The End of Borrowed Time

Little Indian, Sioux or Crow,

Little frosty Eskimo

Little Turk or Japanee,

O! don’t you wish that you were me?

- Robert Louis Stevenson

The other day I suggested to some friends that a dwindling group of white folk in America are all that is left defending the world against a globalist agenda.

My idea was called “insane” and “crazy.”

I don’t, for a minute, believe that my friends thought the idea of a one-world globalist conspiracy was crazy.  It has been floating around American pop-culture for some time.  Granted, it’s usually given a bad name by the end-time nuts who see the Number of the Beast on every other brick wall (along with images of the Virgin Mary, no doubt).  But, recently, with the outpouring of support for politicians like Ron Paul, and the popularity of sites like Lew Rockwell, and Alex Jones’ “Info Wars,” the idea of a one-world elite conspiracy has been gaining a respectable place in the American psyche.

No, what I believe my friends thought was crazy, and even offensive, was the idea that white people have some sort of inherent value.  That whites are so valuable, they are, in fact, unconsciously staving off evil just by living as whites.  This is an idea that my (white) friends could not accept!

They can’t accept it, because to accept it would mean that they would have to come face to face with their own inner demons.  They would have to admit that they have miserably failed their fathers.  Admit that their chosen path is a humiliation to their ancestors!  They know all this, it is ingrained in their core.  Their only choice is to either man-up, or shut-up.

The resounding silence from whites in America is a depressing melody.

I’m about to relay to you, dear readers, a story about myself that I have never told anyone.  I admit in advance that the telling of this story will leave me open to a certain ad-hominem criticism from my enemies.  Of course, I doubt they read this blog.  That would involve actually interacting with my beliefs.

However, the following criticism might still be made:  “He’s been so ill-treated by blacks.  No wonder he feels the way he does about them.“  So, I’d like to officially remind everyone of two things before telling this story.

1.  Never make fallacious ad-hominem appeals in your arguments.  (It may also be tempting to make a genetic fallacy error here.  Someone may be tempted to say:  “Now we have some idea of why Shotgun holds the positions that he does, therefore, we can dismiss his positions.” Don’t.)

2.  Despite the horrible sins committed against me and my family, I remain a strong Christian and I feel that I have the same attitude towards the black race that my ancestors had.  Since the following events occurred, I’ve joined the military, and met blacks from all over the world.  All of them share certain traits, and every black from America (no matter if they’re from the “dirty south” the “East Coast” or da “West Coast”) to a man, all act the same.  They’re just stuck in varying degrees of sophistication within this same, black archetype.

With these things in mind, I will tell you something that happened to me, that was by no means an isolated event.  I imagine this sort of thing still takes place in schools all over this great, multicultural utopia of ours:

I was 12 years old and in the 7th grade.  I want you to imagine how you would feel if this happened to your 12 year old son.

One day, during art class, the black boys, (who always managed to congregate) were very rowdy.  The teacher, a white 30-something female, seemed oblivious, as always.  I was sitting at a table with two white boys, who in latter years, would become “popular.”  We were sitting together, quietly taking part in our work.  My creative mind loved art class!  Blank sheets of paper thrilled me to no end!  I believe that day we were learning about shading, and how to properly re-create sun-light angles.

One of the black boys broke off from the herd, casually walked up behind one of the white boys (Nicolas, was his name) and slapped him, open palmed, across the back of the head.   The gaggle of coons erupted in laughter, while Nicholas’ eyes grew very wide.  He swallowed hard, and looked down, pretending to ignore what had just happened to him.  The boy next to him (his name was Brandon, if I remember correctly) pretended to ignore it as well.  I followed suit.  We were afraid that we were next.

The black boy came back and hit Nicolas again, and again.  Then he hit Brandon.  I was safe on the opposite side of the table (at least initially) and was able to observe.   Nicolas and Brandon, with tears in their eyes, continued to ignore it.  I could see they were shaking with fear.  I was afraid as well.

When the black boys did things like this, it always sent an icy chill into the pit of my stomach.  It wasn’t a fear of the pain.  It was a fear of humiliation.  If you acknowledged what was happening, you would have to acknowledge that your honor and dignity were on the line; that you were being publicly degraded in front of all your peers.   What 12 year old could stand that?

I was different than Brandon and Nicolas because my father read to me from C.S. Lewis and Tolkien; damn them!  This was largely their fault; and my father can’t escape blame either.

Of course the nigger put his filthy hands on me next.

Towering over me, he poked his index finger into my chest, and said something about an “f–ing white boy” then, with his other hand, swung down, knocking me hard across the back of the head.  A fire burst inside of me.  I grabbed his finger, and bent it back as hard as I could, intending to break it, while simultaneously coming up out of my chair, swinging my fist.

Yes, I defended myself!

This could not be allowed and the art-teacher yelled “STOP!” louder than any of us had ever heard her before.  All activity in the room stopped, including me.  My deeply ingrained indoctrination told me to humbly and immediately submit to authority.

Of course, the nigger-animal I was fighting had no such stipulations.  During the pause, when the entire class had eyes only for the two of us and I was looking at the teacher hoping she would forgive me for daring to hit one of the chosen, he struck.  I believe they call it a sucker-punch.

He hit me in my left cheek, and all the class erupted in laughter, Brandon and Nicolas, the loudest of all.

I was trembling.  Humiliated.

To add insult to injury, the teacher said:  “Scott?  Are you ok?  Your face looks really red?”

I don’t remember what happened directly afterwords, but I do know that after class, I went to the office and told them I was sick.  I couldn’t stay at school after being so humiliated.  My mom believed the lie, and took me home.

That day, after school let out, I went out to check the mail right as the school bus was coming by.  In the back window, gesturing and laughing wildly, was Brandon.  He was still laughing and pointing at me, beating his fist into his open palm; dashing my hopes that they would forget about what had happened.

From that day forward, I was a target.  Brandon, Nicolas, and all the other white boys were forgotten.

C.S. Lewis, Tolkien, and my father, had singled me out for the constant stream of humiliation and battles that followed.

This is a small glimpse into how whites are taught in the government schools.  This is a small look into how my people are indoctrinated into silence and subservience.

Why do they ignore what is being done to them?  Why?

Because they are taught to.

Our ancestors created a wonderful world order where Christianity governed the thought process of every citizen.  Even the citizens who hated Christ and sought to rebel intellectually were charged with the crime of implicitly relying on Christian ethics and value!  (Nietzsche so insulted the atheist George Eliot.  Eliot was inconsistent with her atheism!)

Our fathers created for us a culture that a small minority of whites still live and move within today, even if they do so unconsciously.  It is this ghost of a worldview that is under the strongest attack.  It’s under the strongest attack today, because it is the greatest threat today.

And, our people don’t even realize it.

We are at the end of the time we have borrowed from our ancestors.

We must rebuild what they built, or we will die.

Dream Within a Dream

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of golden sand–

How few! Yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep–while I weep!

O God! Can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! Can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream? – Poe

I’m afraid to read history.

Some history is fine.  Stories about men doing brave things; those are fun.  I’m not afraid of those.  Stories of queens and princesses, and bravery; those are interesting.  Not scary at all!

It’s the sweeping look at man’s past that frightens me to no end.

It frighten me because the sifting and shifting of man seems completely meaningless.  The meta-narrative of history is incomprehensible to me, and as a Christian that is frightening!  After six thousand years, one should be able to look back and gain some idea of God’s plan, but I can’t fathom it.

It also seems that the good guys, all those in history I value and identify with, always lose in the end.

The brave Britons opposed the new Roman Catholic heresy that was being foisted on them, and they were slaughtered because of it.  They had all land and power taken from them, their prince for the rest of time to be chosen by a foreign power; their people marginalized to a small plot of land on a small island; for what?

The Crusaders fought to keep out the invading Muslim hoards, and now their ancestors allow Muslim to roam free across their boarders!

The brave Scots-Irish of the American South opposed tyranny and oppression, only to have their culture defeated and humiliated before all the world.  There are no Southerners left to speak of, so thorough has been our destruction!  Men today who consider themselves “unreconstructed” have no idea as to the depths they’ve actually been “reconstructed!”  Are there even 100 true Southern men left?  Maybe, but they don’t know each other.

The Boer nation; slaughtered en mass today.

Christianity?  All but dead, and furthermore, true expressions are few and far between.

I could continue the list, but I’ve already told you that looking at history frightens me.

Because I’m afraid of history, I am deathly afraid of the future.

I can’t decide on what to do or where to go because I’m paralyzed.  I don’t know why I even get out of bed in the mornings.

Where are you God?!

That’s the problem!  I’ve lost my faith in Him.

But, in thinking about it closer, perhaps I haven’t lost all faith in Him.  I still pray.  I still pray, because I do have some little faith in Him yet.  I have some little hope; some little joy.

Yes!  I pray with all the fervor that my mustard seed-sized faith can assemble!

You know, Henry the VIII was a descendant of those Britons!  His father taught him to love his ancestors, and his people, and their faith!  Maybe there is something there afterall?

The fending off of Muslims helped solidify Christianity and Christian peoples in Europe.  It looks like the same problem today is helping break through the utopian dreams of our European brethren!  A white dawn is breaking in Europe!

The ideals of our American fathers were built on sand!  That they are preserved by true Satanists instead of confused, yet honorable Southerners is a lesson that we will not learn until the future is upon us, but could it be learned in that way?  Is the slaughter of fathers a warning to sons?  Would we remaining 100 or so Southerons be persuaded of the evils of democracy had our ancestors formed their own nation?

One mustard-sized seed of faith shifts all of history into a stream of flowing experiences that ebb and flow around the concrete form of a cross.

And, that’s why I get out of bed in the mornings.

Review: Forgotten History of the Western People

I admit that I am a young Earth creationist.

To say so today automatically paints one as some sort of naive fundamentalist, but I don’t care. I’ve always been one for romance and fairy tales.

Because I believe in a world that is a little over six thousand years old and was once populated by giants, witches, magicians, dragons and all manner of creatures that no longer exist, (or do they?!) I am inclined to take chronology and legend very seriously.

While browsing through the famous Creation Museum, I found a small book, shoved way back in a corner, written by Bill Cooper, called ‘After the Flood.’  Mr. Cooper relies on lineage documents from various peoples of European descent and is able to trace the royal families all the way back to Noah!  His book was so exciting to me, that I read it through in one sitting.

It was from Bill Cooper’s website that I learned about Mike Gascoigne’s book “Forgotten History of the Western People: From the Earliest Origins.” Cascoigne’s book promised to be a more in-depth look at the same sort of genealogical study.

They say that a student should never read a good book when there are so many great books out there!  So, is Mr. Gascoigne’s book good or great?  Well, after reading it I can’t say it’s a great book, although, against common wisdom I would nevertheless advise the student to read it.  It provides a succinct and interesting overview of history and the movements of people groups from the perspective of a Young Earth creationist.

Mike Gascoigne is not a professional genealogist, nor is he a historian.  Instead, like Cooper, he is a laymen who is interested in the subject, though he does have a background in chemical engineering.  Many of the arguments he makes are vague and sometimes I found it hard to determine which source was being cited.

So, do I think Mr. Gascoigne has it entirely right?  No, I can’t say that I do.  However, I think he’s got it mostly right, even despite his ambiguities.  History, in my opinion, happened something like the way he describes.

He starts by comparing ancient legends of the Babylonians, Greeks, and the Bible.  It must be confessed that there are striking parallels.  For instance, in the Babylonian flood account, their patriarch builds a giant boat for his family and friends, escapes a world-wide flood, and afterwords, releases birds to see if the flood waters had receded yet. These similarities make sense if you believe that all humanity dispersed from Noah’s three sons.

Some of Gascoigne’s less-concrete cases occur when he argues from obscure Greek myths and find parallels there with the OT scriptures.  The premise is that the gods of the Greek legends at one point represented real people, and can be compared to Noah, Noah’s wife, and his three sons.  From this idea, he associates different gods with Noah’s sons based on vague reasoning and comes up with a direct descent from the “gods” to the city of Troy, where we join the story of Brutus.

Oddly, Gascoigne seems to disagree with Cooper on one point.  Cooper’s studies imply that the Celts originated from Shem.  This is verified by the theory of E. Raymond Capt put forth in his book “Missing Links Discovered.”  However, Cascoigne maintains that the Celts are from Japeth, and even names one of the patriarchs as “Celtus.”

It’s all quite confusing, and I doubt if we’ll ever know for sure unless major archeological discoveries are made.  (And I daydream about that happening.)  At any rate, as I said above, I believe something like this happened:

Apparently, after Babel the people were dispersed in different language groups that corresponded loosely with their family groups.  For instance, it may be the case that Japeth’s family was divided into three different languages, each of whom migrated with each other in the same general westward direction?  Gascoigne doesn’t speculate about this.  What happens is, Troy becomes the next greatest established city.  Troy is destroyed, as we all know, and Brutus’ father escapes.  Brutus comes back later and gathers the remaining Trojans and sets off to find a new homeland.

Along the way, he battles giants and magicians, and ends up on the island of Albion, where he founds the city of London.  From here, we see the battles with the invading Saxons, who eventually force the Britons into, what is today known as, Wales.

Gascoigne shows hows the Britons resisted the new Roman Catholic Christianity in favor of their more organic and direct faith, which eventually lead to the slaughter of 1200 monks and the subjection of the Britons as a people.

The story and speculation about the first church built in England was fascinating.  There is very good historical evidence that suggests Joseph of Arimathea traveled north with a small band of followers and built it there.  There is also speculation and legend that says the apostle Paul, and perhaps even Jesus Christ Himself once visited the isle.  But, contrary to E. Raymond Capt (for instance) Gascoigne rejects the latter but admits that it’s possible that Paul could have had a third missionary journey to Britain.

There are many fascinating stories along the way, and much of this was new and inspiring for me.  His book isn’t that long, and is not filled with repetitive, mundane, or overly technical language.  If you’re interested in genealogies and ancient texts, you’d love it!

True Story of a Princess

Once upon a time, in a land called Cambria, there was a valiant people called the Silurians.  Their king was named Caractacus.

He fought bravely against the invading Romans, and managed to keep them at bay for quite awhile.

Times were violent, and yet good.  Caractacus had a number of children, two of whom included his son Lyn (also called Linus) and his daughter Gladys (also called Claudia.)

The Romans were not content to allow Caractacus to reign unchecked and finally forced him to make his last stand on a hill called Caer Caradoc at Church Stretton in Shropshire.  He was unable to hold them off, and retreated north with his family to a nearby kingdom ruled by Queen Cartimandua.

But Queen Cartimandua was trecherous and betrayed Caractacus and his family.  They were captured by the Romans and transported to Rome to stand trial.

Thus, the rule of the brave Silurians came to an end.

Times looked grim, but at the last minute, God smiled on Caractacus!  The fallen king was led in front of the Roman Emperor Claudius to plead his case.  This is what he said:

“Had my moderation in prosperity been equal to my noble birth and fortune, I should have entered this city as your friend rather than as your captive; and you would not have disdained to receive, under a treaty of peace, a king descended from illustrious ancestors and ruling many nations.  My present lot is as glorious to you as it is degrading to myself.  I had men and horses, arms and wealth.  What wonder if I parted with them reluctantly?  If you Romans choose to lord it over the world, does it follow that the world is to accept slavery?  Were I to have been at once delivered up as a prisoner, neither my fall nor your triumph would have become famous.  My punishment would be followed by oblivion, whereas, if you save my life, I shall be an everlasting memorial of your clemency.” – As reported by Tacitus in the Annals, XII,37

Perhaps it was a combination of the Spirit of God, political reasons, and the passion of this speech that moved the Emperor’s heart, but he decided to spare Caractacus’ life!

He was sentenced to live in Rome for 7 years under a sort of house-arrest, and his family stayed with him.

They lived in relative freedom and moved into a house called “Pallatium Britannicum” (British Palace), given to them by the Emperor.

While there, his children Claudia and Linus both fell under the influence of a new religion that was circulating around Rome.  They became followers of a man named Christ!

Claudia, the Silurian princess, married a Roman senator named Rufus Pudens, and the two lived in a happy Christian marriage.

A famous man in these Christian circles was imprisoned, and the couple (Claudia and Rufus) took him in while he served out his time.   It is also likely that Rufus Pudens, because of his status as a Senator, was able to keep worse punishments from being leveled against this man.

Yes, dear readers, it is true:

“Do thy dilligence to come before winter.  Eubolus greeteth thee, and Pudens, and Linus, and Claudia, and all the brethren. The Lord Jesus Christ be with thy spirit.  Grace be with you. Amen.” – 2 Timothy 4:21

(I am very grateful to Mike Gascoigne’s book “Forgotten History of the Western People” for bringing the facts of this story to my attention.)

The Petty Bourgeois Mentality

Jared Taylor describes the social climate of the Soviet Union:

“The very recentness of such terms as “racism” and “racial prejudice” is an indication of how quickly our thinking has changed.  To make a serious moral failing out of concepts that did not even exist in the time of our grandparents is a sign of dizzyingly rapid change.

In terms of language, America’s experience has been like that of communist revolutions.  In the Soviet Union, traditional assumptions were suddenly declared reactionary and criminal.  Private enterprise and private gain, which had always been the driving forces of the economy, were outlawed, and new words had to be invented for what were now crimes.  People who still believed in private gain had a “petty bourgeois mentality,” and those who wanted to keep the fruits of their labor were “stealing from the state.” Anyone who defended the free market was a “stooge of imperialism.” After the fall of communism, private gain was once more recognized as a normal and even necessary economic motivation, and the words that had been invented to criminalize it fell into disuse.”

He continues in a footnote:

“During the years that led to the rehabilitation of traditional thinking in the former East Bloc, the reverse process continued in the West.  Many new crimes were discovered during the 1970s and 1980s:  sexism, homophobia, lookism, ableism, speciesism, male chauvinism, nativism, etc.  Whenever society turns against attitudes that were once widespread, it must invent new words to stigmatize what is now a crime.  It may be distinctly twentieth-century experience for large numbers of people to be accused of moral failings for which the very words to describe them have only just been invented.” – Race and the American Prospect, pg. 141.

That sort of Satanic programing was far more humane than what is happening in America at the moment.

To have a petty bourgeois mentality meant that you were greedy and self-serving; that you put your own needs and economic welfare over those of your fellow comrades!

I say this was more humane, because in America today, it’s one’s huamnity that is sacrificed to the state!

Americans require the very souls of their neighbors!  They’re not content with robbing each other of material possessions; the heart and mind must be sacrificed as well!

The Apostle says that in God we live, move and have our being.  But this cannot be for the Satanist (a term which refers to the modern American, no matter what his or her profession.)  In the State we must live, move and have our being!

Our Sovereign State determines who can and cannot be married.  Our Sovereign State determines who is and is not a family.  Our Sovereign State determines who can and cannot be a part of our nation!  In all things, our State is sovereign!

The petty bourgeois mentality is nothing compared to the petty familism of the blue-collar workers of today.  In the Soviet Union, petty men valued their own possessions over the material wealth of others, and valued the fruit of their labor more so than that of other laborers!  They presumed to work for an entity other than the State!  In the same way, the familist loves himself and his family more than other familes!  His preposterous belief in a sphere of sovereignty outside of the State is blasphemous!

He must give all of his heart and all of his mind to the State because to do otherwise is to necessarily blaspheme.  To do otherwise, in one move, casts off the sovereignty of the state and claims a higher authority!

To do otherwise is to hold up a hand to the State and cry: “Halt! You shall not come any further!  You have no authority to define what a family is!  You have no authority to define what a marriage is!  You have no authority to define nationhood!  That authority rests with the One in Whom we live, move and have our being!”

I have a petty bourgeois mentality, and I also have a petty familist mentality.

I will not sell my heart to the state.

It belongs to Him, and He can light up a heart with heat so intense that it can burn all the paper in all the bureacracies in all the state buildings in all the Satanic world!

Should Our Fathers Speak?

Consider this famous saying of G.K. Chesterton:

“Tradition means giving votes to the most obscure of all classes, our ancestors. It is the democracy of the dead. Tradition refuses to submit to the small and arrogant oligarchy of those who merely happen to be walking about. All democrats object to men being disqualified by the accident of their birth; tradition objects to their being disqualified by the accident of death. Democracy tells us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our groom; tradition tells us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our father.” – Orthodoxy

Of course, not everyone honors tradition, just like not everyone is a democrat!

The opinion of our fathers is useless to those who could care less. It’s also useless to those who have no coherent concept of history.

So, for these two sets of people, I submit, that appealing to the wisdom of our fathers on matters of race is a futile effort.

If Van Til has taught us anything, it is the non-existence of brute factuality! Even if we prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that John Calvin, for instance, condemned miscegenation as sin, this wouldn’t phase our egalitarian brothers at all! “Calvin was obviously mistaken”, they’ll say! These people play fast and loose with God’s word; do you really think that they’ll have moral qualms about doing the same with the words of our Christian fathers?

No sir, they won’t!

When told that the vast majority of Christendom (up until the last 60 or so years) had a dramatically different view on racial issues and society than the majority of people today, our egalitarian brother shrugs and says: “prove it!” Which elicits a volley of quotes and historical fact mining on our part; all of which falls on deaf ears.

Every historical fact, and every quote will be challenged. When one is explained away, the next is waiting and that one as well, will be explained away. When all the quotes are exhausted, then all the facts of history must be gone through and explained away. Once all the facts of history are sufficiently interpreted, then all the facts of human experience must, likewise, be re-interpreted!

And that, my friends, is a never ending process since human experience is never-ending.

So, I submit that we give up using this historical argument in the usual ways. We must reduce our egalitarian brothers’ worldview to absurdity and logically surpass their desire to reinterpret all the brute data of experience. This can easily be done by appealing to God’s nature and His image that resides within us; we are to build up order and take dominion over the world within Godly bounds. This is, of course, diametrically opposed to the ends of the Satanist who wants to abolish all God-ordained order in the world and ring in an egalitarian Hell, where all distinction in human experience (be it among races, or among letters) is abolished in favor of the fiat word of the state!

I’ll expound on this apology in a future blog.

For now, I’d like to clarify one way that the historical argument can be saved, and indeed should be utilized!

Mr. Cambria says that the best way to reach people is to tell them a story. This certainly worked for me. When I read Jane Austin’s “Mansfield Park” I was transported to a beautiful world that no longer exists; but I wished for it to exist! I wanted it to be real so badly. The same is true of John Buchan’s “Witch Wood.” The noble and eccentric folk he describes really lived! Maud Ruthyn and the high-society of cousin Monica(as Le Fanu describes in “Uncle Silas”) were real people, despite their being fictional!

Telling stories is one way to surreptitiously argue from history. These novels promise to grab even the most calloused of egalitarian hearts and not let go! They communicate the passion and romance of our fathers that simple assertion fails to transmit!

If Hell is the London of Dickens, and Heaven, the mocha-colored dream world of today’s D.C. metro area; then condemn me to the most despicable hill in Britain!

This sort of argument from history is a profoundly beneficial polemic and simultaneously inspires hope.

If God created that sort of place once, He will do it again.

We just have to be steadfast and believe in a world that was, and could be once more!

Scriptural Argument Against Theistic Evolution

Here’s a great, and succinct, argument against Theistic Evolution:

I invite everyone to watch the rest of this guy’s videos and visit his apologetics website:  http://realapologetics.org/

Office Humor

(How would you feel if you received the following email in the midst of a busy day at the office?):

Dear Mrs. Meeks,

I remain in an unresolved disposition in reference to our mutual project left incomplete earlier this week. I am, of course, referring to the DVD label that you so graciously printed for me and with wisdom, predicted the changes that were to be required.

Events have painted you quite the prophetess. Mr. Langdon (our mutual acquaintance and my immediate superior) did indeed settle on various small tweaks which I have endeavored to change.

Having completed my task, I now seek your assistance, once again, in printing the attached label.

I thank you on behalf of all involved for the labor you’ve invested in this project.

Kindest Regards,

Scott Terry

from: She Stoops to Conquer

Let school-masters puzzle their brain

With grammar, and nonsense, and learning;

Good liquor, I stoutly maintain,

Gives genus a better discerning.

Let them brag of their Hathenish Gods,

Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians;

Their Quis, and their Quaes, and their Quods,

They’re all but a parcel of Pigeons.

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll!

-

Oliver Goldsmith

The Evolution of an Inkling: Part 1

Mr. Frost,

Odd events have reached my attention concerning a fellow Sailor who has become entangled in a sullen adventure, the resolution of which is yet to be determined! I recount to you what little has been passed on to me through the news and personal correspondence in the hopes that you could apply your particular wisdom to the ordeal; which, if nothing else, promises to provide us both with interesting theological puzzles for future discussions.

I had best begin by describing my associate’s state of mind, because all action of the sort I’m about to relay begins as a jumble of un-inspired feelings which usually cease their importance directly after bubbling into the mind of the author. There are, on occasion, a jumble of feelings that do not go away. They become something more concrete and may, at this point in the evolution, be thought of as an inkling!

My friend, who, for convenience’s sake I’ll refer to as James, wasn’t the sort who often had inklings. His story was normal (from what I gather). He attended a government school without setting himself apart in any real way from his classmates. His parents attributed his unremarkable performance to an apathetic mood, though, being rather apathetic themselves, never thought to do much about it.

So James was greatly received the day he, quite unexpectedly, announced his intention to join the service. He had never shown interest before in this sort of heroism, at least, nothing seriously. So, what a joy it was, his parents concluded, that their boy was to make something so unexpected of himself! A true hero!

Of course, the seeds of James’ inkling were planted by his father, (most seeds are planted this way and the importance of fathers has been well noted in our previous conversations so I will not digress further on the topic.) The crime of his father, in the face of a pagan society, was to be inconsistently apathetic, letting, at certain times, an unfortunate ray of passion slip into the odd bed-time story or suffuse itself in a random dinner conversation. These, the young James latched onto passionately though in ignorance. They formed his countenance and guided his daydreams for quite awhile before giving birth to the inkling I’ve been describing.

So he joined the Navy, hoping to be a hero. But, during the course of the enlistment his inkling was forced to traverse the perilous gulf of abstraction and grow into a true idea! The Navy was not, as he had assumed, a welcome place for heroes. Rather it was demonstrated through many unfortunate events that he was surrounded by scoundrels! (Not all were scoundrels of course, for it was around this point in the story that I was stationed in Washington D.C. and the two of us became acquainted. While I am too modest to boast of myself, I hope you forgive me for presuming to be somewhat less than a scoundrel!)

James immediately concluded that his idea could not be supported by further enlistments; though by this time his entire adult life had been given to a false pursuit and he despaired of ever having any sort of sustainable living. Furthermore, his inkling had evolved into a very big idea and he felt imposed upon for the first time in all of his life!

True, he had joined in the rants of his fellow political ideologues, but he had never truly felt oppressed by those ideas that he opposed. He and I, on occasion, were known to quarrel with various dissenting factions within the Republican Party. His internal struggle became more apparent to me over time as I noticed him drifting further and further from acceptable dispositions.

I remember telling him once, “James, if you’re not careful with talk of that sort, people may think you’re an extremist!” He replied with startling passion, “It takes one to know one Scott!” At the time his reply was enigmatic, but the events which took place afterwords clarified his indictment against a woefully inept society.

I felt that, for awhile, James had curbed his passions, at least publicly, and was content to stew in personal ruminations. But this state is unbecoming for heroes as well as villains, and so its with a mixture of admiration and repulsion that I recount the following episode; an account that describes, at least in my opinion, the culmination of James’ very big and true idea into a full fledged conviction:

He heard of an event being sponsored a few counties over that boasted Virginia Senator John Warner as one of the guests. Due to the out-of-the-way locale it promised to be an intimate gathering, and after inquiring about my wishes, reserved four places for us and our female companions.

It became something of a race to see which of us would persuade a young lady first, and with some small trouble on my part, (though James was never bothered by this sort of thing) we were both suitably coupled for the evening.

James had introduced himself to a wonderful dark-haired woman named Amanda one Sunday at the church he attended. After a bit of clever conversation she readily accepted his invitation. I can’t imagine how the poor girl feels when looking back, but I believe that her character is a sturdy material and she appreciates the events that transpired.

I found the company of Ms. Sarah, a waitress at our local pub, very agreeable, and since we were already on fair terms, invited her along with the understanding that there were no romantic feelings in the proposal and that I merely desired her company for the evening. (That she saw through my lie would make for an interesting, though far-less exciting, story.)

We arrived early and mingled with the crowd. James and I, being unaccustomed to this sort of fare, were dressed in a way that stressed the limits of acceptability. We both had on our jeans and a nice shirt. James even had enough credulity to wear cowboy boots! We made quite the site as we walked through the dining hall among the tuxedos and high-class attire. Our dates, on the other-hand, had a seeming 6th sense for fashion, as ladies often do, and were dressed magnificently. To their credit, they neither ignored our awkward dress, or allowed it to embarrass them; rather, as true ladies, they confidently supported our choice. Amanda, being a bit flirtatious in a youthful and charming way, made an off-hand comment about the way James’ boots’n’jeans complimented his bottom, leaving James quite thrown for a few minutes. A condition which I hate to admit, I took great pleasure in witnessing!

Things went pleasant enough during dinner, though after a few glasses of wine I suggested to James, in a quiet voice, that he had best slow down. I knew that he wasn’t taken to public indiscretion, and I couldn’t fathom what he was planning.

After dinner, the crowd retired to a parlor room, where Senator Warner intended to entertain us with a speech. As he lectured on the droll and life-less talking-points of the Republican Party, James was shifting restlessly next to me. At times, he would offer some sarcastic or overly-critical commentary on what was being said. At other times, specifically when Senator Warner would theatrically pause to receive applause, James would make it a point not to clap at all.

“I was stupid to have come to this Scott. If not for the good food and pleasant company, I’d consider this night an incredible loss. I’m dumber for having listened to this man.”

“I know you feel strongly about this James,” I replied, “but I didn’t know you had descended into complete disdain! What of the talking points? He may not be the best speaker, but you can’t argue with what he’s saying?”

“I can and consider it my duty to do just that!” he said, sardonically.

>>>STORY UNDER CONSTRUCTION<<<

r. Frost,

Odd events have reached my attention concerning a fellow Sailor who has become entangled in a sullen adventure, the resolution of which is yet to be determined!  I recount to you what little has been passed on to me through the news and personal correspondence in the hopes that you could apply your particular wisdom to the ordeal; which, if nothing else, promises to provide us both with interesting theological puzzles for future discussions.

I had best begin by describing my associate’s state of mind, because all action of the sort I’m about to relay begins as a jumble of un-inspired feelings which usually cease their importance directly after bubbling into the mind of the author.  There are, on occasion, a jumble of feelings that do not go away.  They become something more concrete and may, at this point in the evolution, be thought of as an inkling!

My friend, who, for convenience’s sake I’ll refer to as James, wasn’t the sort who often had inklings.  His story was normal (from what I gather).  He attended a government school  without setting himself apart in any real way from his classmates.  His parents attributed his unremarkable performance to an apathetic mood, though, being rather apathetic themselves, never thought to do much about it.

So James was greatly received the day he, quite unexpectedly, announced his intention to join the service.  He had never shown interest before in this sort of heroism, at least, nothing seriously.  So, what a joy it was, his parents concluded, that their boy was to make something so unexpected of himself!  A true hero!

Of course, the seeds of James’ inkling were planted by his father, (most seeds are planted this way and the importance of fathers has been well noted in our previous conversations so I will not digress further on the topic.)  The crime of his father, in the face of a pagan society, was to be inconsistently apathetic, letting, at certain times, an unfortunate ray of passion slip into the odd bed-time story or suffuse itself in a random dinner conversation.   These, the young James latched onto passionately though in ignorance.  They formed his countenance and guided his daydreams for quite awhile before giving birth to the inkling I’ve been describing.

So he joined the Navy, hoping to be a hero.  But, during the course of the enlistment his inkling was forced to traverse the perilous gulf of abstraction and grow into a true idea!  The Navy was not, as he had assumed, a welcome place for heroes.  Rather it was demonstrated through many unfortunate events that  he was surrounded by scoundrels!   (Not all were scoundrels of course, for it was around this point in the story that I was stationed in Washington D.C. and the two of us became acquainted.  While I am too modest to boast of myself, I hope you forgive me for presuming to be somewhat less than a scoundrel!)

James immediately concluded that his idea could not be supported by further enlistments; though by this time his entire adult life had been given to a false pursuit and he despaired of ever having any sort of sustainable living.  Furthermore, his inkling had evolved into a very big idea and he felt imposed upon for the first time in all of his life!

True, he had joined in the rants of his fellow political ideologues, but he had never truly felt oppressed by those ideas that he opposed.   He and I, on occasion, were known to quarrel with various dissenting factions within the Republican Party.  His internal struggle became more apparent to me over time as I noticed him drifting further and further from acceptable dispositions.

I remember telling him once, “James, if you’re not careful with talk of that sort, people may think you’re an extremist!”  He replied with startling passion, “It takes one to know one Scott!”  At the time his reply was enigmatic, but the events which took place afterwards clarified his indictment against a woefully inept society.

I felt that, for awhile, James had curbed his passions, at least publicly, and was content to stew in personal ruminations.  But this state is unbecoming for heroes as well as villains, and so its with a mixture of admiration and repulsion that I recount the following episode;  an account that describes, at least in my opinion, the culmination of James’ very big and true idea into a full fledged conviction:

He heard of an event being sponsored a few counties over that boasted Virginia Senator John Warner as one of the guests.  Due to the out-of-the-way locale it promised to be an intimate gathering, and after inquiring about my wishes, reserved four places for us and our female companions.

It became something of a race to see which of us would persuade a young lady first, and with some small trouble on my part, (though James was never bothered by this sort of thing) we were both suitably coupled for the evening.

James had introduced himself to a wonderful dark-haired woman named Amanda one Sunday at the church he attended.  After a bit of clever conversation she readily accepted his invitation.  I can’t imagine how the poor girl feels when looking back, but I believe that her character is a sturdy material and she appreciates the events that transpired.

I found the company of Ms. Sarah, a waitress at our local pub, very agreeable, and since we were already on fair terms, invited her along with the understanding that there were no romantic feelings in the proposal and that I merely desired her company for the evening.  (That she saw through my lie would make for an interesting, though far-less exciting, story.)

We arrived early and mingled with the crowd.  James and I, being unaccustomed to this sort of fare, were dressed in a way that stressed the limits of acceptability.  We both had on our jeans and a nice shirt.  James even had enough credulity to wear cowboy boots!  We made quite the site as we walked through the dining hall among the tuxedos and high-class attire.  Our dates, on the other-hand, had a seeming 6th sense for fashion, as ladies often do, and were dressed magnificently.  To their credit, they neither ignored our awkward dress, or allowed it to embarrass them; rather, as true ladies, they confidently supported our choice.  Amanda, being a bit flirtatious in a youthful and charming way, made an off-hand comment about the way James’ boots’n’jeans complimented certain parts of his anatomy, leaving James quite thrown for a few minutes.  A condition which I hate to admit, I took great pleasure in witnessing!

Things went pleasant enough during dinner, though after a few glasses of wine I suggested to James, in a quiet voice, that he had best slow down.  I knew that he wasn’t taken to public indiscretion, and I couldn’t fathom what he was planning.

After dinner, the crowd retired to a parlor room, where Senator Warner intended to entertain us with a speech.  As he lectured on the droll and life-less talking-points of the Republican Party, James was shifting restlessly next to me.  At times, he would offer some sarcastic or overly-critical commentary on what was being said.  At other times, specifically when Senator Warner would theatrically pause to receive applause, James would make it a point not to clap at all.

“I was stupid to have come to this Scott.  If not for the good food and pleasant company, I’d consider this night an incredible loss.  I’m dumber for having listened to this man.”

“I know you feel strongly about this James,” I replied, “but I didn’t know you had descended into complete disdain!  What of the talking points?  He may not be the best speaker, but you can’t argue with what he’s saying?”

“I can and consider it my duty to do just that!” he said, rather sardonically.