The scribble I had in mind for today will keep for another week. I’ve decided to offer something more appropriate to Easter Sunday, 2019.
It is difficult to sense an infusion of new life when one casts one’s eyes about the current scene. Debate has long been terminated on the subject of abortion. It is considered gauche, or sexist, or racist, or some such reason-throttling chunk of mud-sling, to observe that most women really needn’t get “notably pregnant” at all against their will. They may abstain from sex; they may abstain a mere three days each month from sex; they may patronize any one of a dozen cheap, accessible varieties of contraception; or, all of the above having failed, they may at least discharge their loathsome burden in the first trimester. What we have before us, instead, appears to be a species of woman that has sex at least once a day with no regard for the consequences and despite hating males categorically and on principle. Briefly, the “debate” shifted this year to whether or not one might actually murder a baby already born… but now the air is once again as thick with slung excrement as Gulliver’s Forest of the Yahoos. A significant portion of our neighbors refuses to have a civil discussion about the impropriety of infanticide.
Paris is burning… well, part of it has been burning, anyway. I don’t believe even Adolf Hitler had designated Notre Dame Cathedral for demolition as his occupying troops withdrew—but let us cede the point, for argument’s sake, that the conflagration was accidental. It remains nonetheless undeniable that the “religion of peace” continues to make huge, heavy strides through Western Christendom. One must observe, in fairness, that Islam does not condone abortion: it certainly has the diseased relics of “Christendom” beat on that and a few other fronts. Similarly, one should not attribute directly to Koranic teaching the hideous practice of Female Genital Mutilation, which is morally superior to the Aztec manner of female-body-part excision—but only just. Yet neither are Islamic leaders outspoken in their condemnation of the ritual sadism to which young girls in their faith are often submitted. In that regard, their “tolerance” has a disturbingly Western/postmodern odor. I read yesterday that nineteen states—approximately two-fifths of our union—permit these degraded, barbaric operations to proceed unmolested by the law. That’s pretty typical of the Christian caricature which we have become. Christ didn’t “judge”; therefore, we mustn’t “judge”, either. Slice away. God bless you… and how long will racist members of Congress oppose funding FGM through Medicare? How dare they? If they were really Christian…
I think I prefer my Yahoo excrement straight in the face rather than kneaded into my bread. To be impassive to atrocity is to be “tolerant”; to be indifferent to the outrage of fundamental decency is to be “Christian”. Nowadays, every word of the English language is apt to have a value diametrically opposed to its original intent. One can no longer utter the simplest sentence without its leaving the taste of the latrine in one’s mouth. Our words have been stolen from us, or in some cases (the worst cases) returned after mutilations as nightmarish as the mad scientist’s who grafts wings onto a rabbit. To write nada or loco is cultural appropriation if your skin isn’t the right color. (I’ve never been able to determine just what that color is: even the original Spaniards were part Moorish in many cases—and it turns out that Portugal is home to a particularly high concentration of Neanderthal DNA!) To employ a “gendered” pronoun is to risk professional termination, fines, and perhaps incarceration not just in our ally nations, but in our own topsy-turvy academic world. To protest against the idiocy of it all is to manifest the deplorable “white privilege”, suspicion of which crime precludes any effort at defense and carries a minimum mandatory sentence of social ostracism for a day. “The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart goes all decorum,” as a white-privileged patriarch once opined. Did that bard, prophetically, diagnose our abortion culture, perhaps? Too many babies… the twenty- and thirty-somethings are unwilling to surrender their diapers to new arrivals that might compete for attention.
In the midst of such lunacy, Hope appears to have retreated to the Moon, left vacant by the descent of our dominant ideologies. What does the dawn of this day in 2019 promise, other than a deeper plunge into disgrace and inhumanity?
I will attempt just a very brief answer. As I age, I grow more aware that virtually all of our spiritual confusion arises from an intellectual (or pseudo-intellectual) confidence that we understand time. Specifically, time in all of our constructs is linear: a “timeline”. The times are suffocatingly depressing because, for those of us with sufficient memory, they so clearly describe a nosedive into arrogance, petulance, self-absorption, self-indulgence, absurdity, and outright stupidity. The “Darwinian staircase” scaling upward on the shoulders of Homo Erectus, Cro-Magnon, and Homo Sapiens has now reversed its motion as precipitously as an amusement-park slide.
Yet why do we suppose that the image of time forced upon us by our human understanding is ultimately valid? We should know, thanks to the operation of our same faculties, that we are incapable of fathoming the utter truth of things. We are compelled by “logic” to believe both in a First Cause and in the dependency of every cause upon a previous cause as its effect. We are compelled, likewise, to believe that every event contains causative events within it and also that no event could possibly happen if there were not an atomic, irreducible, “buck stops here” micro-event at the bottom of it all. (Twentieth-century science latched on to the speed of light in order to keep the system from collapsing upon itself—but “C” is a mere conceptual convenience whose truth is under serious question in current physics.)
What, then, if all of our timelines are indeed illusions? What if “then” is also “now”? Frankly, I feel crucifixion happening all around me every day. Why not resurrection, as well? For the ascent from death is as inescapable as the terrestrial impact of a falling apple—or as the germination of the fallen apple’s seeds: they are all held together by an inviolable metaphysical force in a single expanding time. Our linear timelines are constantly bombarded from right angles by the pressing reality of this superior, immutable time. Our “progress” is constantly being knocked off course by inklings that our imagined destination is illusory—that we are “here and now” in an ultimate truth whose focal gravity our silly designs vainly struggle to resist. What good is a promotion if we buy it with lies and betrayals? What good is a glistening new palace erected with dollars extorted from the meager savings of our dupes? We fight and fight against the winds blowing contrary to our “advance”, the wind that bloweth we know not whence. We detest that interference. We curse it. Yet it draws us and draws us back to the simplicity of the child—the dwelling in the “here and now” which we abandoned when we decided to “make something of ourselves”.
Do not, please, misread my remarks in the light of a recent piece I dedicated to “the power of now”. “Now” is not a renunciation of past and future: it is a reclaiming of the past and future as properly belonging to the Real, the Right, the Good. As we fight to postpone the reign of goodness over our daily compromises and calculations, we fight ineffectually, futilely. We may resist rebirth into the light of the true day; but to do so, we shall have to suffocate our soul, willfully and persistently, after it is already drawing breaths on its own. Souls don’t die in the womb. Only suicide kills them.