I like making fun of Donald Trump as much as anyone. The hair--which a Simpson's clip had as a furry dog plopped on his head--; the fake tan (has to be spray on); the tiny hands which could, or could not, have lesser significance. And the rambling, incoherent rants with the repetition of ""Ok?" "Ok?" as he lambastes yet another fictional enemy. I've been known to poke fun at his supporters too, wondering how any sane person could support such a semi-crazed, loose fish. Dangerous fish, actually.
I re-posted on my FB page an image of the resin statue some West Coast dude did of Trump with a saggy ass, a minute pizzle, a hanging gut, and no stones. Then--it kind of came to me. Who am I to poke shaming fun at this man? What about my ass? What about my ridiculous statements? I really hate feeling shame. It's so uncomfortable, the emotional equivalent of someone scraping their fingernails across a chalk board. Not that we have them anymore.
It took "The Guardian" to poke a hole in my liberal complacency. They called the statues "body-shaming" and "ageist." At first I had to rant about political correctness and the invigorating role of satire in the body politic. But I realized I don't want to stand in this bull-pen anymore flinging cow poop at the Donald. After all, the man I claim to follow told me to "love your enemies" and not to assume that such a difficult, dangerous, and morally-compromised man is beyond the reach of God's mercy.
So, I guess this is it. I have to look at The Donald with God's eyes--which is pretty hard in so many ways--and see someone who, for all of my dislike and anxiety, is still a human being. We are all "us," as uneasy
as that makes me with this particular man.
Obviously, I've got some work to do. Probably some praying. Maybe a little wine just to temper my inclination to judge.