Ed Spivey Jr. was working as art director of the Chicago Sun-Times Sunday Magazine in 1972 when God called him to join the fledgling Sojourners community and work for its publication, then called the Post-American. The fact that Ed has not heard from God SINCE is not what's important here, because Ed figures God had other things to do, what with making the world a more peaceful place. Why the world is still NOT a more peaceful place is none of Ed's business and he would never think to criticize God for slacking off since, who knows, God could have been sick or something.
But, 36 years later, Ed is still with Sojourners, still the art director, still happy with his life-long dream of working hard for very little money. The only down side is that Ed is beginning to feel his childhood plans of being either a cowboy or an astronaut may not be realized in his lifetime. But such are the sacrifices one makes when one responds to the call of the Lord, even if immediately after that the Lord apparently changed His phone number.
Of a more biographic note, Ed holds an Associate in Arts degree from Vincennes University. He was denied a Bachelor's Degree from Indiana University because of a disagreement with his psychology professor who did not appreciate Ed's refusal to complete his rat experiment. Apparently, Ed's was the only laboratory rat that bit, so Ed insisted on wearing huge motorcycle gloves when handling the animal, which, the professor insisted, skewed the rat's response to stimuli. Ed told the professor what he could do with his stimuli, which unfortunately did not put the professor in the mood to accept Ed's alternative suggestion, which was to study the response of rats being loudly cursed at while simultaneously being flushed down university toilets.
Since his college days he has made a bit of a name for himself, and not just “You, There,” which is the name his mother calls him when she forgets. Ed has won numerous awards for his design of Sojourners Magazine, and his monthly humor column consistently garners top honors from both religious and secular media associations. His recent book, A Hamster is Missing in Washington, D.C. won the top prize in humor at the Independent Publisher Book Awards in New York City. (Due to scheduling conflicts, Ed was unable to attend the gala tribute and banquet, but had he gone he would have ordered the fish.) Now in its second printing, Ed’s book is available at store.sojo.net and at on-line booksellers near you.
Ed is married and has two daughters, all of whom refuse to walk in public with him, on account of the little whoop-whoop sound he makes when he sees a fire truck.
Posts By This Author
An Open Letter to Our Burglars
WHAT A MESS. What is it about you modern burglars that insists on such lack of tidiness, such disrespect for the common courtesy of wiping one’s feet? Not to mention a callous disregard for a law of physics, the one that states that every action has a reaction. Drawers, to name one example, close as well as open. No need to drag them out onto the floor, scattering the contents under foot, when you simply could have pulled them out part way—reviewed the contents, made your selections—and then closed. I understand the need for haste. Burglars, as a rule, are on a tight schedule. But the window of opportunity was, in our case, between 9 a.m. and 5 p.m., give or take.
As you probably know, the iconic symbol of your occupation is an unshaven man with a sock cap and a crowbar, a jittery skulker no mother would be proud of. He enters a home in the dead of night while the residents sleep, their faces relaxed and undisturbed by the beam of a flashlight briefly flickering over them, then illuminating the dresser where most people keep their valuables. In our case, as you discovered, there were none, only old Trader Joe’s receipts and a couple tear-stained movie ticket stubs that I can’t yet toss. (Note to Disney: You can stop now. You’ll never make anything as good as Moana and ... darn it ... I promised myself I wasn’t going to cry again!)
GIVEN YOUR occupation’s nocturnal custom, we were surprised to return home and discover you had robbed us in broad daylight. Apparently, your new business model is to wait until your victims leave for work and then, at a convenient time, start your own work day. One envies this, of course, since you can sleep in most mornings, setting the alarm for 9-ish, and listen to NPR as you linger over a second cup of coffee. Then you can take some “me time” before heading off to work.
The Trump Presidency, One Year Later
OKAY. SORRY. It only feels like it’s been a year, an exhausting 12 months of angry tweets, corrosive diplomacy, and cowering federal workers. And that was just in December! You remember, don’t you? That time before the inauguration when we were supposed to have only one president at a time, and it wasn’t Obama?
That was when Donald Trump announced his cabinet nominees, mostly billionaire business people suspected of being woefully unqualified for government service. Then they spoke at their congressional hearings and removed all doubt.
Sadly, we still have nine months to go before we can steel ourselves for Donald Trump’s second and final year as president, when many political experts predict that financial entanglements will make his impeachment inevitable. It will be an ugly televised spectacle, probably dragging on into sweeps week, but let’s be honest: Trump would want it that way. And he’ll take pride that his impeachment hearings will get bigger audiences than even his inauguration, where millions of his imaginary friends showed up, although they were too shy to be photographed.
And then he’ll be fired. A welcome possibility until you remember who’s next in line, an Old Testament Christian whose perfect hair and smooth monotone evoke a preening televangelist right before his inevitable downfall. And if he falls, we get Paul Ryan, a man who would privatize his own mother. (Okay, that doesn’t make sense. Sorry. Sometimes the writing gets away from me.)
I Could Stick My Head in the Sand
THANK GOODNESS it’s Easter, and Lent has concluded, and you’re back to eating chocolate or drinking wine, or finally stopped trying to meditate a half hour each night and just ended up noticing places that need dusting. But it’s still February for me, and I’m only on Day 10 of giving up Facebook.
So far, I’m 0 for 10. I can’t even do one in a row.
I didn’t commit to giving up Facebook altogether. One can go only so long without pictures of friends’ newborns or reposting that video of a hamster doing backward somersaults ... SO ADORABLE! But I had prayerfully pledged to stop making political comments online. And stop sharing elucidating articles from The New York Times, and stop forwarding snarky memes, and stop raging against demonstrable falsehoods posted by the angry and the prejudiced, specifically my relatives south of the Mason-Nixon Line. (How did these people get a computer!? Did they pass a background check first?)
Stopping Facebook cold turkey was the only remedy for a truth junkie like me. Because I was overdosing on outrage. The arc of the moral universe bends toward justice, but sometimes it needs to pull over, roll down the window, and shout, “Hey, Neanderthals, read a book!”
My addiction started out harmlessly enough with, you know, peer pressure. My friends were doing it—fighting the good fight for truth on the internet—and with my legendary skills as a writer person who can do, like, grammar stuff, I could be another righteous warrior in a world gone mad.
But it was making me mad, and I desperately needed to stop, for at least 40 days, as well as 40 nights. (I briefly smelled a Lenten loophole that would leave my evenings free to rant, but I couldn’t confirm it on Google.)
Another Great Idea from the White House (They Just Keep Coming)
But back to the wall idea, which President Trump said could easily be built by the Army Corps of Engineers, because they’re, you know, in the army right? He assured skeptical Pentagon officials that the $20 billion would be more like a loan, because, duh, Mexico would pay it back. In fact, U.S. negotiators are already working with their Mexican counterparts to establish the precise terms of repayment. Asked if he prefers reimbursing the American treasury with a lump sum or in monthly payments, Mexican president Enrique Peña Nieto replied, pleasantly, “How about nada? Does nada work for you?”
A Heartfelt Apology from Wells Fargo
WHEN I RECEIVED an email from the president of Wells Fargo bank—expressing remorse for years of financial malfeasance—I looked forward to reading words crafted by highly paid public relations professionals. Given the depth of the bank’s abhorrent irregularities—such as altering depositors’ records and pressuring employees to open bogus accounts—Wells Fargo needed to set just the right tone when apologizing to a potential nationwide jury pool (and feeling the squeeze from several boycotts).
But I set the email aside. At that moment, I was preoccupied with helping my granddaughter negotiate the new challenges of first grade. Unfortunately, this critical time in a child’s life is not helped by the institutional bias of public schools against adult family members sitting in the classroom. (I even offered to bring my own chair.) From that vantage point I could have guided my granddaughter’s tentative first steps in establishing enduring social relationships. (“Don’t sit next to that girl. Powerpuff Girls lunch boxes are SO last century.”) But this was not allowed.
As a consolation, I was told, I’d be welcome at something called “Family Day,” a dubious-sounding event of unspecified significance scheduled for the distant future.
Corporations are People, and So are I
Funny Business by Ed Spivey Jr.
A Visit to the Home of Jerry Falwell Jr.
Jerry Falwell Jr.: Jesus Christ!
Jesus: I’m going to assume that’s not an expletive.
Falwell: No, that would be Jesus H. Christ, which I would never use.
Jesus: Good. He’s a cousin on my mother’s side, and I’m still ticked at my aunt for that.
Falwell: But you’re HERE! In my own house! It’s the Rapture, the Second Coming! And you’re taking me home to my reward! PRAISE THE LORD! Just let me throw a few things in a suitcase and we’ll ...
Jesus: Relax, and put down your shaving kit. This is not the Second Coming. It’s more like a check-in.
Falwell: It’s not the end times?
Jesus: No [looking at his watch], not even close.
Falwell: But it’s so gratifying you’ve chosen to reveal yourself to me! It confirms that my good works have been recognized and recorded in the Lamb’s Book of Life, where the names of all the righteous are ...
Jesus: Actually, we use Excel now, and if your name is in there, it’s with an asterisk, Mr. Falwell.
Busted: Grassley’s ‘Booze or Women or Movies’ Comments Hit Close to Home
When Sen. Chuck Grassley (R-Iowa) accused the non-rich of squandering their money on “booze or women or movies,” my progressive friends quickly denounced him, as they should. Sen. Grassley is clearly suffering from the senility of a political dogma long past its freshness date. But me, I kept my mouth shut.
Dog Days (plus cat)
WHEN I WAS a young man, colds were minor annoyances, though less annoying than colleagues responding to every sneeze with an automatic “God bless you,” despite lacking the ecclesial authority to do so. (What, you’re pope now?) Colds were temporary things, easily overcome by the strong immune systems of youth, and I never stayed home from work.
The Nashville Statement
I SPENT THE PAST several weeks worrying about hurricanes—and the maddening way some people keep denying any connection between these storms (aka extreme weather events) and climate change. (I have this mental picture of me throwing these people into a flooded Houston neighborhood and shouting, “Is that science enough for you!?”)
Anyway, as a result, I totally missed the release of The Nashville Statement. After some research, I realized that this important document has been insufficiently ridiculed by an award-winning humorist. But since Dave Chappelle won’t return my calls (or answer my emails, or reply to those notes I left on his bedside table when he was sleeping; he looks so peaceful ...), I’m going to give it a shot.
The statement reaffirms conservative evangelicals’ belief that marriage is between a man and a woman (and presumably their lawyer when, you know, it doesn’t work out half the time), despite the fact that no one was confused about their stance, or needed reminding that this particular limb of the body of Christ makes God blush with embarrassment whenever they come up in conversation. (I heard that God doesn’t even make eye contact on elevators anymore.)
Nor was anyone surprised that the statement came from the Bible Belt, a region known for churchgoers who think Jesus was simply off-message when he preached the Sermon on the Mount. In their view, Jesus should have stuck with the PowerPoint on personal salvation, not that whole thing about “those” people being blessed.
The statement originated in Nashville, but it could just as easily have come from Shreveport, La., or Tallahassee, Fla. I also would have accepted The Dallas-Fort Worth Statement, The Tuscaloosa Statement (Roll Tide!), or The From-My-Cold-Dead-Hands Statement.
The Brooklyn Statement, not so much.