Sunday, June 16, 2013

73: A Parable

The prompt is to write a story with "hurricane," "lawn mower," and "flashlight."

Once upon a time there was a man, a very rich man, who almost everyone believed was God. All his business projects turned to gold; when he spoke, people listened; when he commanded, people responded. He was obeyed and feared and successful and that was all almost everyone thought they wanted from a god.

The man was to leave on a journey, so he summoned his slaves and entrusted his property to them. 

To one slave, who was quite attractive and had a deep, resonant voice, he gave 5% of his wealth. 

To another slave, who was very smart and educated in the ways of business and commerce, he gave 10% of his wealth. 

And to one slave, who seemed to hold promise if nothing else, he gave a single gold coin, the price of his freedom.
Then the man people thought was God went away.

The slave who had 5% of the wealth of his master went immediately, used some of the money to pay for a ghost writer, published a self-help book called A Flashlight for a Lawn Mower,  and toured the country as an inspirational speaker, charging $200 a person to convince people that they were just the kind of charming, alluring genius they already thought they were. They bought T-shirts and coffee mugs and flashlights and little plastic lawn mowers made by children in factories in countries the purchasers never heard of. The slave worked four hours a week (once he got the tour going), travelled first class, ate at the best restaurants and slept in the best hotels. Even with those expenses, he still doubled the money his master gave him.

The slave who had 10% of the wealth of his master began buying up mortgages, selecting only those which were on high-priced property and for whom the owners owed four to six months worth of payments. He avoided property in areas where one might expect a disaster like an earthquake or a tornado or a hurricane. He bought the mortgages at pennies on the dollar, foreclosed on them, spent a carefully controlled sum on repairs and improvements (using the cheapest labor he could find) and then sold them at a huge profit.  He gave high-interest loans to people who needed money desperately and had little choice but to pay for their present with their future. The slave lived in one of the mansions on which he foreclosed, drove a very nice sports car, and wore only the finest clothes. Even so, he easily doubled the money his master gave him.

The slave who had been given only a single gold coin did nothing immediately. He prayed for three days and nights, for he was deeply grieved at the situation he was in. At last, he decided to bury the coin in the ground, telling no one what he did, only digging the money up when his master called for him.

After a very long time, the master of those slaves returned. He summoned them and demanded a report on how they fared. 

The slave who'd written the self-help book started to tell the master all he had done, but the master was a busy man. The slave cut to the bottom line: "I got you a 105% return on your investment."

The master said to him, "Well done, good and trustworthy slave. You have shown your allegiance to me in a few things, so I will put you in charge of many things. Enter into the joy of your master."

And the slave, who, like nearly everyone else, thought his master was God, and who had become used to the riches he believed he had earned, went his way rejoicing.

The slave who'd invested in real estate mortgages knew his master was a busy man, and so he simply reported: "Master, I have gotten you 123% return on your sizable investment."

The master said to him, "Well done, good and trustworthy slave. You have shown your allegiance to me in a few things, so I will put you in charge of many things. Enter into the joy of your master."

And the slave, who, like nearly everyone else, thought his master was God, and who had become used to the riches he believed he had earned, went his way rejoicing.

Then, the one who had received the one gold coin, the price of his freedom, came forward. He said, "Master, I know that you are not God. You are a harsh man who demands profits without doing work, who expects wealth without cost. You left us this long time and expected us to earn money for you while you did nothing. 

"I fear you, master, but I must honor and obey God. I could not use the money you gave me to make myself rich, or to make you more rich, at the cost of the lives of my brothers and sisters."

"What did you do?" ask the master in anger.

The slave fell to his knees, for he knew the master could have him killed, and almost everyone would think it was just. "I thought of simply giving your gold piece away, or buying my freedom with it and leaving, but it is your coin, not mine, so I could not do anything like that. So, I buried your coin, and hid it so that it would not be stolen, and I dug it up, and I return it to you now. Here is what is yours. I want no part of it."

His master, who, like nearly everyone else, thought  he was God, and who had become used to the riches he believed he had earned, became enraged. 

"You are wicked and lazy," he said, even though the servant was neither. "You knew that I expect wealth without cost, did you? And you knew that I expect profits without work, did you? Well, then you should have at least gotten someone to lend the money for you at interest..."

"God forbids me lending money at interest to the poor," the servant interrupted, referring to Exodus 22:25.

"This is not religion!" the master screamed. "This is business!"

The master turned to his guard, "Take that gold coin from him, and give it to the one with the 123% ROI. For the rich get richer, and the poor get poorer. That's the way the world works, and how it should work because the poor are stupid and lazy and the rich are ambitious and smart. As for this worthless slave, throw him into the outer darkness, where he will be spend the rest of his miserable life."

And the master wondered why the man, who was no longer his servant, sang to himself as they led him away.

*******
This is a retelling of Mathew 25:14-30, with a very different interpretation than is normally given. Most of the time, the point of this story is said to be that we should all use our talents and not just bury them in the ground. God, it is said, demands this from us. 

This unusual interpretation is not original to me, though the retelling is. I heard it from a pastor named John Shuck in a sermon called The Whistle-Blower which I first read more than two years ago and still sticks. (Good work, @johnandrewshuck!) He credits William Herzog and the book Jesus and Empire: The Kingdom of God and the New World Disorder which I have read. Rev. Shuck's current blog is here.

I don't really know if a single "talent" would have been the price of a slave's freedom in the Roman empire in the first century AD. I invoke irony and poetic justice.

 I really can't see the Matthew story in the traditional sense anymore. There are too many glaring holes in that interpretation, primarily because if you want to believe that the servant acted wickedly in burying the talent given him, then you have to say that the master is analogous to God. And the master acts nothing like God. Even aside from what the servant says in the story above, he calls the servant "worthless," (Matthew 25:30) even though, very shortly, Christ is about to die for those society calls "worthless." He leaves all the servants to their own devices for "a long time." Far from the last being first and the first last, this master says that the first get, well, first-er. I can't imagine the master in the story is the God who scatters seed on rocky ground like a lunatic.

To be honest, the master in the story looks a lot more like Caesar than God.

I wrote this because we recently started a process at my church called "New Beginnings" where we looked to find where our church is going. The last meeting we had on that used the "Parable of the Talents" as the Bible text for a discussion on what our gifts were and why we might not use them. (There were other verses that could have been used for that purpose. The first one that comes to mind is Matthew 5:15.

The first question was, "Why do you think the servant hid the talent in the ground?"

I did NOT answer, because I would have said, "Because he was a hero." And explaining myself would have led the discussion astray. 

In other words, I'm not the same person I used to be...
 
Copyright 2013. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.
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Saturday, June 1, 2013

72: Spirit Battle

Prompt #72 is to write about a task or chore I dislike. Fortunately, I don't have to do this one often.

I go into the attic at our house precisely twice each year. One of those times I enjoy and look forward to, the other I'd just as soon skip.

We keep our Christmas decorations in the attic, and that's really just about all that's there. (There are some old curtains, a few extra bits of sheet rock, and some trophies from decades ago, but they don't count.) 

I love decorating for Christmas.

I really don't like putting the stuff back up. It feels like I'm killing the Christmas Spirit.

It's as if, starting on December 26, the Spirit of Cleanliness and the Spirit of Guilt greet me each morning. "So, Tim. It's not Christmas anymore. Time to put up the ornaments and take down the lights."

The Spirit of Christmas hides behind me, cowering. "There are actually twelve days of Christmas," I say heroically. "This is only the second day."

The Spirits of Guilt and Cleanliness retreat, cursing partridges and pear trees.

But, the Spirit of Christmas and I know that this is only a temporary respite.

Sure enough and soon enough, it is January 6. The Day of Epiphany. Twelfth Night. King Day (which is what we used to call it because, in the New Orleans area, it's the first day you can buy King Cake and not be some kind of yankee weirdo.)

"It's January 6, Tim," the Spirits of Cleanliness and Guilt say. Now, they are joined by the Spirit of Timeliness. "It's not Christmas anymore."

But the Spirit of Christmas and I have prepared. The Spirit of Christmas divided into the Dickensian Spirits of Christmas Past, Present, and Yet to Be, and I have brought forth the Spirit that is my constant companion: the Spirit of Procrastination.

"You're outnumbered," we say. (Well, some of us say that. The Spirit of Procrastination will get around to talking later, and the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Be just points at the new calendar.)

And so, after a brief struggle, the Christmas decorations stay where they were.

Weeks go by, and more spirits get involved: the Spirits of Being Busy, Lots of Things to Do, and NFL Playoffs  fight on my side, and the Spirits of Peer Pressure, Responsibility, and What Must the Neighbours Think fight against me. We usually manage to hold our own, until the Spirit of Good Heavens, It's Almost Mardi Gras joins the fray.

Sometimes, I and my squadron of spirits can still hold our own. For example, I can start putting the decorations up, putting some of them in boxes, or taking down the outside lights. But it's only a gambit, a fake charge at the enemy's right flank in order to buy more time.

When the Spirit of What's Wrong with You It's Almost Easter joins in, the battle is pretty much over. By then, the weather's usually warm enough that the Spirit of Christmas is sweating like a pig anyway in that big red coat, and is just about ready to call it a year.

So, the boxes go into the attic. And there the Spirit of Christmas rests until the day after Thanksgiving. 

Then, and not before.

Actually, the whole family helps decorate after Thanksgiving, and they help put the decorations away, certainly before the 4th of July.
 
Copyright 2013. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.
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Friday, May 31, 2013

71: Insanity You Can Dance To

Prompt #71 is to write about a holiday memory. This isn't really a holiday as opposed to a special occasion, and it's a short-term memory, but it's my blog.

Madness may descend in screams, in silence, or, in rare instances, to the sounds of 80s music.
 
i recently attended a high school reunion for a class of 1983. After about an hour of listening, I noticed something odd with the young DJ. It wasn't my reunion, so I didn't know many people there. 
 
I was kind of bored, so I texted my thoughts to my son. I figured he could ignore the texts if he wanted.

I've changed the name of the DJ, who I don't want to embarrass. To be honest, he was more than competent, in general, blending one song into another very well. He did have a problem, however. 
 
(I've added YouTube links to the music in case you don't recognize the songs by their titles, and I've made a few small edits for clarity.)

9:16 So, is "Thrift Shop" really a good choice of music for the class of 1983?

9:20 Now it's Rick Astley. Actually an improvement...

9:26 The DJ is actually pretty good now that he found the crowd. "Eye of the Tiger" after "I Want a New Drug."

9:27 (My son texts back) Aww man, I was hoping for more macklemore.

9:31 As were we all. "Infatuation" by Aerosmith or Steven Tyler solo, I forget. Dude still look like a lady. [Actually, it's Rod Stewart.]


9:40 Poor kid. He thinks just because we like the Cupid Shufffle, we're good with 50 Cent....

9:42 Beyoncé now. PLEASE GOD, LET ONE OF THESE GUYS HERE DO THE SINGLE LADIES DANCE.

9:45 "Single Ladies" fading into "Sweet Home Alabama."

9:48 And if you picked Justin Timberlake "SexyBack," you win the Back Street Boys Greatest Hit album.

9:51 He wants us to make a Harlem Shake video. Poor poor kid. He's playing the music and everyone's looking at him like he's lost his mind.

9:54 I think the kid's given up. "Harlem Shake" to Jim Bob Country Joe Somebody's "Boot Scootin Boogie". [It's Brooks & Dunn. I'm not much of a country music fan.]

9:57 "I Love Rock and Roll" now. It's sad, really.

10:01 They stopped the music for some kind of announcement or speech or something, and so the DJ could get a little quick therapy.

10:03 (My son texts me) He calls his agent.

10:13 The kid's name is Clay or maybe Qlé. "Tainted Love" There was an audible "oh!" of recognition from the class.

10:17 "Working for the Weekend." I think we broke poor Clay. He's going to be humming Cindy Lauper in the shower now.

10:20 "Come On Feel the Noise." Inside Clay's head: "Not Madonna. Just nobody ask for Madonna. PLEASE!!!"

10:26 "White Wedding." Give him credit. Clay is trying hard to hold onto his cool, but he's starting to think platform shoes might look good on him.

10:27 One guy dancing to "White Wedding" by himself. No one wants to see this. Clay will never be the same.

10:29 To prove he's still got some taste left, Clay plays Peter Gabriel's "Shock the Monkey." The lone dancer has somehow attracted a partner. Miracles continue.

10:31 There are three women my age talking to Clay while "Shock the Monkey" plays. I'll bet they want Madonna.

10:33 "Shake It Up" by the Cars I think. Women still talking to Clay. Clay isn't crying. Clay is strong.

10:35 Clay says the request was for Prince. He plays "1999." One of the women is still talking to him. Poor Clay. [No liink.Prince seems to not put his own videos on YouTube, and, judging from the extremely small number of Prince videos there uploaded by others, I'm guessing he complains a lot.]

10:37 He played "1999" earlier. It might be his only Prince. People are dancing. Clay's probably trying to get a wireless signal so he can get  "Purple Rain" on iTunes.

10:43 "Billie Jean." He played this one before, too. He probably took a chance that we have Alzheimer's. People keep talking to him. "There's only so much 80s music," he thinks desperately.

10:48 Now he's trying some kind of weird drum-and-bass Sting mash-up. I think it's a window into his damaged soul. Nobody is dancing anymore.

10:49 People are talking to Clay. Yes, Clay, this is Hipster Hell.

10:51 I just overheard someone say she's going to ask for Journey. You can actually hear Clay's hipster soul scream.

10:53 (My son texts me) You should ask for Bon Jovi.

10:57 I don't think so. I don't think poor Clay or I can take it. Now he's playing something I don't recognize. "Learn to Love Again" maybe? [Pink, maybe?]

11:01 Clay remembers that "Thriller" is an 80s song, and playing it means four more Journey-free minutes. People are dancing to it as if it's Journey. God help Clay.

11:14 I just can't take watching the rest of Clay's descent into madness. We're headed home.

Yes, it was just after 11:00 and we were headed home. We had church in the morning, and it's pretty clear we'll never be as cool as Clay is, or was before he agreed to DJ at this reunion.

I imagine the day after Clay's friends had all come over for an intervention after they saw him wearing silk shirts and listening to one Huey Lewis song after another. The play Skrillex and Daft Punk and Kanye West for him until he stops humming Madonna songs. Then they all go to Starbucks for a kind of coffee that's  not on the menu.
 
Copyright 2013. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.
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Monday, May 27, 2013

70: Reflections on a Commuter Train

 The prompt is to put a soap opera character on a stranded commuter train. I don't follow soaps, but my wife does. I've therefore seen a number of episodes. I still don't know enough about any particular character to write about them, so I made one up.

When the train ground to a halt, midway between stations, Jeremy sighed in frustration. He was going to be stuck here a while. What else could go wrong today?
Jeremy's designer suit stood out among the other commuters. His wallet and Rolex watch had already been stolen, but he didn't know it yet. Perhaps it's just as well he didn't know. This had not been a good day for Jeremy.

When Jeremy woke up this morning, he was CEO of DeGrasse Industries, making seven figures, respected by his coworkers, and married to the sexy Sandra, daughter of the powerful and wealthy Marquez Spagnoli.

All of it was gone now. His jealous younger brother Growl turned Sandra against him using a clandestinely taken photograph of him kissing a stripper named Candy that Growl paid to set him up.

Growl then used his mob connections to frame Jeremy for a drug running operation. Now, Jeremy's reputation and job were gone. Neil DeGrasse, the chairman of the DeGrasse Industries board, called for Jeremy's resignation to preserve the reputation of the firm his grandfather Haas DeGrasse created. Jeremy, under Mr. DeGrasse's gaze, wrote a letter of resignation, saying he wanted to spend time with his family.

So Jeremy, devoid of job, company car, and company driver, unable to hail a taxi, had boarded the commuter train to get back to his house, not particularly looking forward to Sandra's vitriol when he got there. And now, the train was stuck.

Jeremy took the time to reflect on his life, something he rarely had time to do.

To be honest, he couldn't remember much of it. Most of his childhood was a blank. He remembered leaving with his Uncle Red on a fishing trip. At the time, his Mom and Dad were about 25 years older than he was. The next thing he knew, he was home from college and his parents were much closer to his own age. It must have been during that time that Growl was born, since he couldn't remember having a brother at home either.

Jeremy came to the realization that most of his life (or at least what he could remember of it) was nothing more than a quest for power and money and fame. His allegiance to his family, his company, and even Sandra had been only in extremes, complete fealty or total repugnance. He related to no one as a person, only as a way to achieve his goals.

In fact, now that Jeremy had a moment to think, his life was nothing but crisis after crisis, some of which would be unbelievable if they didn't happen to him. (For example, his mother was once possessed by a demon that caused her to poison her best friend.)

For the first time, Jeremy considered if this was the only way to live.

Then the train started again. Jeremy noticed that Candy the stripper was actually sitting a few seats in front of him. Maybe he could charm her into betraying Growl.


Copyright 2013. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.
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Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Hazel Clem and Hope

It's Christmas day.

A few days ago, on December 22, a very good friend, Hazel Clem, died. She had struggled with cancer, struggled valiantly, but now the struggle is over. We are all poorer now.

Hazel was the mother of Keith, one of the best friends I have ever had and the best man at our wedding. The lives of Keith and I have diverged over the years. He is hundreds of miles away now, and I haven't seen Hazel in years. But Keith and Hazel (and Keith's dad Eddie Wayne) are still very much part of my life because when we were closer, they worked their way into who I am. I am much better since I know them.

Hazel enjoyed life. She lived fearlessly. She lived on the New Madrid fault, and had a collection of crystal platters and china plates. 

She loved the color red. I don't mind just liked the color red. She loved red. Everything in her life which could be red was, in fact, red.

I used to visit the Clems pretty regularly when I was in college and graduate school. It was more than worth the short drive out to Arkansas. She was never anything but hospitable. No, "hospitable" is too bland a word these days. Hazel gave of herself, made room in her world for me, and never let me imagine that it was anything but her pleasure. Even when I felt that there were few places where I really belonged, I knew I belonged with the Clems.

Now, all Advent season, I've been struggling with something. Advent, in the Christian church, is a time of looking forward, a time of hope.

What's been playing through my head as I read and tried to discuss the Advent scriptures in the Sunday school class I lead is that there are plenty of people ready to claim that there is no hope in the world. Sandy and Sandy Hook are what the world is, and where it's headed, they claim. To believe otherwise is to be foolish and naive, they say. And I don't say that they're entirely wrong.

There are others, including many Christians, who believe that every day, in every way, we're getting better and better. Sandy and Sandy Hook are just mysteries, they say, and if we knew all that Jesus knows, we'd find out that they happened to draw more believers to Christ. To believe otherwise is to be faithless or even blasphemous. I can't believe that either.
 
I can't close my eyes to the horror that is the world, but I can't close my heart to hope either.
 
It's hard to hope. I know it's not supposed to be easy, but it's hard to look at roughly TWO THOUSAND TWELVE YEARS of people saying and living into the promise of God, the belief that God has defeated sin and that we see a "great light." Sometimes, it seems like it's all like a dream that is so good, so fantastic, that waking up feels bitter and depressing.

And then, I think of blessings like Hazel Clem. And I can't do anything but hope. Hazel made the world better, made my world better anyway. So, while I can't say how things will change, and I can't even say precisely what the changes will be, I hope. For Hazel, Hazel's family, and for all of us.

Merry Christmas.

 

Copyright 2012. Timothy H. Ruppel. All rights reserved.
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Sunday, December 2, 2012

69: Safe Parenting

The prompt is to write about a quote from Erica Jong: "If you don't risk anything, you risk more."

A while back, a friend of mine explained to me why, after years of being an almost atheist, he returned to the Roman Catholic church. It had little to do with a sense of religious conviction, or a sense of penitence, or even a desire to have something to do on a Sunday morning. He returned to Christianity because of his kids. He'd been raised Catholic, and his wife was raised Catholic, and they both turned out OK. When he had kids, he had to raise them Catholic too, because, and this is a quote: "You can't take chances with your kids."

I believe he was wrong. I care for my kids so much that I have to push myself to take risks with them.
I'm not talking recklessness. I don't dangle my kids over cliffs, and I didn't let them drive when they were six. We put caps on the electric outlets and a gate on the stairs when the kids were small enough to accidentally fall down the stairs. However, there are a lot of people who don't seem to see the difference between letting a five-year-old play with a loaded nail gun and letting a teenager surf the internet without sitting over their shoulder.

Now, this is not cut and dried. Each kid is different, and for some, walking to the park really is risky. And each parent is different. I'm sure the kids think their mom and I didn't let them do enough when they were little. (They certainly thought so at the time!)

You do the best you can, and trust God. For some parents, it takes all their will to let the kids do their homework without constant supervision. Maybe they're right.  I'm not interested in being the best dad. I'm interested in being the best dad I can be.

I do the best I can, and trust God. I refrain from comparing myself to others, but I stay open to learn from them. I love each kid as if he or she were my only kid. I take risks with them, partly so that they realize that I believe in them, partly so that they get to learn how to succeed and fail at something that matters, and partly because it makes me a better man, even when it's scary or painful. I fail at all of those things to some degree, but I trust in forgiveness from God, and I hope in forgiveness from them.

I love my kids too much to play safe. I think God loves me (and them) that way too.

It's been a while since I did one of these creative writing prompts. Part of the reason for this was that my daughter was participating in National Novel Writing Month, and I didn't want to "run up the score" while she was doing that. It's also true that I had a great number of other responsibilities and claims on my time.
 
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Saturday, November 17, 2012

The Widow's Might

This is not from a prompt, but from some thoughts I had after Sunday school and worship last week. I stole the title from our pastor, Dr. Bob Ledbetter, but I have a different take on it.

The story is pretty familiar, especially when churches talk about money. In Mark 12, Jesus watches rich people donate vast sums to the temple treasury. Then, he sees a widow donate two small coins (the King James version calls them "mites"), and Jesus says that the widow donated more than all the others, because those were her last two coins, all she had to live on.

Often, this story is used to illustrate the wisdom in trusting God with everything. That was the might (not just "mite") of the widow, Dr. Ledbetter referred to in his sermon this week.

I think trusting God is a good thing, and this passage seems a pretty good fit for that message.

Still, I think there's something more here, another way to look at the story.
 
In Mark's Gospel, just before Jesus and the apostles sit watching people donating to the treasury, Jesus strongly condemns the scribes and Pharisees who love to be greeted with respect but "devour widow's houses." And then they sit outside the temple and watch a widow give everything she had, and then walk away.

How did she manage to leave the temple without someone helping her? It's like she's invisible to everyone but Jesus. In a way, she was.

What MIGHT have happened is one of the rich people dropping money in the treasury gave the widow a little money to help her get through the week, or maybe found a way to help her more permanently

What MIGHT have happened is that someone in charge of the treasury would see the widow, reach into the coffers, and give her some help.

What MIGHT have happened is that the people might have been more interested in helping someone who needed help rather than try to impress God and everyone else with their holiness.

And I wonder if Jesus's condemnation of the scribes and Jesus's praise of the widow aren't related.

I wonder if Jesus is saying that God really doesn't pay much attention to how well-respected and well-liked and affluent you are, so don't waste your time trying to impress God with your virtues or morals. God is too busy paying attention to the people that everyone else ignores.

And maybe Jesus is saying we should put our attention where God does.

A week ago Saturday, we had a tutoring session at our church. A young lady needed help in college algebra, and, me having a doctorate in physics, it seemed like I was a good candidate to help her. As it turns out, she needed help with a technique called "synthetic division," which I don't think I've ever seen before.(*)

To be honest, I was a little resentful at first. I mean, I like being the guy who knows stuff. I like being SEEN as the guy who knows stuff.

But I forced myself to let it go. It didn't take much time, but it did take some effort. I asked the others if anyone knew what synthetic division was.

My daughter knew just what synthetic division is and jumped right in, helping the young lady understand it.

By my stepping back, my daughter got a nice boost of confidence and the young lady got the help she needed.

Actually, I got rewarded as well. I learned something new, some very clever math, and that is like chocolate to me.

It would have been a shame if we all left the church with no one getting the help they needed.

It would be a shame if that happened any time.

(*) If you're a math type my age or older, synthetic division is a shortcut for long division of polynomials. It's useful in factoring polynomials. It's actually very clever.
 
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