hallway. 

“I’m leaving,” she announced.

Gerald and Bradley were too busy to hear her, and probably couldn’t, considering the racket emanating from the front of the house.  Connie grimaced and worked the suitcase through the kitchen and into the garage.  McKinley watched her sadly.  There was nothing to say.  Besides, any of his words would have been drowned out by the outdoor commotion.

The garage door went up with a bang.  Instantly, everyone stopped to stare.  Mid-sermon, Rev. Goren turned, arms in the air, to look at the open garage.

“The sinner is coming!” he shouted.

The crowd roared.

Connie slowed edged her small Corolla back into the driveway.  The throng parted like the Red Sea.

People peered into the window.  Connie sneezed.  They backed away.  She inched onto the street.  A policeman waved her on.  In a moment, she had turned south and headed towards Plaza Road.  McKinley watched her for a moment from the bedroom, then put down the blinds again.

“I won,” Gerald shouted.

“Congratulations,” Mr. Scratch said. He seemed genuinely happy.

McKinley wiped his forehead.  He had such a headache. 

“Dad,” Bradley said, on his way to wash his hands.  “I really have a good project.”   There was a faint smell of burning surrounding him.

“A great project,” Mr. Scratch said, beaming.  He wandered into the hallway.  “You don’t look very good,” he told McKinley.  “You should have let me make that smoothie for you.”

“How long are you going to stay?” McKinley whispered.

Mr. Scratch shrugged.  “This is such a nice home.  The boys are great.  I really don’t know,” he said.  “By the way, I was thinking of fixing that leaky drain in the back bathroom.  Do you have a wrench?”

McKinley shook his head.  This was a nightmare, he told himself.

Gerald ran over to Mr. Scratch and took his hand.  “Come on,” he said.  “I have the board set up.”

“You are a great kid,” Mr. Scratch said. 

McKinley watched them.  His mind felt empty.  An imp in the back of his mind kept reminding him that more tax returns awaited.  The rest of his brain was too overwhelmed to respond.

“Is everyone gone?” Connie wanted to know.  She called in the early afternoon.  The ringing phone could barely be heard inside the house with the confusion continuing outside.

“Almost,” McKinley mumbled.

“Listen to me, Brian,” Connie barked in her typical commanding tone.  McKinley was pleased that his wife had obviously recovered from her illness.  “You get everyone out of there or I’m not coming back.”

“I’ll try,” he said.

“Try?  Try?  What’s the matter with you?  This is our house.  You’ll do a lot better than try.  Send the green man home, and everything will be all right,” Connie insisted.

McKinley sighed and hung up the phone.  Just send Mr. Scratch home.  How?  Put a stamp on him?  Dig a hole?

He wandered to the back window and looked outside.  Rev. Goren had started a mass cleansing ritual, sort of a communal hand-waving, Gospel-singing and prayer-chanting service that was adding to the hysteria.  The garden in front of the house was a memory.  The entangled yellow beach daisies had been plucked and strewn about in supplication for divine action.  The butterfly garden in back had been trampled, too.  The bushes that ran along the backyard had been picked apart as people passed through them without any religious qualms.  The palm trees along the north side of the driveway had been denuded by eager youngsters, who clamored up them and removed branches for a better view of the house.  The front lawn, which had been so lovingly cared for, now resembled a golf course sand trap.  Every blade had been stomped on by hundreds of shoes.

The reporters, at least, had left.  Whimple departed when her noon deadline for Monday morning’s paper approached.  Television lingered another hour, because the reporter got lost on the way back to his truck.  He had received an emergency call about a possible celebrity sighting and had to leave.  The marching students had disbanded, although some of the youngsters had hung around and incongruously carried their instruments amid the crowd.

McKinley could see the strained expressions on the hundreds of people still filling the street.  The afternoon had turned out to be very hot.  Many of the neighbors had retreated to their own homes, while more-distant visitors seemed ready to pass out.  The lemonade and soft drink sales were booming.  Mrs. Cosgrove, indefatigable as ever, continued to blast her unrelenting and off-tune pastorals as though time and weather had no meaning.

McKinley spent a moment trying to determine who was in the throng.  He went from face to face.  Most were unfamiliar.  Then, he froze.  That face was familiar.  Mr. Jenkins had joined the group.  McKinley could see his best client standing to one side: tall, bald and clearly unhappy.  The Wilpongs were there, too.  McKinley felt faint.  His whole business was going to be destroyed, right along with everything else.

He had to act, but felt completely isolated.  The boys were preoccupied with Mr. Scratch, who had cleaned up the kitchen, expertly handled a few necessary home repairs that had long awaited attention and assisted both sons with pressing school assignments.

“He’s the greatest,” Gerald informed his father during one interlude.

“He said he’ll stay as long as we want him to,” Bradley  announced with a grin.  “He’s really cool.  I think I’ll paint myself green.  What do you think Jennifer would say?”  He went off without waiting for an answer.

McKinley sat down on the couch and tried to think.  What was he going to do? Shoot the Devil?  He doubted that would work, even if he owned a gun.  Prayers were clearly ineffective.  The baseball bat was a possibility, but McKinley knew fully well he lacked both the strength and determination to batter anything into submission.  He had rarely hit a baseball as a kid, preferring the classroom to the athletic field.  Even now, hefting the bat last night seemed to have strained his right bicep.

Unless Mr. Scratch could be overwhelmed with numbers, violence was out of the question.  But, something had to be done.  McKinley wanted his life back to normal: the boys bickering, his wife complaining and firing orders, and the gardens restored.  He wanted to slip into his office and work in mindless silence uninterrupted by the intonations of hundreds of church-going fanatics and without fear that his clients would end their relationships with him.  He wanted the devil worshippers gone, and the makeshift plaque designating the house as an official portal to Hell, removed.  Mostly, he wanted quiet.

He simply didn’t know how to achieve it.

McKinley ran through the events of the day.  He grabbed Bradley and finally learned how Mr. Scratch came into existence.  That gave him an idea.  He just needed help.

In the mid-afternoon, as Mr. Scratch was setting up the Scrabble game board, McKinley pulled his sons aside.  He looked at them slowly, first Bradley, then Gerald.

“I know you like Mr. Scratch,” he said.  They nodded happily.  “But, he’s got to go.”

“Why?” Gerald said.

“Bradley, do you think Jennifer will ever be allowed back in this house if Mr. Scratch is here?” McKinley asked.

Bradley grimaced.  “No,” he admitted.  “But I doubt her mother will ever let her around here again anyway.”

“And, Gerald,” McKinley turned his attention to his younger son.  “Do you think Mom will come home if the party continues outside?”  Gerald didn’t argue.  “You do want to see Mom again, don’t you?”  Gerald thought for a moment and then managed a sad nod.

“That’s what it comes down to,” McKinley continued in a low voice, checking over his shoulder in case Mr. Scratch was listening.  “Mom and Jennifer or Mr. Scratch.”

“Can’t we just ask him?” Gerald wanted to know.  He was pleading.  “That way, he can come back.”

“I did ask him,” McKinley reported.  “He said he wants to stay; he likes it here.”

“Oh.”  Gerald looked glum.  “He really is nice.”

“So is pizza,” McKinley noted quickly, “but too much will make you sick.”

“Anyone want some lunch?” Mr. Scratch called.  “How about some grilled chicken sandwiches?”

“Can we ask him to leave after we eat?” Bradley asked.

McKinley shook his head.  “The longer we wait, the harder it will be.  Look at that crowd outside.  You’ll never get to school on Monday.”

“Really?” Bradley exclaimed, his eyes shining.

“You won’t see your friends either,” McKinley amended quickly. 

Bradley weighed that thought.  “I don’t want to hurt him,” he finally said.  “He’s so nice.”

McKinley pulled them tighter.  “I know what we can do,” he said.  He held up the box of Devil’s Food.  “We’re going to put the genie back in the bottle.”

“It’s a box,” Gerald noted.

“You’re an idiot,” Bradley told him.

“I am not,” Gerald protested.  “Dad!.”

McKinley shook his head.  “Later,” he said, starting to walk toward the living room.

The two boys pushed each other, but joined their father.  They approached Mr. Scratch as a unit, side by side.  McKinley wanted to be sure his sons couldn’t back out.  They were red-faced and breathing hard.

Mr. Scratch was sitting at the dining room table, his back to them.  He was checking the Scrabble tiles.  Sandwiches were piled on the table next to the board.

“Are you ready, gentlemen?” Mr. Scratch asked casually, swiveling around to face them.  “I feel hot.”

“In a minute,” McKinley said.

“Oh, are you playing, too?” Mr. Scratch said.

“Not anymore,” McKinley said coldly, putting the box down on the floor.  He then plugged in the air dryer and held it up, like a gun, pointed at Mr. Scratch.  He then turned it on.  Hot air began to pour into the room.

“Grab him, boys,” McKinley shouted.  His sons sprang forward.

“Oh, dear,” Mr. Scratch said, but didn’t resist as Gerald and Bradley pinioned each arm.  They seemed so small next to him.

McKinley aimed the hair dryer inches from Mr. Scratch’s face.  The devil was placid, then, slowly, began to dissolve.  The green color flaked off, then turn gray as it drifted to the floor.  Slowly, the entire body followed.  The arms simply melted, joining with the torso and legs to form a large ash-like heap on the wood floor beneath the dining room table.

“The box, “ McKinley shouted excitedly.

Bradley retrieved it and looked at the pile.  “I don’t want to touch it,” he shuddered.

A pan and broom took care of that problem.  McKinley did the honors.  Gerald looked like he was going to cry.

McKinley sealed the box with tape.  He wondered what to do with it.  Throw it in the ocean?  No, he decided, too much water.  A tall devil who emerged from the bathtub would likely be dwarfed by a creature born in a much larger, wetter container.

Carrying the box carefully, he went outside.

“Go home,” he called.  “There’s no devil here.”

The crowd stood still.  Eyes stared at him.  McKinley felt their gaze, their hatred.  He did not flinch.  “Go home,” he repeated firmly, waving the box like an amulet.  “There isn’t a devil.  Never was a devil.”

Mrs. Cosgrove glared at him.  “I saw him,” she said firmly.

“Just a mirage.  It’s awfully hot in Florida,” McKinley told her.  His voice quavered as he fought nervousness, but he stayed loud.  “Anyone else see the devil?” he asked pointedly.  ‘Anyone?”

People looked sheepishly at her.

“Go home,” McKinley said, “before I sue you all for damaging my property.”

That threat caused immediate consternation and a mass exodus.

“Don’t forget to contribute to our building fund,” Rev. Goren shouted, holding up a white box.  He didn’t attract much interest before scurrying into his Cadillac and having his chauffeur whisk him away.

McKinley watched the crowd dissipate, then opened the garage and got into his car.  He put the box next to him.  It seemed so strange.  He backed out through an empty driveway and turned to go to Bellair Plaza via an empty street.

Discretely, he put the box of Devil’s Food back on the shelf.

He returned home in time to see his wife drive in, hear Bradley yelling at Gerald, see Jennifer coming down the street toward the house and realize that there were still tax returns to do.

It was, he decided, simply a daydream brought on by tax-day stress.

Ryan Destino looked at the box of Devil’s Food on the shelf.  What a great gag gift for his brother in Iowa.  As a minister, John would really get a laugh over it.  Ryan picked up the box, noting the tape across the top.  Even better, he thought, and cheerfully added it to his cart.

-end-

Republican Party's Evolution Goes Awry

Former Pennsylvania Sen. and GOP presidential candidate Rick Santorum has called for teaching creation-based theories in classrooms.

Great idea.  How else will American schoolchildren be dumb enough in the future to vote Republican?

By the way, that’s the same party that has pushed the No Child Left Behind educational policy that has guaranteed all children are left behind. The same party that continually tries to restrict voting.  The same party that is now so conservative that the few members in the middle need a telescope to see the bulk of their companions.

What a sad comedown for Republicans, who, not that long ago, gave this country some of its most brilliant leaders.

The Republican Party was born in the 1850s from the remnants of the Whigs and other groups that had become so fragmented that they no longer had a base.  Founders met in Illinois and had a single-issue platform: end slavery.

This was no Tea Party or Ross Perot’s Reform Party.  The GOP had a real cause and a nationally recognized presidential nominee, famed explorer John Fremont.  He did not win in 1856, losing out to James Buchanan, who would go on to rival George W.  Bush as the worst president in American history.

The Democrats, founded by Thomas Jefferson, had deteriorated to the level that they were nominating nonentities like Buchanan to serve as their standard bearers.  They hadn’t had a significant leader since General Andrew Jackson 30 years earlier, a man of large appetites and strong beliefs who happily upset the political equilibrium.

In 1860, the Republicans chose as their presidential candidate a little-known former congressman who had never run for national office and had lost the 1858 Illinois senatorial campaign.  However, Abraham Lincoln was a gifted speaker whose homespun eloquence struck a chord with voters.  Lincoln also was totally opposed to slavery and had captivated listeners during his series of open-air debates with Stephan A. Douglas, the man who beat Lincoln in the Illinois senatorial election.

Lincoln barely won the 1860 presidential election over Douglas, but his victory precipitated the Civil War.  Southerners believed that the new president would ban slavery and destroy their style of life, and didn’t wait for his inauguration to secede.

After the war, Republicans were led by Ulysses S. Grant, the winning northern general.  His election was a foregone conclusion, like that of Dwight Eisenhower in 1952: successful generals resonate with the American public.  However, he was not particularly politically skilled and was overwhelmed by corruption.  The Republicans then resorted to stealing the election in 1876, giving the party ample training for a similar exercise in 2000 in the Bush-Gore election.  The Democrats had already copied the concept in the 1960 Nixon-Kennedy election.

Finally, in 1896, the Republicans hit on William McKinley, a genial Ohioan who seemed well equipped to lead. He made the U.S. a world power by annexing Hawaii and taking over the Philippines and Cuba.

After his assassination, McKinley was followed by Theodore Roosevelt, one of the greatest American political leaders whose efforts including destroying business monopolies that were strangling the economy, establishing minimum wages, creating the Panama Canal and setting up national parks.  Also, laws regarding child labor and food cleanliness were signed under his watch.

Socialists had vainly advocated for them, but Republicans got them enacted.

In contrast, Democrats were saddled with William Jennings Bryan, who ran for president three times and was so religiously conservative he makes members of today’s religious right seem liberal.

The shift in party positions began slowly. As the dominant party, Republicans grew more conservative. They led the fight against the League of Nations, rejecting the need for global influence and helping guarantee a second world war.  They pushed for controls on immigration.  The first such law appeared in 1924 under Republican Calvin Coolidge.  Republican economic policies, dominated by a laissez faire attitude, helped plunge this country into a depression, a term coined by vilified Republican President Herbert Hoover.

Under Democrat Franklin Roosevelt, the country recovered and grew into a powerhouse that won World War II and then helped rebuild the shattered Axis nations.  Democrats were still dominated by racists, but that changed with the election of John Kennedy in 1960.  His policies, guided into law by his successor Lyndon Johnson, included the Voting Rights Act and guaranteed equal rights for women.

Pushed by the Civil Rights Movement, Democrats became the all-inclusive party of equal rights, a position it still holds.

In contrast, Republicans calcified.  Led by such stalwarts as Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan, they pushed for less control on business, leading to the financial excesses of the 1980s.  “Big” government was a target.  However, only Kennedy-Johnson, with their War on Poverty, increased the number of Federal employees more than Reagan did in the last 60 years. All other presidents, led by Bill Clinton, reduced the size of government.

Today, the Republicans are defined not by their willingness to lead, but by their determination to oppose virtually any policy that might have a positive effect, such as health care and economic reform.  The party of inclusion has become one of exclusion – denouncing individuals who might express any originality or even compromise.

For example, look at Republican presidential candidate Newt Gingrich’s recent proposal that would allow long-time, self-supporting, illegal immigrants to become legal residents.  "I do not believe that the people of the United States are going to take people who have been here a quarter century, who have children and grandchildren, who are members of the community, who may have done something 25 years ago, separate them from their families, and expel them," Gingrich noted in a rare hint of humanity.

Naturally, he was immediately attacked by his Republican presidential candidate counterparts.

Santorum’s insistence is representative of that kind of thinking.  It doesn’t matter than attempting to teach religious doctrine as “fact” was declared unconstitutional.  He doesn’t care what Americans think or what is logical, plausible or supported by research.  He wants his beliefs taught to schoolchildren.

That’s the Republican way these days.

How sad.

Long-time historian and educator, Bill Lazarus regularly writes about religion, religious history and history.  His books are available on Amazon.com, Kindle, bookstores and via various publishers.  Many of his essays are posted at www.williamplazarus.blogspot.com.  He also speaks at various religious organizations throughout Florida.  You can reach him at www.williamplazarus.com