The year 2020 isn't yet half over. But already we've had a president impeached, the worst worldwide epidemic in over a century, and the most extensive violent protests in over 50 years.
And in the midst of it all, always verbal but never constructive, stands Donald Trump -- the most insecure, emotionally needy, intellectually incurious, politically insensitive, and morally undeveloped president in decades. In fact, probably in our entire national history.
The protests aggravate the epidemic, at least within this nation. The epidemic itself has added to the misfortunes of our racial minorities. They work together to create a perfect storm. Some of our governors and mayors have, thank God, provided some decent leadership. But the President of the United States, together with his Congressional cohorts, seemingly tries to put out fires with buckets of gasoline.
Yesterday marked something of a nadir as he ordered the pathway from the White House to a nearby Episcopal church cleared by force. Why? So he could walk to the church and stand, all alone -- with an empty expression on his face, holding a Bible upside down -- and have his photo taken. He might well have prayed -- but of course didn't -- the traditional Confession from the Episcopalian Book of Common Prayer:
We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against Your holy laws. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; and we have done those things which we ought not to have done; and there is nothing good in us.
Mr. Trump then strides back to the White House while even some of his conservative support -- but not his rabid, knee-jerk pro-Trump base -- begins to waver. Conservative columnist George F. Will -- admittedly never a Trump enthusiast -- wrote yesterday:
This unraveling presidency began with the Crybaby-in-Chief banging his spoon on his highchair tray to protest a photograph — a photograph — showing that his inauguration crowd the day before had been smaller than the one four years previous. Since then, this weak person’s idea of a strong person, this chest-pounding advertisement of his own gnawing insecurities, this low-rent Lear raging on his Twitter-heath has proven that the phrase malignant buffoon is not an oxymoron.
Five more months until the presidential election. But first come the conventions, with Trump demanding that the Republican convention pay no heed to the epidemic. No protective masks, no social distancing, nothing for this president's coronation that might suggest that anything was wrong with the State of the Nation.
I close my eyes. I take a deep breath. And I return to my reading of The House of the Seven Gables.
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