Columnist Paul Prather used to get a chuckle out of hit grandmother’s frustration with the modern world of his youth. But a recent trip to the movies – now involving reserved seating, advance tickets and apps – made him feel like the one that was losing touch.
I received a question recently about how to deal with a friend’s apparent bigotry. When I’m bothered by that, I try to remember a couple of things. First, it’s not my job to be everybody else’s conscience. That’s God’s job, a job I can’t do for him.
The NFL owners’ decision didn’t focus on the relative merits, or lack thereof, of the players’ beliefs about discrimination. It didn’t focus on players’ right to free speech. It was only about cynical politics and guarding the league’s bottom line.
By the time we got home, I didn’t care about Bevin or Trump anymore. I didn’t care about obnoxious football fans. None of it mattered. I felt perfectly content, at peace with God and the world. I’d tapped into something sublime.