Beelzebub

Beelzebub: (n) another name for the devil.Dictionary B

“Marty did it.”

When I was twelve years old, it was the favorite phrase of my friends and myself.

Marty was a scrawny, bespectacled, weak-willed, sweet farm boy who really didn’t have any power and only gained importance to us when we did something stupid, were trying to escape responsibility, and used him to displace our guilt.

You know what was interesting? It worked–because Marty didn’t really defend himself.

The teachers began to believe that he was the problem child, and even sent him to the guidance counselor for correction.

Marty was so desperate for attention that he somewhat enjoyed the accusations because it gave him identity.

I deeply regret that I was never able to apologize to Marty for making him become the sin-eater for all of our pranks.

After a while, I grew out of it.

I came to the conclusion that if I was going to become a functioning human being I needed to take responsibility for my own actions instead of using Marty as my excuse for iniquity.

Such is the case with Beelzebub.

The Old Devil gets blamed for everything except for those natural disasters we want to lay on God.

Beelzebub absorbs the attention and builds a false kingdom of power around his alleged misdeeds.

When we are childish in our spirituality, we yearn for Beelzebub to step in and take the blame for our shortcomings.

Matter of fact, this may be the sign of truly discovering God: the day you wake up and accept the ramifications of your deeds as your own doing instead of searching the terrain for a devilish accomplice.

Somewhere along the line, one has to conclude that we are known by our own fruits.

It is not Beelzebub that bedevils us.

It is our own lust that draws us away.

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Autobiography

Autobiography: (n) an account of a person’s life written by that person.

Every one of us exaggerates our toleration.dictionary with letter A

In an attempt to come off open-minded, generous or even willing, we put forth the idea that we are much more free in our thinking than we actually are.

This is true of autobiographies.

If I were to be honest, I would have to tell you that any sentence that begins with “I” which does not contain some shape or form of self-deprecation will be viewed by the listener or the reader as vain.

Even “I went to the store” reeks of self-involvement or threatens the inception of a boring tale.

I don’t know how the autobiography got started–because unless you’re confessing your sins, shortcomings or warning others of the dangers of poorly pursued habits, books that begin with “I” always end up feeling like a poke in the eye.

Matter of fact, I have begun to ration the number of times I allow myself to use the words “I” or “me.”

It’s not because I’m noble. It’s because there is no possibility that anyone else will find my “I” storyline nearly as fascinating as I conceived it.

But if you do not write your autobiography, you’re at the mercy of someone in the future who actually finds you interesting enough to pen a biography concerning your life and deeds.

That could be risky. After all, maybe after you’re dead, your rendition of life may not be nearly as interesting as you thought it was. And a neutral party may choose to be a bit more clinical than you.

But still, all in all, it’s much safer to stay away from “I” when it comes to reciting your deeds. Because even though we insist that confidence is a good thing, it really is more like the three wishes from the genie in the bottle:

Choose and use wisely.

 

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