So he never married

From John Piper’s This Momentary Marriage, which I recommend to anyone interested in the real meaning of being married:


Dietrich Bonhoeffer was engaged to be married to Maria von Wedemeyer when he was hanged at dawn on April 9, 1945, at the age of thirty-nine. As a young pastor in Germany, he had been opposed to Nazism and was finally arrested on April 5, 1943, for his involvement in a conspiracy to assassinate Adolf Hitler.

So he never married. He skipped the shadow on the way to the Reality. Some are called to one kind of display of the worth of Christ, some to another. Martyrdom, not marriage, was his calling.

Being married in the moment of death is both a sweet and bitter providence. Sweet because at the precipice of eternity the air is crystal-clear, and you see more plainly than ever the precious things that really matter about your imperfect lover. But being married at death is also bitter, because the suffering is doubled as one watches the other die, or even quadrupled if both are dying. And more if there is a child.

Jim

With credit to Hilaire Belloc:

Jim: Who ran away from his Nurse and was eaten by a Lion

There was a Boy whose name was Jim;
His Friends were very good to him.
They gave him Tea, and Cakes, and Jam,
And slices of delicious Ham,
And Chocolate with pink inside
And little Tricycles to ride,
And read him Stories through and through,
And even took him to the Zoo–
But there it was the dreadful Fate
Befell him, which I now relate.

You know–or at least you ought to know,
For I have often told you so–
That Children never are allowed
To leave their Nurses in a Crowd;
Now this was Jim’s especial Foible,
He ran away when he was able,
And on this inauspicious day
He slipped his hand and ran away!

He hadn’t gone a yard when–Bang!
With open Jaws, a lion sprang,
And hungrily began to eat
The Boy: beginning at his feet.
Now, just imagine how it feels
When first your toes and then your heels,
And then by gradual degrees,
Your shins and ankles, calves and knees,
Are slowly eaten, bit by bit.
No wonder Jim detested it!
No wonder that he shouted “Hi!”

The Honest Keeper heard his cry,
Though very fat he almost ran
To help the little gentleman.
“Ponto!” he ordered as he came
(For Ponto was the Lion’s name),
“Ponto!” he cried, with angry Frown,
“Let go, Sir! Down, Sir! Put it down!”
The Lion made a sudden stop,
He let the Dainty Morsel drop,
And slunk reluctant to his Cage,
Snarling with Disappointed Rage.
But when he bent him over Jim,
The Honest Keeper’s Eyes were dim.
The Lion having reached his Head,
The Miserable Boy was dead!

When Nurse informed his Parents, they
Were more Concerned than I can say:–
His Mother, as She dried her eyes,
Said, “Well–it gives me no surprise,
He would not do as he was told!”
His Father, who was self-controlled,
Bade all the children round attend
To James’s miserable end,
And always keep a-hold of Nurse
For fear of finding something worse.

Finest Hour

I haven’t been around much – I have been really, really busy in real life – but today I want to offer a brief tidbit.

The tenor of this blog was awfully negative for a long while, and partly that was something I had to work myself through. I have a streak that tends towards the depressive, pessimistic and bleak; you might say it’s my personal thorn in the flesh to wrestle with. Furthermore, we know, or ought to know, that bad company corrupts good character, and I had been spending too much time on sites whose contributors held worldviews fundamentally antithetical to mine, whatever other merits their writings had. I thought myself able to handle this, much as Obi-Wan Kenobi thought he could “handle” Anakin Skywalker’s nascent power, but like Kenobi, I was wrong. I have adjusted my daily grazing patterns accordingly.

So, of late, I’ve been re-kindling a passion for God and an invariable component of that is a re-awakening of hope and purpose. I had forgotten how much joy and hope comes along with a sincere faith in God – it’s really quite remarkable.

Over the past few months I’ve been drawing some inspiration from music, like the this outstanding song from Battlelore:

There seems to be some debate about the meaning of the lyrics, but my best understanding is that it’s about Gandalf, who in the Tolkien mythology is an incarnate angel sent by the gods to be a light and a guide to the world. It’s kind of like us as Christians, really. Every time we are inclined to get discouraged, let’s remember that it’s not our job to fix this world or make it perfect, because we can’t do that – heaven is the next world. Our task is to act as role models, guiding others towards God as best we can.

I have been away for too long
BUT NOW I KNOW IT’S MY TIME
I shall bow to the greater light
LIKE ALL IMMORTALS I MAKE MY WAY
I have been hiding all the powers
I AM A SERVANT I WILL OBEY
This will be my finest hour
THIS WILL BE MY FINEST HOUR…

Christian brothers and sisters, fellow servants of God and his Christ, there’s battle raging, and now’s your time. Don’t hide your light. Let this be your finest hour!

New Band: Battlelore

Actually, they’ve been around for years, apparently. Anyhow, they’re Finnish, and awesome (those things often go together, I find), and the write heavy metal songs about the LotR universe.

Modern Sexuality: the Next Wave

Firstly, congratulations to Dr. Phi! A Ph.D in engineering is no mean trick.

From the Daily Caller (also on LifeSite):

If a small group of psychiatrists and other mental health professionals have their way at a conference this week, pedophiles themselves could play a role in removing pedophilia from the American Psychiatric Association’s bible of mental illnesses — the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM), set to undergo a significant revision by 2013. Critics warn that their success could lead to the decriminalization of pedophilia.

The August 17 Baltimore conference is sponsored by B4U-ACT, a group of pro-pedophile mental health professionals and sympathetic activists. According to the conference brochure, the event will examine “ways in which minor-attracted persons [pedophiles] can be involved in the DSM 5 revision process” and how the popular perceptions of pedophiles can be reframed to encourage tolerance.

Of course, the expressed aim is to “encourage tolerance”. We know what that means. I note with an extremely minor sense of reassurance that the American Psychological Association is not explicitly endorsing the conference. But wait for it. Don’t forget that the APA was instrumental in the movement to legitimize homosexuality.

There are folks who denied that legitimizing other non-traditional forms of sexuality would lead to this; I have no further comment for them. There are still those who deny that this movement will ever amount to anything, arguing that this is completely different from previously prominent issues because “children can’t consent”. People making this argument have missed one of the roots of the issue, which is that Western society no longer has any shared basis for moral epistemology. Consequently, traditional ideas about “consent” will be redefined like traditional notions about sexuality and marriage have been. Just as it was said that “marriage is outdated; male headship is outdated; it’s time for divorce laws to catch up to the modern century; and it’s certainly outdated to believe that homosexuals can’t marry”, so too will they say, “well, look, our current view of “consent” is outdated and discriminates against people who have an adult-child sexual orientation. And who are you to say an 11-year-old can’t consent, anyway?”

I wonder, if this movement really picks up steam, whether it will actually trigger a subtle backlash against homosexuality. Of course there will continue to be intense social pressure not to link homosexuality and pedophilia. But when parents think their kids are threatened, they adopt a very protective mindset. My theory is that if pedophilia becomes even slightly mainstream, then privately, parents will begin to worry about their kids even if they aren’t willing to express that fear. Out-of-the-closet homos will be suspected of [i]also[/i] secretly being “child-attracted”.

I also feel, in very strange way, almost as if I have nothing to say about the above story. We knew this would happen. We *told* people this would happen. What can you say when you tell people, and tell people, and tell people, and they don’t listen, and then it happens just like you saw it was going to?

Comfort

There’s a thread at Lawrence Auster’s that has given me much comfort amid the darkness rapidly enshrouding all Western lands. One of his readers writes:

I’ve been thinking these same thoughts lately, when you state, “We are in the midst of something unprecedented and terrible. Great forces of evil are being unleashed.” One cannot help but look around and be stunned by the events we’re seeing unfold around us.

So now is the time to bring out Thomas Paine’s famous intro from The Crisis, December 23, 1776:

THESE are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.

Lately scripture and prayer have given me inner calm. Paine’s words also give me solace and hope.

There’s also this:

Stern now was Éomer’s mood, and his mind clear again. He let blow the horns to rally all men to his banner that could come thither; for he thought to make a great shield-wall at the last, and stand, and fight there on foot till all fell, and do deeds of song on the fields of Pelennor, though no man should be left in the West to remember the last King of the Mark. So he rode to a green hillock and there set his banner, and the White Horse ran rippling in the wind.

Out of doubt, out of dark to the day’s rising
I came singing in the sun, sword unsheathing.
To hope’s end I rode and to heart’s breaking:
Now for wrath, now for ruin and a red nightfall!

These staves he spoke, yet he laughed as he said them. For once more lust of battle was on him; and he was still unscathed, and he was young, and he was king: the lord of a fell people. And lo! even as he laughed at despair he looked out again on the black ships, and he lifted up his sword to defy them.

“And then wonder took him, and a great joy; and he cast his sword up in the sunlight and sang as he caught it. And all eyes followed his gaze, and behold! upon the foremost ship a great standard broke, and the wind displayed it as she turned towards the Harlond. There flowered a White Tree, and that was for Gondor; but Seven Stars were about it, and a high crown above it, the signs of Elendil that no lord had borne for years beyond count. And the stars flamed in the sunlight, for they were wrought of gems by Arwen daughter of Elrond; and the crown was bright in the morning, for it was wrought of mithril and gold.

“Thus came Aragorn son a Arathorn, Elessar, Isildur’s heir, out of the Paths of the Dead, borne upon a wind from the Sea to the kingdom of Gondor; and the mirth of the Rohirrim was a torrent of laughter and a flashing of swords, and the joy and wonder of the City was a music of trumpets and a ringing of bells. But the hosts of Mordor were seized with bewilderment, and a great wizardry it seemed to them that their own ships should be filled with their foes; and a black dread fell on them, knowing that the tides of fate had turned against them and their doom was at hand.”

As God said to Gideon: I am arranging things so you face impossible odds. That way, when you seem to win, you’ll know it’s because I go with you.

I Have Written a Wicked Post

“I have written a wicked book, and feel clean and spotless as the lamb.” Thus wrote Herman Melville to a friend after completing his infamous whaling diary-cum-atheistic jeremiad. Well, this is a wicked post. I take no joy in its writing (finding it rather more of a release, if anything), but neither do I feel the slightest remorse or shame.

I don’t know what’s more gut-wrenching: watching women deny that they play cruel games… or seeing them acknowledge that, yes, we really are this cold-hearted and calculating. The latter is certainly more shocking.

Roissy is fond of saying that he’s not a “misogynist”; no, learning the unvarnished truth about female psychology has given him a *higher* appreciation for women. Not so for me. Sociosexual philosophy has disillusioned me beyond all reckoning. Peering deep into the psyche of woman has rendered me grievously scornful in feeling and mercilessly unscrupulous in behaviour towards these unholy, ungodly beings. I venture to say that… I hate them. Yes, I hate them! And how could I not?

Oh, the vile criteria by which women judge menfolk! O, abominable, loathsome beings! A creature so damnably constituted as to admire a man for his “social dominance” – by which is meant his ability to waltz through an absurd series of meaningless, contrived riddles – rather than his work ethic, his self-sacrifice, his affability, his charity, his honesty, his justice – in short, his righteousness and integrity; such a creature deserves to be used and abused like a cheap street harlot – or better yet, a vermin-ridden ass – and discarded appropriately. Nothing more; she merits nothing better.

Words like “honour”, “duty”, “kindness”… those things that define goodness and rightness… all meaningless, meaningless to this wretched, wicked half of the human race. And do women who profess belief in something “higher”; women who should know better, afford any solace? No. Instead they show themselves as fraudulent, fickle hellcats who think good men are “weak”. So alas, I can no longer view the distaff horde with anything besides revulsion and contempt. They perjure themselves by their own words; they are beasts, deserving nothing but callous treatment and damnation; and I can wish nothing upon them but furious hatred, ignominy and a miserable passing.

O, woman: to the last I grapple with thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee; for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee.

I take no joy in penning the above – but I feel clean and spotless as the lamb. What else is to be said for a lot that believes black to be white, up to be down, and good men to be worthless? Poor Ashley Wilkes, and all good men.