The Rescue of Von Jones

Mr. Von Jones has gotten so feeble in his old age, that his daughter finally took him off somewhere; I’m not sure if it’s to a nursing home or if he’s moved in with her.  But before he moved, he lived by himself.

My uncle was his closest friend (that I know of).  He’s a Baptist pastor at a small church out in the country and I suppose he felt obligated to look after Mr. Jones.  So, he’d go out of his way to help him when he could.

I met Von Jones when I went to the local community college to talk to my uncle about joining the machining program.  In addition to being a small-town pastor, my uncle is also the master-machinist at the college and was more than happy to welcome me into a blue-collar trade that he’s been passionate about for years.

Von Jones was sitting in the office, half-asleep.  We had lunch, the three of us, and I got to know him a little better.  He was a fiercely independent old man.  He insisted on taking care of himself.  My uncle told me that Von kept a  house full of guns and ammo, even though I doubt he’d have the strength to chamber a round.  A defiant southerner to the end.

I’ve thought about Mr. Jones a lot over the past few months, especially when I get depressed about the state of Dixie and her morally-depraved institutions.   With so much depressing content in the news, it’s easy to despair.  “What has happened to the South” I’m tempted to ask?  “Where is the honorable society I romanticize?”

I think about Mr. Jones in times like this because of something that happened to him a few months ago.

I was at my uncle’s house, helping tear down his barn.  We had demolished the sub-structure but the rafters were still in tact, so we had to crawl around in the rubble with our hammers and crow-bars, dismantling them piece by piece.

During mid-hammer blow, my uncle stopped.  I glanced over in time to see him jump off the wood-pile and disappear.  “A wreck” he shouted!  I was on the inside of the rubble so I hadn’t heard anything, but I could tell by his eyes and tone of voice that something major had just happened.

I climbed out and took off running.  I could hear a car-horn.  One continuous beep — it didn’t bode well.  I didn’t know what I’d see when I ran around the corner of the house.

At this point in the story, everything seemed to happen in slow motion.  At least, that’s the way I remember it.  I get chills when I think of how it all played out.

I hold this memory up in defiance to all those who gloat over the death of old Dixie:

Von Jones had come for a visit but fell asleep during the drive.  Instead of taking the sharp turn in front of my uncle’s house, he went full speed off the road and into a tree.  His car was totaled and I saw him there, hunched over the steering wheel.  His horn was blaring, his airbags were out, and there was smoke coming from under the hood.

This is where the music starts in my narrative — inspirational music that matches the pace of my slow-motion account.

I ran to Mr. Jones.  My uncle and cousin were ahead of me, but I quickly caught them up.  I arrived at the car and tried to pry open the door.  It was hard because the car was in a thicket of briars.  I struggled.  Immediately, a second pair of hands were on the door.  Then a third.  Then a fourth?!

Hunters were materializing out of the woods.  Camouflaged men and women crawled out of the thicket and lent their strength to the rescue effort.  We got Mr. Jones out.  He was ok, but shaken.  Once he was safe, we focused our attention on the smoke and car-horn.

My cousin is an EMT and volunteer fire-fighter. Within minutes he had a rescue and fire-truck on scene.  One of the hunters was a deputy.  He called his partner, who arrived just after the ambulance.  The peaceful country-side erupted into a frenzy of dedicated service.

Now you — you degenerate, God-hating Satanists who despise old Dixie — you tell me that she’s dead!  You tell me that we don’t care for our own!  You tell me there isn’t a blue-collar heroism just waiting for evil to challenge it!

I thank God for Von Jones and I’ll always remember the day white heroes literally popped from the wood-work to save one of their own.

Deo Vindice.

A Kinist’s Take on the 2012 AMREN Conference

It came burning hot into my mind,
whatever he said and however he flattered,
when he got me home to his house,
he would sell me for a slave.
~ John Bunyan

Dear readers,

Have you ever felt exhilarated and discouraged at the same time?  Put a name to that emotion and that’s how I’m feeling in the aftermath of the 2012 American Renaissance conference.  I’ve heard nothing but good reviews so far (see here and here) and that’s part of the reason I feel a little discouraged.

If Jared Taylor’s organization represents a movement (and I think I’m being kind in granting that it does) then it’s not a movement that is interested in the sensibilities of a Christian Southerner like myself.  On the other hand, getting the chance to flex my intellectual muscles among like-minded folk was thrilling.  The company of compatriots was a refreshing end to the long night of isolation.  To say out loud the things I’ve only been able to write (or type) was well worth the drive to Nashville.

My journey through Nashville warrants a brief mention.  I arrived early and decided to explore.  I wanted to see the famous Vanderbilt University — the institution that birthed the Twelve Southerners who penned that famous book of essays, “I’ll Take My Stand” and helped spark a Southern renaissance.  Vanderbilt has a beautiful campus, (some of her female students match the blooming dogwoods in glamor, though, as you’re soon to learn, have nothing of the dogwood’s appeal).

I wandered around the campus and talked to some of the students.  I wanted to see if any of them were going to be the next John Crowe Ransom or Stark Young.  I struck up a conversation with a young lady ( a few years younger than myself) who, after learning about the Twelve Southerners and having gained some small insight about their thinking, assured me that nothing of that sort was taught at Vanderbilt and that she was appalled that I was so stuck in “another century” that I’d dare bring up such a politically incorrect subject.  She, erm, “politely” declined my invitation to have lunch.

And so it went (though not as dramatic) with other students.

In memory of the Twelve, I wanted to leave tire-tracks across the well-manicured campus — something in the shape of a Confederate Flag, maybe — but thought better of it.  Instead, I hung my head and whistled Dixie all the way back to my car, in long, mournful notes.  Later that evening, I raised a glass (or twelve) to my literary heroes.

But then, there was the conference.

I didn’t fully agree with any of the speakers, with the exception of perhaps James Edwards whose discussion was more pragmatic than ideological.  Some of the speakers I have very serious and profound disagreements with.  Remember earlier, I claimed that if Jared Taylor’s organization was to be considered a movement, it isn’t a movement that is kind to my sensibilities as a Christian Southerner?  Let me explain what I meant more thoroughly:

The great Sam Dickson (an archetypical Southern gentleman) did a wonderful job, as usual, in crafting together, in broad strokes, the underlying ideology that ties the American Renaissance ilk together into a recognizable movement.

“We’re empirical!” he says.  “We’re scientific!  We base our position on the facts!”

He used the old secularist buzz-phrases and, in so many words, declared that the racial-realist (and ethnic-nationalist) movements are based on secularism and scientific empiricism — the same evils that helped birth the dragon of modernism (on my view).  I recall thinking, during the presentations, that these guys adhered to the same religion as the neo-babelists, egalitarians and alienists.  The only difference between them is one of eschatology.  How ought the world play out?  To what end is man working?  They answer these questions similarly to the neo-babelist, but instead of a mixed utopia, desire a white utopia.

To further exemplify my observation, some of the AmRen speakers (and many in the crowd) advocated for eugenics.  This was especially the case with Dr. Richard Lynn.  He distinguished between “positive” and “negative” eugenics, the one being implemented through various educational endeavors aimed at improving desired genes.  The other is coerced by the strong arm of the state and aims to discourage, through sterilization and other means, the breading of non-desired genes.  Simply put, the one encourages, the other discourages.

Neither way is appealing to me as a Christian.  They both assume a bunch of pretentious, limp-wristed intellectuals, whose fingernails have never seen dirt, oil or blood, can sit around in their ivory towers and design humanity.  This is tyranny of one group of humans planners over countless millions.

Says Lewis:

“What we call Man’s power is, in reality, a power possessed by some men which they may, or may not, allow other men to profit by…And as regards contraceptives, there is a paradoxical, negative sense in which all possible future generations are the patients or subjects of a power wielded by those already alive.  By contraception simply, they are denied existence; by contraception used as a means of selective breeding, they are, without their concurring voice, made to be what one generation, for its own reasons, may choose to prefer.  From this point of view, what we call Man’s power over Nature turns out to be a power exercised by some men over other men with Nature as its instrument.” ~ Abolition of Man, pg. 55

“For its own reasons…”

That statement summarizes the bulk of my disagreement with the secular mind-set of the race-realists in attendance.  They want to arbitrarily impose their will over the rest of us.

Why do these people choose “IQ” as the standard to judge fellow humans?  Isn’t there more to a man than mere intelligence?  How high must his IQ be before we value him as a human?  My parents do not have the highest IQ in the world, should they not have been allowed to breed?  Should I not exist?  No.  There is far more to man than his IQ.  That’s why we don’t euthanize the elderly or pull the plug on coma patients.  And we certainly wouldn’t murder someone just because they happened to fall asleep!  (I don’t know what a sleeping man’s IQ is, but I’m sure he wouldn’t do well on a test).

The race-intellectuals’ dogmatic and zealous adherence to materialism and secular humanism, blinds them to the underlying dignity and spiritual importance of man.

I asked this question of one gentleman,

“Suppose there is a pill or injection that, once administered, would raise all humanity to an ideal IQ.  And, suppose further that everyone takes it.  Now the entire globe is similar in IQ.  Would we then be able to claim that our racial-group is special?”

The conversation moved on and he never directly answered the question.  (He was a marvelous conversationalist, however.  Having been in the Navy, like myself, he and I became friends.  He was also in possession of numerous fine cigars, which he handed out liberally.  Despite our minor disagreements, I found in him a compatriot and role-model.  I look forward to meeting him at other conferences).

Their IQ-topia doesn’t sound like the old Europe (or old Dixie) that I’ve come to love through literature.

I suppose this mindset has seeped into the movement from the influences of Frederick Nietzsche, though I have no idea why these folks are infatuated with him.  His philosophy, if followed consistently, would lead to complete nihilism in all things, ethics and politics included.  The idea that we need to impose our arbitrary whims on a chaotic universe always leads to tyranny.

This philosophy pops up elsewhere, especially in the realm of economics which was another hot topic among the conference participants.  I’ll have to discuss the rising ideology of social-credit theory and why it’s undesirable from a Christian point of view, in another post.

By way of general criticism, however, we Christians know that no man is omniscient, therefore, no man (or small group of men) can make decisions that will benefit all other men in a meaningful way.  The only way this is possible, is if the ruling man or group of men, make their decisions based on divine revelation, which is the only sure knowledge man can have about all of humanity, since it’s given to them by the only authority who can possibly know.

These very general comments provide the basis for a Christian theory of social-hierarchy and aristocracy, but as I said, all of that will have to be addressed in another post.

In conclusion, I think we Christians who are also racial-realists and ethnic-nationalists, should look at American Renaissance as less of a podium and more of a forum.  Jared Taylor shouldn’t be looked to as the leader of a movement, rather, he’s the facilitator of discussion among a full-spectrum of white-advocates and in that regard, is very good at his work.

When ideas collide and people interact on this level, I’m sure the truth, which by definition is God’s truth, will emerge on the field, victorious.

I met a lot of good friends (Mary! Courtney! B Oz! Mr. Jared P! Craig! And the guy who ran the Arktos books table, but I’m embarrassed because I’ve forgotten his name!) and many others.  I’m also always glad to see and speak with James Edwards, Paul Fromm, Jared Taylor and the great Sam Dickson.

I should also add a quick note of apology to Alex Kurtagic.  Due to some ill-perceived statement of his (on my part) I’ve been calling him Alex “Kurtragic”, but after meeting him in person, I’m ashamed of myself and hope to do right in the future.  He’s a very humble, poetic and passionate man whom I’m honored to have met.  (I suggested to him that he add zombies to the novel he’s presently writing, though I hope he doesn’t take me seriously.  I’d hate to see him use mundane-devices to curry pop-favor ).

I’m looking forward to a day when Kinists can have our own gathering of this sort, one where God is openly and formally honored and the spiritual nature of man can be discussed without reservation.  I’ve long daydreamed about who would speak at that sort of conference, but it doesn’t do any good thinking about that now.  For the present, I’ll take what I’ve learned from the AmRen and build on it for years to come.

Till the next breath…

Shotgun

Responding to Nil’s “Folly of Biblicism”

Faith and Heritage is an online publication that focuses on responding to intramural Christian debates about race, ethnicity and politics from a Kinist perspective.  A few days ago, they published an article by Nil Desperandum called “The Folly of Biblicism, Part 1:  The Authority of Natural Revelation.”

I disagree with Nil’s article and after thinking about it, decided that I could class my objections in two general categories, one focusing on the phenomenon of “biblicism” itself, and the other directed at Nil’s comments on the relationship between natural and special revelation.  My disagreements, especially about the latter, are serious in their scope.  At the same time, in light of our survival as a race, I consider them minute.  It’s not as if Nil’s errors (and F&H’s decision to publish his errors) are so serious that I’d be forced (under pretense of loyalty to my “Biblicist” scheme) to give up my friendship toward the magazine.  To the contrary, I have nothing but good-will towards F&H.

I’ll go further:  I thought about not responding to Nil’s article at all.   However, given the seriousness of my disagreements, and also my belief that Nil is headed for dark-waters should he stay consistent with his position, I decided a response is warranted.

In this post, I’ll discuss my first objection, saving my theological disagreements for another day:

On “Biblicism”

I am exhaustively familiar with the phenomenon being described as “Biblicism.”

Anyone who contends for the truth in public will meet a Christian who demands proof-texts for whatever is being discussed.  Debates about ethics, cosmology and abstract topics like logic and scientific theories, are all the more susceptible to this sort of naive “clinging” to Scripture.

Countless times, I’ve had people (even my own parents) demand that I provide a verse of Scripture that outlaws race-mixing — as if it were one of the 10 Commandments or something.  When I fail to provide any explicit statements against race-mixing (although, there may be a few), they sit back with their arms folded and presume some sort of ideological victory.

Back in my rambunctious days, I even called Matt Slick (the popular Radio-Apologist) and tried discussing the matter with him.  Imagine the irony as he demanded (in very rude tones) that the next thing out of my mouth had better be a Scripture verse, or else I’d be disconnected!  It’s ironic because it’s routine for him to speak with the most vile of unbelievers for hours, hearing them out and giving them the chance to explain themselves.  (Members of the same religion offer that sort of courtesy to each other).  But question popular racial paradigms and you’re shouted down and summarily rejected.

Nil says their problem is an epistemological one.  These folks don’t have a correct view of the relationship between special revelation and natural revelation.  They hold to the special-revelation at the expense of the natural. His article highlights the distinction between the two types of revelation and relates them in a way that I don’t think is theologically sound.

But, it’s my opinion that all the discussion of special vs. natural revelation was unnecessary anyway.  I don’t think the “Biblicists” are confused over epistemology.  At least, I doubt many of them have given much consideration to it at all.

They’re afraid.  Most Kinists are intelligent and articulate.  The “biblicist” picks up on that gets intimidated.  Many Christians, who are not intelligent or articulate, are afraid that their egalitarianism is threatened.  So they utilize the only tactic they know — they dogmatically-demand an explicit Biblical statement.

This is a social phenomenon, not an epistemological one (though there is much the epistemologist could discuss concerning it).  Immanuel Kant and Charles Darwin (among other Satanists) delivered a knock-out punch to Christians.  There was no longer any firm ground in Christendom from which to launch a counter-attack.  So many retreated into pietism.

With their knights having fled the field, the Christian flock was left defenseless against an army of wolves, who attacked viciously.  The “baas” of the sheep turned into the following mantra:

“I believe the Bible is true, no matter what the wolves say.”

Therefore:

“If what the wolves say doesn’t come directly from Scripture, it is to be rejected.”

What Nil (and others) are calling “Biblicism” is really a defense mechanism from the flock.

I don’t appreciate how the term is being used pejoratively.  As if “Biblicism” is a bad or undesirable title.  When listening to a course on normative ethics by Dr. Bahnsen, he admits that some schools of Christian ethicists claim that Theonomists are “biblicists.”  Disciples of Dutch philosopher Herman Dooyeweerd, specifically, are known for arguing that way.  Roman Catholics are also fond of claiming that Protestants have a “paper pope.”

Well, this is absurd, as Dr. Bahnsen points out.  The word “Biblicist” is hard to define, but if it’s meant to denote someone who worships a book, instead of the Creator, then we should say “idolator” instead.  If it doesn’t mean idolatry, then what does the word mean?

The theonomist response to being called a “Biblicist” is to own the title.  Yes, we take the Bible seriously as our standard for all of life.  If that’s what Biblicism means, then as good theonomists, Nil and the editors at F&H should follow Dr. Bahnsen’s example and own the term — and by all means, stop applying it to brow-beaten Christians who, in their view, have no other recourse than to Scripture.

The average Christian is afraid that if they begin trying to systematically make sense out of Scriptural revelation, that some philosopher / bully will come along and, using logic, dismantle his or her convictions.

So, it’s not natural-revelation they’re rejecting, but systematic understanding of the Biblical data.  And they’re not rejecting it because of some self-conscious epistemological position they have regarding the relationship between different modes of revelation.  They’re simply afraid of the wolves.

We have to convince them we’re not wolves.  We’re the new knights who will not abandon them to the ravages of modernism.

I’ve developed a wonderful response to these people, when, out of fear, they clamor for an explicit verse of scripture outlawing race-mixing, or supporting racial-realism or what have you.  I reply:

“It’s right next to the verse that says only explicit statements in Scripture are authoritative!”

Or, something like:

“It’s right next to the verse that says abortion is wrong.” 

Or,

“It’s right next to the verse that teaches the doctrine of the Trinity.”

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with someone asking us to present an in-depth, exegetical case for our position so that they can see if the Biblical data allows for our view.

But they seldom ask for that.  Instead, they cling (out of fright) to the only safe ground they know.

Time to let them know we’re the good-guys.

A Friday Playlist

It’s Friday!  If you’ve made it to this point in life then you’re to be commended — and even more so for spending your precious minutes reading my blog.

I want to impress upon my readers that country-folk (especially Southerners) have a unique philosophical outlook that’s represented in some very good writings by men calling themselves “agrarians.”  When you listen to country music on the radio — when you drive around in a big truck, wear camo, go hunting, respect elders, and sit on front-porches — when you take part in rural-American culture in any way, you’re carrying on a proud tradition.

There are people out there who write about this tradition and defend it to the best of their capabilities.  I hope to be one of them some day (I’ve got a long way to go.)

I can’t (in one blog) relay all the concerns and positions of the Southern Agrarians.  What I can do is make an object lesson out of helping you enjoy your Friday by posting some music videos.

One of the first things you’ll notice about these videos is that they’re of popular songs, but performed by normal people.  I love these “covers” and prefer them, in most cases, to the song performed by the artist.  As the music industry becomes more and more commercialized, there’s a lack of “heart.”

Not so for the covers.  These are real people and the songs they sing affect them on a deep, personal level (unlike the artist who performs the same song day after day, thousands of times.)  People who sing these “covers” are concerned with good recording and quality.  They’re honest and a true expressions of our culture.  I love watching what other people do and one day I might post some of my own.

So, pull up my blog, plug in your headphones, hit “play” (minimize it so no one at work sees you goofing off), listen, and enjoy.

I will be:

Where Corn Don’t Grow, originally by Waylon Jennings (and was covered later by Travis Tritt) this is a great cover by Josh Porter.

Fly Away, originally by Sugar Land, this is one of my favorite covers.  The girl in the video does a great job.  I love her down-home voice and how this particular song really resonates with her.  I watch this video all the time.

The Dirt Road, originally by one of my favorite Country bands, Sawyer Brown.

Working Man’s PhD, originally by Aaron Tippin, another one of my favorite artists.  This video is hilariously ironic, he sings about working hard, but his house is a wreck.  I love the country accent and real-tree get-up.

Song of the South, by Alabama.

Maybe it was Memphis, originally by Pam Tillis.  This is an exceptionally well-done cover by a girl that’s sure to be a star one day.

Strawberry Wine, originally by Deana Carter.

Living on Love by Alan Jackson.

Like the Rain originally by Clint Black.

Rodeo, by Garth Brooks

I could post these all day.  I encourage you to look up the covers of your favorite songs on youtube.  People work hard to put them up there and it’s worth watching them.

Enjoy your Friday…and may the end of the work-day come soon!

“Pick-Up Artists” Need to Pick-Up Plows Instead of Women

Today is the 200th birthday of Charles John Huffam Dickens, author of great novels like David Copperfield, A Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations and A Christmas Carol.  I wanted to write a special homage to the man but honestly, I’m not as familiar with him as I should be.  I read “Great Expectations” in high school because I was forced into it; I didn’t enjoy the experience.  Later, I read “A Christmas Carol” because it was a famous Christmas classic, but still, I wasn’t conscious of a distinctly white (British) literary tradition and didn’t appreciate it.  (I even tried reading part of “Old Curiosity Shop” but couldn’t make it through.)

Years later, after realizing the war taking place against my people and culture, I realized how special Dickens was as a writer.  I realized his genius.  This past Christmas I think I read Dickens for the first time — as Dickens — in a way that recognized the importance of his work.  “The Battle of Life: A Love Story” was one of the most beautiful short-stories I’ve ever read.

But there is so much I don’t know about Dickens: the society he lived in, his concerns, his political views, and his life.  I know he’s influenced political discourse.  The phrase “Pickwician Liberal” is applied to some British politicians thanks to Dickens.  Wanna know what it means?  So would I.

In addition to my ignorance, there’s another reason I am not writing a homage to Dickens.  I’ve got something else on my mind.

While browsing Alternative Right today, I found a blog written by Peter Bradley called “The Dark Side of Game.”  It’s all about the male pick-up artist and how, in learning to manipulate the sexual desires of women, he gains valuable insights into the feminist movement.  The term “game” when used like this, implies a sort of charisma or charm that a male strategically employs in the presence of a young lady in the hopes of persuading her to have sex with him.   Best I can tell, the usage of the word in this way originated among the negros.  The more success a man has with women, the more “game” he is said to have.

Of course, the pagan white-nationalists aren’t so vulgar with their zeal.  They attach noble sentiments to the enterprise and make intellectual-sounding observations about it all.   In this way, the “pick-up artist” has shown up (as a theme) in many white-nationalists blogs and online writings.  He’s even shown up at Kinism’s own Faith & Heritage in an article written by Generation 5.  They’re all trying to say that some good might come from the “pick-up artist” (in one way or the other.) **EDIT** Just to be clear, the F&H, Gen.5 article is an excellent analysis of the Pick-up Artist phenomenon.  He expounds on many of the themes I cover in this blog.  I mention it here to demonstrate the wide-range of conversation about this topic in the WN community.

I don’t want to do a point-by-point rebuttal of Bradley’s article.  I doubt it would do any good.  But, while thinking about these things and fondly remembering Dickens at the same time, I had an insight:

One of my first jobs was picking produce in a field.  There were about ten of us white kids out there, picking tomatoes, squash, cucumbers and all the rest.  We’d pick them in the morning and haul them in to be sorted, washed and boxed in the afternoon.  It was hard work, but it was fun.  The farm was run by an old farmer of the old blue-collar stock.  He would tell us stories about “the niggers” and we’d laugh all afternoon.  His wife was a kind woman; the stereotypical farm wife.  But she had a pastime of meddling in the social affairs of the help.

That’s how I found myself picking tomatoes across from a beautiful young blond who recited to me, in a perfect Southern accent, the joke about the truck full of bowling-balls — you know the one?  Where the trucker, hauling a load of bowling balls stops to pick up some black hitch-hikers?  A little later, he’s stopped by a policeman who radios in an emergency:  “I need backup!  I just stopped a load of nigger-eggs and two of them have already hatched!” I’ve heard the joke dozens of times since then, but it was never as sweet as that first time.

Of course, I was too young to know what to do with the girl but you can’t blame a farm wife for trying.  (I’ll tell you this much:  I wont miss an opportunity like that again!)

Can you imagine if some pompous, flamboyantly-dressed, scumbag, strolled out into the middle of the field, flashed some dollar-bills, swayed his hips, and offered his “pick-up” routine to the girl?

I’d have knocked the guy out!  He’d have to “pick-up” his teeth out of the dirt.

But, that’s the issue, isn’t it?  They’re not strolling out into fields.  They’re not walking up into traditionally white settings and plying their trade.  They’re going to urban centers.  Cities, night clubs, cafe’s and bistros.  Decontextualized-living in these environments makes the “pick-up” game possible.  With so many atomized individuals, women are looking for someone with substance, who displays archetypical male traits.

By “archetypical male” I mean a male who conforms to a Godly image:  a strong, domineering man who has the power to take dominion over himself and his surroundings to the glory of God — for the purpose of ringing in order, fighting back chaos and establishing a firm foundation for his wife and future children.

The “pick-up artist” scum-bag has learned to successfully project this image (for a short period of time).

Far better for a man to go out into the fields and work hard — to actually *be* an archetypical man instead of simply pretending to be one.

This is how a very likeable couple in Dickens’ story “The Battle of Love” came together.   They worked with each other every day!   A sweet, though awkward, housekeeper named Clemency Newcome fell in love with the character Benjamin Britain (they both worked for a rich country Doctor).  You wouldn’t have expected those two to fall in love but in Dickens’ story, they did.

“I’m not sure,” said Mr. Britain, “that it’s what would be considered good philosophy.  I’ve my doubts about that; but it wears well, and saves a quantity of snarling, which the genuine article don’t always.”

“See how you used to go on once, yourself, you know! said Clemency.  “Ah!” said Mr. Britain.  “But the most extraordinary thing Clemmy, is that I should live to be brought round, through you.  That’s the strange part of it.  Through you!  Why, I suppose you haven’t so much as half an idea in your head.”

Clemency, without taking the least offense, shook it, and laughed, and hugged herself, and said, “No, she didn’t suppose she had.”  “I’m pretty sure of it,” said Mr. Britain.  “Oh!  I dare say you’re right,” said Clemency.  “I don’t pretend to none.  I don’t want any.”

Benjamin took his pipe from his lips and laughed till the tears ran down his face.  “What a natural you are, Clemmy!” he said, shaking his head, with an infinite relish of the joke, and wiping his eyes.  Clemency, without the smallest inclination to dispute it, did the like, and laughed as heartily as he.

“I can’t help liking you,” said Mr. Britain; “you’re a regular good creature in your way, so shake hands, Clem.  Whatever happens, I’ll always take notice of you, and be a friend to you.  “Will you?” returned Clemency.  “Well! that’s very good of you.”

Then, later on after they were married, Dickens describes how well of a match they turned out to be:

“Though the host of the Nutmeg-Grater had a lively regard for his good-wife, it was of the old patronising kind, and she amused him mightily.  Nothing would have astonished him so much, as to have known for certain from any third party, that it was she who managed the whole house, and made him, by her plain straight-forward thrift, good-humour, honesty, and industry, a thriving man.”

Transcendent Man

I just watched a very infuriating documentary outlining the thought of scientist Ray Kurzweil.  (“Transcendent Man” can be watched on Netflix.)

Kurzweil is known for creating things like the flatbed scanner and portable reading devices for the blind. He proposes that in 40 years (there-bouts) humans will have the ability to live forever, bring back the dead, and have near omniscience and omnipotence.  (Kurzweil’s life-long task is to resurrect his father, as well as achieve immortality for himself.)

This will be accomplished by reducing everything to base information and using nano-tech, bio-tech and robotics (AI) to enhance our lives.

Does God exist? “Not yet” says Kurzweil.

As I watched the documentary, I was reminded of John Ruskin’s words:

“We must either make a tool of the creature or a man of him. You cannot make both!”

Humanists, despite the ruse of holiness, despise humanity. They want to destroy themselves and literally (not just figuratively or legally or poetically) de-throne God and take His place.

For anyone who couldn’t tell it from his picture (or last name), Kurzweil is jewish.  I’ll have to discuss the overwhelming jewish influence in various trans-humanist, occult and other similar movements some other time.

For now, I’ll point out that many great thinkers see trans-huamanism as a profound evil.

- Rushdoony talks about it often. Men are literally trying to become sovereign, says Rush. He often alludes to Orwell who foresaw the attempt of man to become sovereign, even over nature. (There were microphones in the woods!)

- Michael Hoffman realizes this. He begins his book “Secret Societies and Psychological Warfare” with a discussion of “pig-men” and other human-man hybrids, with an eye for how disgusting and tragic it all is. Men are trying to turn themselves into gods, but they’re turning themselves into inhuman monsters! (I like Hoffman’s imagery!)

- Wendell Berry and the Southern Agrarians (among whom I consider Richard Weaver) see this, though in mitigated forms. When Kurzweil talks about “reducing everything to information” Berry or the Agrarians may talk about “industrialization” … but in the end, it’s the same concept. (Couple this theme with Berry’s idea of “propriety” and it all clicks into place.)

Self-conscious Agrarians (white, Christian, rural farm-folk) are the biggest enemy of the trans-humanist.

Unfortunately, contemporary Christendom cannot see the harm in transhumanism. Dr. Bahnsen (a scholar that I owe so much to) himself was an avid defender of supplementing the human body. (He often alluded to the fact that he had pig-parts in his heart as a way to show his solidarity with the ideas and defends genetic manipulation and other forms of bio-technologies. See here.)

When men can no longer defend their race, they’ll not be able to defend their own genes.

If we’ve lost the will to ideologically defend white-folk, then we will not have the will to defend human-folk either!

Ode to the House Centipede

Ode to the house centipede
Who gave his life for mine…
Can such a man as I
Be no less divine?

Also known as the Scutigera Coleoptrata, the house centipede is an insectivore originating from the Mediterranean region (but has since migrated elsewhere as you’ll soon discover) consisting of a long, yellowish body with 15 pairs of legs that allow it to reach the remarkable running speed of .4 meters per second.  Its unusual speed combined with a striking appearance make the house-centipede a formidable guest in any home.

My long (and, er…tentative…) relationship with the creatures began when I moved to Washington D.C.  As mutually infuriating as our dealings were, in the end I learned that God Almighty has even the interests of the house centipede close to His heart and teaches lessons with an ironic sense of humor.

Yes, a house centipede saved my life (in a manner of speaking).

Being alone in an unwelcoming place is something the house centipede and the North Carolinian have in common at times.  Unfortunate circumstances found me living in an undesirable city.  The long-arm of depression began massaging my shoulders (though characteristically apathetic in its ministrations).  It wasn’t long before I was  questioning life and wondering if there was a rational reason to live.

My mind reached dark places where things less-valiant than house centipedes lurk.  “Why live?” I would ask the Lord.  “What’s the point?”  I didn’t see any reason to go to work, eat, drink, or even get out of bed.

I lay there one morning staring at the ceiling and crying out my usual (and depressing) mantra to the Lord.  “Why, why why?  What rational reason is there for me to get out of bed this morning?”

By this time, I had met the house centipede, though not formally.  I had no idea what it was called.  Never having seen them as I was growing up in North Carolina, they remained alien to me.  Would it bite?  Would it sting?  Does it crawl all over me at night and lay eggs in my pillows?  (Uuggghhhh)  The most disturbing observation about these animals was the way they seemed attracted to my body (presumably my body-heat.)  In my apartment, this particular bug was damned on sight.

Well…damned on sight most of the time, anyway.  While laying in bed, seeped in depression, I noticed one of my many-legged companions crawling along the wall.

“Lord, at this point why even bother keeping a clean house?  Let the thing crawl around.”

It made its way to the corner, pressed into the fold of the two walls and began running upwards.  I kept a watchful eye as it reached the ceiling, focus on my prayer vying with a sort of morbid curiosity.

Once hitting the ceiling, it paused for a moment (along with my prayers:  “Hold up for a second God…”)  Then, like lightening, it sped towards me!  “What is that fool thing doing” I thought?   It reached the point directly over my bed, and I began to panic.   My prayers forgotten, I watched helplessly.

With an alien speed, it crept over my feet, then over my knees, my chest and then my face.

It paused there, looking at me and I at him for a brief instant.

Then, of course, he dropped.

Yes, dear readers…I got out of bed that day (with a yelp!) though it cost the centipede his life.

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

Man Alive! The Meaning of Life

(The following is an excerpt from G.K. Chesterton’s “ManAlive” pp 108, 109. )

“My grandmother,” I said in a low tone, “would have said that we were all in exile, and that no earthly house could cure the holy home-sickness that forbids us rest.”

He was silent a long while, and watched a single eagle drift out beyond the Green Finger into the darkening void.

Then he said, “I think your grandmother was right,” and stood up leaning on his grassy pole.  “I think that must be the reason,” he said, “the secret of this life of man, so ecstatic and so unappeased.  But I think there is more to be said.  I think God has given us the love of special places, of a hearth and of a native land, for a good reason.”

“I dare say,” I said, “what reason!”

“Because otherwise,” he said, pointing his pole out at the sky and the abyss, “we might worship that.”

“What do you mean?” I demanded.

“Eternity,” he said in his harsh voice, “the largest of the idols–the mightiest of the rivals of God.”

“You mean pantheism and infinity and all that,” I suggested.

“I mean,” he said with increacing vehemence, “that if there be a house for me in heaven it will either have a green lamp-post and a hedge, or something quite as positive and personal as a green lamp-post and a hedge.  I mean that God bade me love one spot and serve it, and do all things however wild in praise of it, so that this one spot might be a witness against all the infinities and the sophistries, that Paradise is somewhere and not anywhere, is something and not anything.  And I would not be so very much surprised if the house in heaven had a real green lamp-post after all.”

The Circle Will be Unbroken!

Life is busy in Washington D.C.

People come and go; running, on bikes, or in cars of various kinds.  Men (and women) walk back and forth on the sidewalks with briefcases and business attire, heading towards corporate locales.

The traffic never stops.

Periodic beeping of utility vehicles fills the silence left by planes or the occasional helicopter, and of course, there is ever present, a horn-honking or siren-wailing.

In the midst of all the traffic and noise, people are preoccupied.  They are trapped in their own little spheres of sovereignty.

One woman, enamored by her cell phone conversation (and trusting the state to be her defender) walked into the street without seeing an oncoming car.  The driver, who was likewise enamored by his talk-radio, barely saw her in time to slam on breaks.  The car stopped within inches of the woman, who screeched and slapped the hood with both hands (as if she could have stopped it.)*

I was seeped in this hustle and bustle last Wednesday evening.  I was in the middle of a live debate (online of course) with a philosophy professor in Chicago.  The sounds of the city were drifting in through my apartment window as I hacked away on the keyboard.

When one’s atomic world is infiltrated, especially during a very important, and high-stress situation (which…as it turns out…describes all big-city endeavors), the reaction is less than cordial.

That’s why I was a little upset when my mother called me.

Why couldn’t she have waited just twenty more minutes?!?

“Pop is in the hospital and we don’t think he’s going to make it through the night.”

The world stopped.

I was shaken from the clutch of the cosmopolis and fell to my knees before an all sovereign God.

In the darkness of my room, and for the first time in months, my heart started beating again.  Through the tears I remembered that I was a part of something.  Something larger and more ancient than any city or any government…

I was part of a family.

And our patriarch lay dying in a hospital room hundreds of miles away.

Through the windows, hidden within the cacophony of city noises, I thought I heard the sweet chord of a fiddle.

The country was calling me.

I secured leave-time after a quick call to my Master Sergeant and the following day I was on the road to Martinsville Virginia, leaving a sense of oppression behind me along with the sprawling city-scape.

I was in high-spirits after hearing that my grandfather had lived through the night and looked forward to the coming reunion with my family.

I met up with my parents in Martinsville and accompanied them to the hospital in Eden NC.

My grandfather was laying in bed with wires and tubes running all out of him.  He was very week.  The smell in the room was less than pleasant.  His hands were shaking so badly that he couldn’t eat, and my grandmother was there, afraid to leave his side.

After visiting for awhile and seeing to my grandfather’s comfort, my family had to leave and get back to their lives.  I stayed longer…I wanted to connect with him on an emotional level…to somehow let him know that his legacy would live on…to let him know that the circle would NOT be broken!

Sadly…I wasn’t able to say these things.  Instead, I babbled on about my future hopes and plans.  And as I started to leave, my grandfather turned his big blue eyes in my direction and wished me the best in life.  And maybe, if I got the chance, I could come back to visit when the peaches came in?

I drove back to DC with tears in my eyes, not knowing if that was the last conversation I was ever going to have with a man that meant so much to me.  With a man who defined who I was…a man whom I represent by extension.

Through my grandfather, I am tied to the people and to the land of Virginia.  We are a part of something bigger than I ever could have imagined.

We are part of an ethnos.

A culture and community of people who have walked through the fire of war, the hell of oceans; disease and hardships of every kind only to come out laughing and praising God for their trials.

This bond is bigger and stronger than ANY political confederation or ANY mutual assent to some abstract ideal.

You will live on through me Pop…and my children, and their children!

The circle will NOT be broken!**

* I had the privilege to witness this while on one of my evening walks.

** They took Pop home Sunday night, and for now, he’s back to his normal, though frail, health.