Friday, October 14, 2016

Musical preaching

I love music. There are a few genres I do not understand or appreciate and pretty much everything out of the 80's has some negative association and so I cannot judge it fairly. But my music taste are pretty diverse.

I like the greats. Palestrina and Josquin. Mozart. I like folk. I like some pop and some country. I like some metal. I like to unwind with loud music turned up (and the curtains closed,) singing and dancing and cooking alone in my kitchen.

One of my pet peeves is when people tell me they like to listen to classical music because it is relaxing. Some of it is, of course. But some of it is wild and chaotic. Some of it is angry or dark. Some of it is sweetly romantic. Some of it is seductive. If I can listen to it while I am going to sleep, it is not good music. Or anyway, it is not to my taste.

I am very emotional about music. I let it affect me. What I want in music is to be taken in. I want to feel. I want to be engaged. Music reaches emotions which are hard to express. Sicut Cervus was not the first piece of music I loved, but it was the first time I gave thought to why I loved it so much. "As the deer longs for water, so my soul longs for you, my God." You can hear all of it. The deer and the water. And the longing. Such a longing. Especially in those opening tenor notes. It is stunning. Palestrina is a genius.

But all my favorites are affective. Bach can make piety exciting. Some pieces, like The Trout by Schubert, give me the same sense of calm as enjoying alone time in nature. Pete Seeger and his proteges stroke my inner social justice warrior. Irish music is fun; rollicking along, but with glimpses of a painful story and an incredible storyteller.

"When you sing, you pray twice."

When it comes to Church music, I have very strong opinions. Liturgical Music can be risky. If we agree that music inspires and elicits something real but hard to grab, we open it up to criticism. Is it emotional? Is the emotion appropriate? What should we be feeling during Mass? Or is it simply enough that the words be theologically sound?

Mass is a sacrifice, but it is a celebration! You are in the presence of the Lord and King, who taught you to pray by calling him Father. It is sacred, but it is also home. What should you be feeling? Awe? Comfort? Sorrow? Joy? Wonder? Liturgical music has the tall task of inspiring what is appropriate even when what is appropriate is paradoxical.

Music shouldn't just carry words, it should inform them. Elevate them. Give them a story or a perspective. Chant, echoing down the halls of history but endlessly present and always appropriate, preaches about inerrant theology. The swinging lilt of a traditional Irish hymn setting is warm and welcoming and very real. An early American march with a rigid building block time signature focuses fellowship and structure; this is who we are and this is what we are doing. The words and the sound echo and reinforce each other.

I am not a snob. I like it all. I like the organ at the shrine and the guitars at the teen mass. So long as the music brings something to the table, I like it. I think that most criticism of contemporary music are strange. What makes a three hundred year old song better than a thirty year old song? In the context of a two thousand year history, the three hundred year old song can't even claim age.

There is a lot of criticism of contemporary Christian music. Critics hear emotionalism or protestantism or happyhappyjoyjoy saccharine. They hear a bounce, empty of theology and covered with syrupy prosperity creed. It is more than an aesthetic preference. It is an aesthetic judgment. Mass is not a pop concert. It is not a sentimental appeal. If you are moved to tap your foot, is the music inappropriate? I hear the frustration, but I don't know where to draw lines.

One of the deepest musical experiences I've had was when an African American choir visited our parish. It was incredible. The layered rhythms and harmonies pushed back against overt and lingering dissonances. It preached pain, but joy too. That music explained joy in sacrificial suffering in a way no words possibly could. I was moved. If you are ever struggling with the concept of celebrating a sacrifice, I cannot recommend this experience highly enough.

Toe tapping is not the problem. Maybe entertainment is. That criticism can apply to any type of music. The job of the cantor is to lead a prayer, not to amuse you during the boring bits, which is good since we cannot all be amused by the same things. Does that mean that if you are entertained the cantor has done something terrible? That seems silly and also makes a hard task impossible.

If sentimental music is not the problem, maybe sentimentality is. The Mass is divine, but it is also human. We are the body. The Church. The people. Through the sacraments, our Lord comes to us, truly, physically and spiritually. We need that. The humanness. He designed us that way. Feelings are part of who we are and not a bad part. We shouldn't shut out out feelings, but we shouldn't let them lead either. They are unreliable and moveable. Appeals to feelings primarily can be misleading. A good artist can make you feel all kinds of emotions. Emotions can wrap untruth in the most delightful packaging.

What we need in liturgical music is pretty straightforward.

Music should be is interesting, but singable. It should be either very old or very new or possibly somewhere in between, but it must not be antiquated or voguish. It should be beautiful, but not entertaining. Well lead, but not performed. Appropriate to the mood of the Mass which is conflicting. It has to be culturally appropriate to a universal church. It should be theologically sound, even the moody bits which can't easily be parsed. We want it to sound good whether or not there is participation from the congregation, but we don't want the congregation drowned out by a blaring sound system. It should elevate, not overshadow. Why can't the music leaders get it right? It seems easy enough.

Friday, October 7, 2016

Mary, my mother, pray for me

My youngest daughter is three. She is a clever thing. You know the game that kids play when they don't want to go to bed? "Mommy! I need a drink! Mommy! I forgot to brush my teeth! Mommy, can you tuck me in? Mommy! I am scared! Mommy..."

Of course you do.  Everyone knows that game. My Becca is particularly good at the game. She usually wins. She climbs into my bed and looks into my eyes, with a three year old's piety and barely whispers, "Mommy, can we just say the rosary please?"

What can I say? I have mixed feeling because I do not love that she is clearly just using the rosary as a particularly effective excuse to stay up late. It that prayer? Can it be?

But I think of my heavenly mother. I think she would indulge the request joyfully, even in the knowledge of imperfect motives. Prayer does not have to be perfect. It rarely is. That is one of the things I love about the rosary. It helps my imperfect prayer life.

I didn't think I had any particular devotion to the rosary until about five years ago. Five years ago, my daughter was in the NICU. Because of her genetic condition, her fingers were fused together. The rosary was a detail of a very difficult time. We had an army of people praying for us and we truly felt God's presence. I cannot describe the calmness or the goodness that we knew, but it was nothing short of miraculous. God was with us in a powerful and peaceful way. People sent prayer cards and Mass cards and relics. We pinned the relics to her pillow. She was intubated, so she was sedated and not moving around a lot. We had those CDs you can find in the backs of Churches, theologians teaching on so many subjects. We used the Magnificat for daily meditation and prayer.

But the rosary was special. My mom gave me her mother's rosary while we were in the NICU. It had smooth beads and it was light. It felt easy in easy in my hands. The beads were small and oblong. The beads fit in Sarah's tiny rosebud hands.

Rosebud. That is the term the doctors used. If you put the tips of all your fingers together your hand forms the shape which can be imagined as a rosebud. That is how her fingers were fused.

I worried about her hands. Children learn by touch. One of the hardest things (there were many) during that time was well-intentioned people demanding that I think about her hands. I knew it was important. I didn't need extra layers of guilt. It plagued my mind even without their concerned advice. People want to help. I guess they thought that this important thing might fall through the cracks in the face of other major concerns. The doctors were concerned about her heart, her brain, her kidneys, her liver, and her lungs. I was worried about those things too, but I am her mom. I was worried about everything. I did not want her earliest sense memories to be sterile and cold. I played music. I sang. I learned infant massage. Touch matters. I fretted about her hands. Her touch. She needed sensory input which would normally just happen. I had to put things in her hands. Nothing fit. I had to be careful not to poke or pinch. Grandmom's rosary beads fit. It was almost a perfect fit, as though that rosary had been made for just that purpose. The small brown beads tucked easily into her hand and she could squeeze. She could feel.

I imagined that she was holding my grandmother's hand.

That rosary gave me comfort. Maybe I was using it as something of a talisman. I wondered, is that bad? I think my Mother in Heaven wouldn't think so. I think she dotes on us and loves us. I think that she was there loving me as I reached out to her imperfectly. Poorly, even. But she heard.

That experience made me feel a certain way toward the rosary as a devotion which I had not felt before. But it wasn't the first time the rosary affected me in a long acting way. When I was a teenager I wasn't sure what I believed. I challenged God and my parents and my educators to prove or at least carefully defend various truths. Mom handled my pushing with a gentle wisdom which she lived and showed by example. Dad handled my pushing with clear and articulate answers.

Cathy was my youth group leader. She handled my pushing entirely indirectly. Together we went to the abortion clinics every week and we prayed the rosary. I wasn't sure if I was Catholic, but the words weren't empty. They were a unified, meditative plea to God for help. I never questioned that he heard. I never questioned that he acted in ways I couldn't see. It wasn't that she avoided my questions, it was simply that the questions and answers were secondary and we both knew it. What we were doing mattered. I rattled off the words. Rote prayer. What about that? My prayer was a repetition of Catholic belief which I was not sure I held. Was that bad?

I don't think Mary thought so. I think she heard my argumentative teen concerns for what they were and stuck by me. I believe she prayed with us and cried with us. I think God heard my imperfect prayer.

I give Mary a lot of credit, I guess. Mary is a mom. She knows. She is listening. She gets it and she hears our pleas in the best possible way. When she prays with us and for us, part of the grace of the experience is that she closes a gap between our imperfect prayer and the deepest pulls of our heart. She brings us to her son, our Lord who perfects us.

The rosary is her gift. For rosebud fingers and challenging teenagers and impious children, the rosary is a lifeline. It is words, when you don't have words. It is meditative and emotional. Joyful and sorrowful, glorious and luminous. The rosary is a loving gift from a mother to her children who are imperfect people likely to mess up everything. 

Church Militant

Proud she stands with her tearful eye on the battle,
her knee falls on the ground
in humble adoration.

She hears the voice of her beloved
and arms herself.
Girded in Truth!
Clothed with righteousness!
Readiness! Faith! Salvation!

Arm yourselves, but be shattered! Arm yourselves, but be shattered.

Agonized and weary
her soldiers lament and
celebrate martyrs.

Glorious. Victorious. Jubilant.
But they did not understand and they were afraid to ask.

Soldiers serving the King. The servant.
“Master, are you going to wash my feet?”

Lord. Your soldiers are ready. Confident. Empowered.
Lead us in battle.
Lead us to battle.
Lead us

She hears the voice of her beloved:
Feed the hungry. Welcome the stranger. Clothe the naked. Care for the sick. Visit the prisoner.

She kneels in dust. She is dust.
But formed. Awakened. Loved.

Proud she stands with her tearful eye on triumph,
her knee falls on the ground
in humble adoration:

Take up your cross.

Tuesday, September 27, 2016


The morning after the debate between Hillary and Trump, I needed to remind myself that a wild imagination can be a wonderful thing. With two kids in school, I spent quality one on one time with my three year old. This is how we spent the morning. 


She skipped down the road, impatiently tugging on her mother's hand. "Faster! Faster! We have to get to the park!"
"What are we going to do at the park today?"
"We're going to have a picnic with the dragons. We might go to the stream. And...and...and...and... maybe just let's go!"

They sat together at a picnic table. While mom sat, she jumped up and collected leaves and nuts and started arranging them into a picture on the bench. 

"This is a butterfly. And then, a sun! He is yellow yellow yellow and he is smiling."

"Uh-oh. Mom. There is a bad dragon. We are going to have to run. No I mean it! Run!!"And off they ran. Glancing backwards to be sure they were staying ahead. 

"He's too fast and there is a bad witch, Mom. We are going to have to fight. Use your powers! Wait! I have your sword. Here!!"

Carefully unsheathing the sword, Mom swung at the sky! She yelled, "It is no good! I have an idea! I will use my power to freeze him and then you can get him with your sword! Help me!"

Hands outstretched, magical power streamed out from both of them. It sounded like a gushing river. "SHHHHHHHHH!"

She ran toward him. Their powers were not enough, even combined. The witch was using some kind of a protective spell. But she was worn enough to turn and flee with the dragon. Off they flew, fear roused and compelling. 

"Phew. Now we have to find the good dragons. Maybe the fairies know where they are. I know where the fairies are. They are at home. Over here! This is where they live. Can you see them? It is hard because they are playing hide and seek. They love hide and seek and tag just like I love hide and seek and tag. But they are there. You can't talk to them though. Only me."

Obediently, mom stays a few steps back while she learns where the dragons can be found. Momentarily, she returns confident in her informants. 

"They say we can find them by the water."

The pair approach the creek, alert to signs of danger. Seeing none, she throws a few magic balls as calling cards into the water and then waits on the bank. 

"I think we are going to have to go on an adventure."

"Aha! I knew it! Another bad dragon! He is so big! I am going to use my powers to make him smaller and smaller and smaller." 


"I think you need more magic! Hold up your magic!"

The dragon shrank down to the size of a small barn-swallow, which gave her an idea. 

"Let's put him in a nest. Then a mommy can come and teach him so when he gets big again he won't be so bad." 

She gently lifted the tiny foul creature and placed him in a bird's nest.

"They'll come now."

Sure enough, three dragons came flying toward us, just above the creek. One was carrying a baby dragon. She lead them to our picnic area. 

"C'mon! C'mon! Let's go guys! I have a tea party basket!"

We sat on the soft grass and shared pizza and drumsticks and the best cheese you can imagine. She poured tea for everyone except the baby. She fed him a bottle of milk and a cookie. 

A tiny kitten came and tried to drink the baby dragon's milk. The baby dragon got mad and tried to burn up the kitty, but he couldn't. Baby dragons can only do smoke. His mommy had to tell him not to scare kitties. 

She poured a small dish of milk for the kitten and told her mother that the kitten did not have a mommy. Could she please take it home? Seeing as the dragon would not stay a baby forever, and not trusting him to learn to control his temper before he could control his fire, she agreed. 

They said goodbye to their dear friends the dragons, and set off for home carrying a small but well fed baby kitten. 

And they even made it home on time to meet her big sister's bus. 

Sparkles and mud. That's how we roll. 

Saturday, September 17, 2016

Laundry and Sisyphus

My phone was dying, so I went upstairs to plug it into the last undamaged phone charger in the house. I found my charger bathing in a nice, cool glass of water. Not floating or toe dipping, but fully submerged.

My logic is not always perfect. I thought to myself that if my phone was going to die, I had better get my important phone calls out of the way quickly! Sarah has gone into SVT three times in the past week. The doctor wants to go ahead with the ablation procedure which we have thus far been successfully postponing with medicine. He also increased her dose of medicine, so it did not feel urgent. Still, I have to schedule it; surgeons are always busy for months so we have to get on the calendar asap.  I called his nurse. 

"Wednesday," she says. 

Wait. What? Wednesday? As in less than a week away Wednesday? I know he wanted it done, but that soon? 

She hopped off the phone to double-check that yes, the surgeon wanted Sarah in that soon and indeed he did. Wednesday. Apparently, this was a drop-everything-and-handle-this moment, not a put-it-on-the-overfull-calendar moment. So, phone battery low, I didn't argue. Heart surgeon wants to do ths procedure now? We will do this procedure now. I am on it. 

Except that I am not, really. This will be the frst time Sarah has had something serious done since my anxiety took its ugly consuming form. Will I be able to handle it? All else being equal, this is a pretty good procedure to jump back in with. (Leave my preposition alone.  I like it there.) It is a common procedure. It is not even called a surgery. They go in through the femoral artery and thread up to the heart. They try to induce the SVT and then they watch and see what is misfiring. Then they fix it. Still, it is uner general anethesia and they are messing with her heart. 

I decided that the task of reclaiming some bit of order in my home would go a long way toward keeping my brain from going haywire. So, I sorted six tons (as measured by my super-woman biceps) of paperwork and admired the sheer volume of medical mail we get. Non-medical stuff often gets lost in the shuffle. For instance, I found the invitation to the wedding we attended last week! Yay! A little late. 

Then I got out the vaccum. I like my vaccuum. It is brand new. About a decade ago we were given a used Hoover when someone else replaced it with something better. That has been our vacuum since then and it has served us well. But for the past several months, it has needed a new belt about once a month. This is an easy fix, so we dealt with it until my husband and I admitted to one another that in our heart of hearts, we both secretly really wanted to replace it. So, we did not replace the belt this time, we replaced the vacuum. We bought a brand new, well-reviewed Shark on Amazon. Oh, I was excited. Why are vacuums denigrated as gifts? What fun! It is all shiny and new and functional! It is light! I can carry it upstairs without breaking our my not-really-real super-woman biceps. Man,  I like ths vacuum. A week in, everthing is awesome. Not Lego awesome, but nearly. As soon as we have established the awesomeness of our new vacuum, I popped the old one on a freecycle-like page with full disclosure about its age and difficultes. It was snapped up in under five minutes. Out with the old!

 Back to yesterday. Yesterday as I am vacumming to save my sanity with my shiny new vacuum when the darn thing turns off. No excuse. No warning. No broken belt. It just turns off. A small voice inside me cries out, "That is what you get for trying to save your sanity with house chores!" But I silence the voice. Appliances are supposed to work. Vacuuming is supposed to be the uninteresting but predictable and easy part of the day.  

By now, Amazon same-day-delivery has delivered a brand new charger. Thank you Amazon, for always being there for me. So my phone is charging again. I can get back to the phone calls. I am a little hesitant because I hate getting on the phone and the last time  I attempted this chore, it grew. Freaking cardiologist. 

Not really. He is awesome. Kind of a rock star, actually, in his way. But the one phone call to schedule the one had thing turned into many phone calls to cancel and reschedule many things. I did it. I called my therapist and rescheduled our first appointment again. (Third time. I bet she thinks I am chickening out.) I called my dentist and rescheduled my appointment and my husbands, since they were back to back. I rescheduled Becca's dentist appointment. I canceled everything on Wednesday. Then, even though it is supposed to be outpatient, I cancelled everything on Thursday too. There is a chance that they will want to monitor Sarah overnight after the procedure, and I know my kid. So, I am kind of planning to spend a night in the hospital. 

The I get back to the order reclamation. Laundry is a good choice. No matter how many times you do it, it still remains to be done. Laundry will save my sanity. 

Fresh, clean, damp clothes pile into my dryer and.... the dryer will not turn on. The appliance gods are toying with me, a mere mortal with a sisyphean task. 

Undeterred by their spite, I decided not to touch any more appliances of any kind. I choose a chore which does not require them. I accomplished a task. A real task. Becca needed a dresser. I had one that was mostly full of clothing I don't wear. I don't mind if things are not always put away, but I cannot stand it when there is no away to put them. Becca and Lily have been sharing a dresser and it is not big enough for two people. I emptied, moved and refilled a dresser. All by myself. 

Now, Bob Marley is happening in my head. Every little thing is gonna be alright. Brains are unpredictable creatures. I guess appliances are too. 

Saturday, July 30, 2016

Ideological Bubbles are for Popping

Four years ago I argued with a woman who was absolutely convinced that Obama hated America. It took me several pages of argument to realize that she was not speaking in hyperbole. She really thought that his agenda was to destroy the country. She did not think it was a secondary effect of a well-intended agenda. She saw a hatred and vicious anger which, even with her help, I never could see. I was baffled. To be completely honest, I remain baffled. I also remain in touch. She is still my friend. Now she is saying that and other similar things about Hillary. And I am still listening. It is not that I think she is right, but I think that understanding her perspective is valuable. Partly because she is a friend and I love her. Partly because she is not alone.

This year, I enjoyed the primary season debates under the hospitality of a friend who hosted conversational commentary. He liveblogged his opinions and we joined in. It was great fun, though it may have skewed my sense of normal politics. The people were mostly a mad mix of left leaning pro-life Catholics and refugees from a republican party gone barmy. Discussion was humorous, irreverent, and not strictly partisan. We were a kind of homeless band.

But as the season goes on, partisanship is rearing and roaring. Election years can be hard on relationships and this year is harder than many. It always feels like something huge is at stake. Campaigns are well funded advertisements designed to make us feel that way and they are very effective. This year a lot of people rooting for candidates on either side insist that this election could be the very last election, unless we vote correctly. America as we know it could disappear.

I have seen several posts admonishing friends with disparate beliefs to shape up or ship out. Unfollow me if. Unfriend me if. Disconnect from me. Go away. You are invading my ideological bubble.

I am not doing it. I am not cutting you off. You can unfriend me or unfollow me or stop contact in whatever way we keep contact, but I am not doing it. You have to be the one. There are exceptions, of course. I have friends who have had pictures stolen and turned into memes. I have friends who have had people accuse and abuse them and their families. There are lines that I will draw to protect myself and the people I love, but disagreement is not one of them. You can disagree with me about just about anything and still find yourself welcome. I want you here. I want to hear from you and about you.

One of these posts struck a nerve yesterday, when a priest friend asked that anyone who is a democrat or is voting for a a democrat should unfriend him. A priest! I have enjoyed debating with this man for years, so I knew we were not on the same page politically. Still, I have read what he writes and learned from him many times over the past few years. Now he wants me to close the door.

He did not say, if you are trolling my page looking for a fight, take it somewhere else. (I can respect that.) He did not say he wants to control the message on his page and so he would not allow comments in opposition. (I would disagree, but understand that.) He said go away. If you disagree, you do not need to listen. I do not need to listen. We do not need to communicate.

I think we do need to communicate, and now more than ever. I think that we need to listen with generosity and love, especially where there is disagreement. I think that the truth can survive a good beating, and it suffers without examination. I think that perspectives matter and choosing to try and understand where another person is coming from is a way of choosing love.

I know it is bad. Not everyone likes debate. That is fine. I don't think everyone has to wade waist deep in the big muddy. But please stop slamming doors.

Saturday, July 16, 2016

Only one in a hundred will share this

Jesus is watching. Only one in ten people will have the courage to share this. I BELIEVE in AnGeLS and I BeLIevE In GoD. Type "I Believe" in the comments and prepare to be AMAZED by the blessings God will pour out on you.

God wants to cure this CHILD. Help us get to a million likes.

Like=1 prayer
Share=100 prayers
Comment "AMEN"= 1000 prayers
She deserves your best. A minute of your time could be the miracle she needs.

I KNOW it is an unpopular opinion in this PC world, but I love AMERICA and I support AMERICAN TROOPS! Did you know only one person in 1000 will share this? That is real COURAGE!

Cancer WANTS to beat this freespirit. God is Stronger. Type AMEN and SHARE!

Please. Stop.

Stop binding God's will to popularity. Stop pretending that it is somehow courageous to share pictures of kids. Stop reducing God's power. Stop.

Stop trivializing real courage and heroism by giving yourself credit for being proud of courageous heroes.

Stop enabling clickbait monsters who steal children's photos to drive up their traffic.

I am begging you. I know most people who are sharing these things have the very best of intentions. I am not accusing. But please consider, who is benefiting and who is it hurting?

Does it help the kids? It might be argued that spreading these things around increases prayer. It might. But you see, it isn't. Perhaps there are a select few truly pious social media missionaries who pray every time they see a post asking for prayer. But most of us don't. We scroll right by. Do you actually think, as many of these posts claim, that liking or sharing these things is prayer? Or is many prayers? That feels vaguely blasphemous and idolatrous to me.

Does it help the meme makers? Ah-ha! Indeed it does. Often these pages are scammers. It seems innocent enough, but these pages are collecting fans for cash. They grow by using content which will be shared. You share, you like, you comment. All these things promote their visibility. When they have grown nice and big they can either sell the page to a marketer or they can use the page to sell other scams. Money is a motivator.

Who does it hurt? It hurts whoever falls for the scams, and lets not kid ourselves. That is a lot of people and it could be anyone.

It can hurt families. I know of one family whose had a child whose picture was used for this spammy, scammy nonsense. It was a cute kid and a pretty popular meme. The trouble? This child had died. That was painful.

It hurts the subject of the picture. Their image is stolen and pimped for money. Even if they never know, that is not OK.

Does it help God? I am not sure I know what would mean. It certainly doesn't help his cause. It is, at best, a poor attempt by lazy missionaries. Often the wording itself is against scripture, which has a thing or two to say about boasting. Hint: it is not good. "None of my friends will share this, but I am proud of my God..." Puh-lease.

The popularity of posts that promise God's blessings if you like and share them is honestly sickening. Who is that God? That doesn't sound like the God I know.

God does ask us to pray for each other. He doesn't need our help. He already knows who needs what. He loves the person you are praying for and he already heard their need. But he told us to pray for each other and he promises he will hear and answer. It is valid to ask why. Why does an all-knowing, loving, omnipotent God ask me to pray for people?

We invite God. We pray for healing. We pray for conversion. We pray for protection. We pray for peace. When we intercede we are doing two important things: we are talking to God and we are forming our own relationship with the loving Father who is listening. "Father, you are dear to me and I am dear to you. I need you." Recognizing your limits and placing your trust in God is freeing. It is humbling, but it is also empowering to engage with the King of Kings.

Of course, social media can be a missionary field. Any interaction with other people can be. And I think it is a perfectly reasonable place to solicit prayer support. I know I have depended on my online village for support more often than I care to consider. I am not asking anyone to keep their faith or their patriotism or their pictures off the internet.

Use your judgement. Good people don't use God or kids or disabled people as marketing tools. Don't lend your social media presence to people who do.