The Word for today:
We are -- all of us, at one time or another -- great self-satirists. And not only are we great satirists, but we are great ironists as well. So great are some of us that even death cannot curtail our ironic autobiographical satires.
If you’ve gone to a dozen funerals, you’ve no doubt been treated to a recording of “My Way,” the Paul Anka song that was popularized by Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley. (The version sung by Sid Vicious of the Sex Pistols popularized the song for this writer. But please, don’t ask and don’t tell…)
For decades, “I Did It My Way" has gone unchallenged as the most oft-played song at American funerals. But what the heck, let’s spin it one more time. All together now:
You cannot fathom how I struggle to keep from bursting into laughter whenever this song is played. For the most part (I knew them; that’s why I went to their funerals) the deceased subject of the song never said boo to anybody, lived in terror of his boss, wore the pantsuits in his family, and (as Sid Vicious might say) wouldn’t say #*^% if he had a mouthful. I’ve had to hastily exit two churches because I could not stifle the guffaws this song has generated.
Before I became a Bible blogger, whenever “My Way” started playing, I heard the great Robert Burns whispering “To A Louse” in my other ear:
Now, Bible-banging blogger that I’ve become, when I hear “My Way” I hear the last verse in Judges:
In those days there was no king in Israel: every man did that which was right in his own eyes.
My purpose is not to diss the defenseless dead. (God knows I’ve got more pride than the next five people, combined.) What I mean to do is marvel at how ridiculous pride makes all of us look, whether we’re dead or alive.
So come on back tomorrow--when we will see that purpose through, without exemption.