I Need Thee

I need Thee every hour, most gracious Lord.
No tender voice like Thine can peace afford.
I need Thee every hour, stray Thou nearby.
Temptations lose their power when Thou art nigh.

I need Thee, oh I need Thee.
Every hour I need Thee.
Oh bless me now my savior,
I come to Thee.

I need Thee every hour, in joy or in pain.
Come quickly and abide,
or my life is in vain.
I *need* Thee every hour, most Holy One.
Oh make me Thine indeed, oh blessed son.

Please don’t leave me now, Lord.

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The New Year

I want to give my readers an update for the sake of my own sanity if not to satisfy any curiosity. My Hiatus post may have caused concern and for that I apologize although I’ll reaffirm that I was then (and am now) sincere. I’m in a new and terrible situation and I’m not sure how often I’ll be able to write:

I’ve taken a job as a prison guard and over the past month have experienced things I could happily have gone my entire life without seeing.  My first day, as a matter of fact, the prison experienced one of the worst inmate-on-guard attacks in years.  Being new and unable to man a post alone, I had to respond to the emergency. I sprinted to the call and arrived in time to see a violent and bloody scene. The unrelenting savagery of the attack had all the hallmarks of demonic possession; there’s nothing like it even among the animals excepting maybe rabid wolves. I’m ashamed to say I froze. The officers gave me a pass because it was my first day, after all, and to my credit, I only paused for a few seconds. When I came to myself, I barreled through the throng of felons and did my best to keep them back. Five other officers had arrived before me and were spraying and hitting the inmate, who was on top of and savagely beating an older officer. The poor guard was nearing retirement and told me, just that morning, that he’d take me into the yard and show me the ropes. Instead, he went home in an ambulance to the jeers of the emboldened animals. I was side-swiped with mace by proxy and after the excitement returned to my block coughing and sputtering, which amused my charges to no end.

There’s so much more to tell but it’s against policy to relate publicly and I have to adjust to the new rules governing me.  Suffice it to say, dear readers, God has placed me into a harsh environment among the worst sort of humanity and for weeks leading up to the move and (I’m sorry to say) for weeks after it, I was bitterly sore with Him. Only now, in hindsight and with the benefit of a lingering Christmas spirit as well as hope for the new year, am I able to piece together a divine pattern which lead to my current plight and I’m sure will culminate in some glory or other; soli deo gloria.

For starters, I began hitting the weights again. After a few month’s time, I’m well on the way to getting back into serious shape; by early spring I hope to be nearly where I was when I used to train back in my Navy days. During the Christmas holidays, I noticed the resurgence of health when I began sprinting again, chasing my little cousins around the yard. I used to love to run and tried to do 10 milers at least three times a week. I’ll be back to it before long.

Secondly, I’ve discovered a scenic overlook in my new town.  Part of my bitterness was in having to leave such an aesthetically pleasing part of the south and move to a new place with no public parks (to speak of).  I couldn’t even find a decent place to watch the sunset.  For those who know me, watching the sunset over some scene or other is one of the few joys I have in life and even that was taken from me.

Today, though, I’ve discovered a new place. It’s out of the way of towns and must only be known to locals. And to get to the river requires a walk down a short but steep path; that probably keeps even more people away. So the spot’s generally abandoned and quiet.  The river (I wont say which) flows beautifully along the path and crosses under a distant highway bridge. There, I can go and smoke, or think, or read poetry, or pray. I do most of my praying at these places.

But most importantly of all is what has happened (and is happening) to my spiritual life. I’m daydreaming again. I’m seeing visions again and stories are popping into my mind. I’m praying again. My religion continues advancing and I now happily describe myself as a “Christian Romantic” although I know that term will confuse most people. Am I even still a self-professed Presbyterian? I never joined that church and the more of that sort I met, the fewer I liked. I’ve been unable to read philosophy for some time, preferring instead the old adventure novels I used to read in highschool…Louis L’Amour, Bram Stoker, Burroughs, et al. It seems the worse my plight the more grounded my thoughts. I’m shifting into a different sort of religious state, one with little reflection and theorizing, but actively lived. I hope this means I’m entering into the realm of the heroic and that my faith will be like the faith of so many Christian men of action I’ve read about. A Knight. It’s not a doctrine or abstract concept, but a heart feeling. “Christian Romantic” fits this, I hope, and will have to do until I find a better label.

For now, I still plan to attend a local Presbyterian church. I know it’ll cause me nothing but problems down the road, especially if I get on well with the congregants, but I’m willing to try on the off chance I might find a wife there. The poor girl (if she exists) doesn’t know what she’s getting into. The best I can hope for is one who loves God but isn’t pious and doesn’t take Presbyterian rituals too seriously. My luck (and this has happened before), the well-meaning ushers will, with a wink and nod to their fellows, sit me next to a young filipino or african woman. Hardy har har…(if that happens, readers, I’ll tell you all about it and what happens, in humorous detail).

So while I can’t enjoy the normal New Year’s festivities this evening (I have to get up insanely early to keep my prison schedule), I do go to bed (and thus leave you all) with the hope that my future, and this blog in particular, is headed for deep waters in 2016. Deep and uncharted, but wilder than I ever thought possible. That’s where God always takes us in the end – those of us with wild hearts…

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Kyrie Among Nations!

The greater the evil the greater the men we must be in remembrance of the One man who conquered all evil; and when we despair at the enormity of our task, let us recall that He too began as a tender babe, crying for His mother…

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I’ve just read Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein and maybe not surprisingly to some of you, I identify more with the monster than its creator.  I didn’t lose hope for Frankenstein when he blindly pursued his eccentric hobby, that was a mistake he may have avoided if he were older and wiser.  And to his credit, when he first sees the monster, he immediately realizes how terrible his creation is.  But when he allows a family friend to be executed for a murder committed by the monster, that’s when I lost all admiration for him.

As to the monster, he was so close to life, society, and happiness, but had it snatched from him at the last minute, leaving him a brooding, hate-filled mass, bent on destruction.  And I identify more with him?  Well, my life has been a long fall from status into passive irrelevance and with every new unanswered prayer, I get more and more bitter.  Deprive me, Lord, but at least let it be for a purpose!  As it is, my life’s on a meaningless path.

One thing the monster didn’t try, and that was hedonism.  Is all the bitterness and anger towards his creator any more satisfying that the tiniest social necessities he longed for?  I think he found out, too late, they were not.  He ought to have crawled into a dark part of the Swiss forest and contented himself with sunsets and roots the rest of his life and maybe hope that the human part of him that desired love, companionship, and some semblance of a normal life, would eventually wither away and die in the wilderness.

Necessity has forced me to accept a horrible job working for the state; it’s fraught with abnormally long hours and dangers on all sides.  I’ve seen more of the dark underbelly of society in the past week than I hoped ever to see in a lifetime (there are no Dostoyevskys in *this* house of the dead).  It’s affected me so much I’m afraid I’ve been both unable and unwilling to post here.  All of my intellectual pursuits seem trivial and no longer interest me.  I always thought God had instilled a great desire of learning in me for a reason and that all the time, effort, and money I’ve put into my self education was leading up to some grand purpose.  Now, I discover it wasn’t and that it was all for nothing.


I wont have the stomach to write any kind of post, story, poem, or song, for many weeks, readers.  I hope you forgive the hiatus and I pray that when I do return, it’ll be with a better heart…

…(will that prayer be treated like all my others?  Probably.)

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Backing up a Bit…


(He does look possessed!)

I’m almost finished with Pat Buchanan’s “The Unnecessary War”; it’s an in-depth commentary on the World Wars from the perspective of someone who blames Churchill and Chamberlain for both as well as the subsequent downfall of the modern west.

I’m fond of his commentary, but he makes out like Churchill was demon possessed.  Fair or not, it’s hard to see the secretary of state (and later Prime Minister) in a good light.  Every time the chance arose to preserve Europe, he worked to block it; he strove for war.  Perhaps WWII wouldn’t have taken place at all had Chamberlain and Churchill not backed Polish petulance?  But that’s neither here nor there.  Western Civilization has marched on down the road of history and there’s no stopping it.

I’ll be going back in time a bit for my next book. I think it’s time I give Tolstoy’s masterpiece “War and Peace” a chance.

I told my mom I was about to read it and she asked… “Why??”

Well, it’ll make me feel better about the quality of my liberal self-education if I do. And who knows, maybe it’ll touch me? There’s got to be some reason it’s a famous part of the Western canon. It’ll be nice to get a Russian perspective of the Napoleonic wars.

Anyone read it before?

Any suggestions about what to expect or how to slog through?

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Power of the Pen


In my quest through German history, I’ve finally read Hitler’s much-exalted “Mein Kampf.”  I’ll write more about it later.  For now, I’ll only say it’s hard not to like Hitler after reading it, probably why academics fear it.  It’s easier still to see why so many pro-whites find the man fascinating and equate being pro-white with National Socialist ideology.  But I’ve never been one for ideology or cults, and in the end, that’s what National Socialism was, in essence: a large cult.

Despite a surprising amount of agreement I have with Hitler, especially concerning his interpretation of political history, there’s one thing I think he got terribly wrong and it’s this one thing that, I think, puts me at odds with most contemporary pro-white movements.  When discussing the power of propaganda Hitler notes that the spoken word is far more powerful than the written.  Writers need to stick to their ink wells, he says, and suggests that all great movements in history have been lead by orators, not writers.

I voiced my disagreement with this on Facebook and numerous friends jumped all over me for it.  The sentiment, and I believe it holds across the pro-white spectrum, is that orators are the great power behind movements and that the “people”, that sainted beast everyone’s trying to wrangle, only respond to trite, emotionally forceful, talking points.  They’d agree with Hitler that in-depth philosophical speculation is practically useless.

Now what the philosophers would say in their own defense is neither here nor there.  What I want to do here is write a brief word or two in defense of the writer:

I’ll readily admit that the “people”, especially when congregated en mass, aren’t capable of digesting the finer points of an argument.  This is why those intellectual “debates” held on college campuses – the ones where rivals call each other “Mr.” this and “my esteemed opponent” that, and start their discussions with kind jokes and words of respect – are worse than useless.  They’re little more than polite competitions between two orators of opposing views to see which is able to emotionally sway the crowd.  But nothing of substance is ever decided and it’s almost impossible to tell who “wins” the competition.  The political debates in national venues are even worse; there, the politicians literally say nothing at all and respond to questions with robotic rote, churning out pre-written dialogue.  (Donald Trump is excellent at blasting through the rote and embarrasses his opponents accordingly, God bless him).

This sort of power over the masses has been perfected by Hollywood and the media.  In Bill Browder’s “Red Notice”, he talks about the arrogance of these media moguls and how they have full confidence they’ll be able to shift a nation’s electorial outcomes using nothing more than television and radio.  And they’re usually successful.  (He specifically mentions George Soros in this regard).  These, mostly jewish, moguls have perfected the art of oratory and the manipulation of the masses.

But what I’d like to argue, and argue from the force of personal experience, is that this sort of manipulation is only ever superficial.  I’ll grant the orator his ability to temporarily sway the motivations of a populace, but he almost never touches their hearts.  Call this a difference between “motivation” and “inspiration.”  A motivated person is immediately driven to act and may pull triggers or polling switches, but he’ll always be a victim of external circumstances.  When he ducks a mortar and is splattered by his friend who was next to him in a fox hole, what sort of oratory will he draw on for strength?

And no matter how many times I hear a motivational white nationalist speaker tell me the tide is turning, that we’re all lonely, that we’re all facing the same tremendous fight, when I’m battling it out with the Devil in the middle of the night, I turn to Sir Walter Scott, Dickens, or Oliver Goldsmith.

The blog Cambria Will not Yield, alone, is a testimony to the power of words to inspire.  These written words are motivational, yes, but they’re far more inspirational.  They’re life changing.  A man who reads it, and if his heart truly responds, may lose motivation, he may have times of depression, outrage, and despair, but he’ll never forget them.  He’ll never leave the course those words have plotted for him.

The man inspired by an orator very well may change his mind the next day (as even Hitler admits); maybe even the very next hour.  He’s powerfully motivated, but not powerfully inspired.

Ok – people might grant the power of the written word to inspire, but it’s political power they’re looking for.  And that, dear readers, is why I’m at odds with them and with Hitler about this issue.  Our people are not dying for lack of motivation vis-a-vis some political ideology.  They’re dying for lack of inspiration.  Our people can and have flourished under a variety of political guises, and henceforth, I’ll be happy to advocate for whichever seems immediately beneficial.  I’ll change political affiliations with the weather, just like I wear jackets in the winter and short sleeves in the summer.

…it’s the heart-felt inspiration the writer produces that our people need.  Not the temporary and short-lived motivation of the orator.  It’s not a political position we ought to be striving for now.  It’s a heart position.  We don’t need political revolution; we need a heart-changing renaissance.

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Stormfront Recollections


I missed this year’s Stormfront conference because I didn’t want to spend the money to drive out to TN, even though lots of my good friends were going and I knew I ought to have gone.  Plus another good friend of mine was getting married in TN that same weekend.  I know I could have worked out a way to both attend the wedding and the conference.  But I decided not to go.

Providence had other ideas, though, as usual.  Remember all that NPI drama I’ve blogged about?  That happened the same weekend as the Stormfront conference.  I drove up to DC at the last minute then ended up on a road trip with Heimbach over to Ohio.  To get back home, I swung down through TN.  I had so much on my mind, I completely forgot about Stormfront and the wedding.  I was so close…now I’m so frustrated.

Ok, the Stormfront guys may not be as flashy or high brow as the NPI pseudo-elite, but damned if I don’t have a much better time with them.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for dressing up in suits and ties for the right occasion.  I’ve perfected an aristocratic laugh and can sip chardonnay with the best of them.  But there’s something about being in Knoxville that always lifts my spirits.  There’s something more genuine about the friendships at Stormfront.  There’s far less mechanistic networking by business hipsters, and far more genuine, laid back fellowship.

I remember my first Stormfront conference.

I was out on the porch playing the banjo for a group of heathen; we were singing Irish pub songs and my friend Tom P. was telling jokes comparing Jesus to Odin.  Sam Dickson came out to enjoy the revelry.  There wasn’t anywhere to sit so he slumped down onto the butt of a porch column.  Unfortunately for him it was covered with slugs.  “Hey Mr. Dickson…” I said.  “…um, sir, I hate to say it, but you just sat in a mess of slugs.”  With typical Southern flourish he said “Oh my…” got up and wiped them all off.  It was hilarious.

I met David Duke for the first time that year.  Yeah…I’ll leave that alone for now.

Later, after the conference was over, we all went to a nearby restaurant.  I was eating with Steve Smith, a former skinhead turned racialist politician in Pennsylvania.  He and his friend Ryan, both PA guys, were great company.  I joked that someone needed to give a toast.  Well, before I could stop him, Ryan reaches over and taps his fork on my glass.  The entire room goes quiet; everyone – David Duke, Don Black, … everyone! was looking at me.

So, dear readers, I did the only thing I could do… I got up and tried to deliver a toast.  I know I thanked Don Black and the speakers for their wonderful conference and I’m pretty sure I tried to quote Shakespeare.  In short: it was a train wreck.  Sam Dickson, God bless him, stepped in and saved my bacon.  “I’d like to also add…”

A few years later, I asked him about his saving me during that toast and he said he had no memory of it.  Well played sir.

The moral of this post is that if you ever get the chance to attend a Stormfront conference, you ought to do it.  The memories, friendship, and scenery, are well worth it.

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The Sandman Cometh


In my last post, I distinguished myself from the cultish Christians who pledge allegiance to doctrines and schemes rather than to the man Christ.  Lately, and coinciding with my study of the development of Germany before the first world war, I’ve been thinking of an even broader way of slicing the pie.  Might we consider these cultish Christians as children of the enlightenment – rationalists in their own right?

My study of Germany requires me to face hard questions about the relationship of romanticism and nationalism and the role they’ve played in responding to Enlightenment rationalism.  The “enlightened” leaders like Frederick the Great or Napoleon, look at nations like machines.  These “rational” men survey raw material left over from the backwards superstition of the middle ages and build slick, well-oiled machines out of it; machines designed for conquest and wealth generation.  There are different strands of these rationalists though.  Some want to build different machines; but they all want to build machines.

The Romantics, on the other hand, saw nations as thriving, living, organisms.  Unfortunately, the Romantics were, themselves, children of the Enlightenment, even if unruly and disobedient ones.  It’s only the Christian Romantics who are positioned to do battle with the Enlightenment rationalism of a Napoleon.

While working through a German history course from UC Berkeley, the professor suggested E.T.A. Hoffmann’s short story “the Sandman” as an excellent example of German romanticism.  The story has been debated and reviewed by everyone from Sir. Walter Scott to Freud.  I read the Sandman last night and agree that Hoffmann is a typical Romantic, but like Sir. Walter Scott, whose criticisms are infamous, I get the feeling Hoffmann ought to have laid off his opium before writing.

The story is so ambiguous I might be charged with reading into it my own inclinations, but it seems to me Hoffmann was, in his own morbid way, trying to show how harmful unfettered rationalizing can be.  If you haven’t read it, the main character was obsessed with childhood stories he heard about the Sandman (who gobbles up children) and one evening catches his father performing some alchemy experiments.  He equates his father’s alchemy accomplice with the monster.  Years later, while studying to be a scientist, he sees the accomplice again which sets off a series of events which ends in madness.  There’s a stark contrast throughout between the main character’s gloomy flights of metaphysics and his love interest Clara, a woman who loves life and is firmly rooted in it.

Clara had the vivid fancy of a cheerful, unembarrassed child; a deep, tender, feminine disposition; an acute, clever understanding. Misty dreamers had not a chance with her; since, though she did not talk – talking would have been altogether repugnant to her silent nature – her bright glance and her firm ironical smile would say to them: ‘Good friends, how can you imagine that I shall take your fleeting shadowy images for real shapes imbued with life and motion ?’

I gather the Romantics had something like a pantheistic view of the world, where one’s connection with nature is intimate and internal.  We are all gods if only we might recognize our oneness with the nature we inhabit.  Clara, here, is closer to nature and manages to tame (at least for awhile) the grotesque speculations of her lover.  But will this form of Romanticism save us?

The rationalist Sandman and all his cultish, hyper rational, minions, be they Napoleons, Evangelical Christians, White Nationalist intellects, or whatever – they’re creaking up the stairs and heading for our bedrooms.  The Romantics will tie themselves closer and closer to nature, degrading the image of God in their attempt to blend in and hide from the minions.  There’s no help there.

It’s only the Christian Romantic who’ll be left standing against the Sandman.  He doesn’t rest in an impersonal nature.  He rests in the hand of God.

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In the Name of the Father…


Remember the days when uttering God’s name was a sacred act, not to be taken lightly and only to be done in serious moments of sobriety?  Taking His name in vain was a capital offense in Leviticus and taboo until our own day.

Unfortunately that sort of fear is out of favor.

If I’ve learned anything in my journey through cultic-Christianity it’s to watch out for those who haphazardly drop the name of Christ into every conversation and treat holy scripture like so much mud in a flinging contest.

They’re not afraid of Him because they most likely don’t know Him.  When they exhort their victims to “put Christ first”, they really mean we ought to put our love and emotional attachment to abstraction above our love and attachment to concrete people and things.  And when they piously cite some passage or other, they’re doing it with a holy zeal for a doctrinal scheme rather than a person.

I know because I used to do the same thing.

There’s only one way to deal with them: the trusty ad baculum appeal.

One of these cultists traveled out west in Owen Wister’s “The Virginian.”  The Virginian was a hero of the heart and knew how to deal with his  fire-n-brimstone friend.  In one of my favorite moments from the novel, the Virginian, after sitting through a ridiculous sermon, keeps the zealous pastor up all night wailing with terror; Hell was so immanent, and salvation so fleeting, the poor cowboy couldn’t sleep.  He made sure the pastor couldn’t either.  That’s how you put a humorous damper on a fire-n-brimstone zealot.

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Poor Shotgun is Attacked by a Cultist


I have a new word I’d like to start using:  cultist.

I use it pejoratively but in most cases with a loving (if slightly annoyed) intent.  I used to be a cultist, after all and can’t think unkindly of those still trapped in cultish ways.

When I became aware enough of the phenomenon to give it a name, I referred to the guilty as “rationalists”.  That was too kind; they were so pernicious I had to start calling them “mouth-foaming zealots”.  That seemed a little harsh and too long-winded so I changed again and opted for the simpler: “dogmatist.”  But while they are stubbornly dogmatic, another word was needed – one that casts a wider net and sliced the pie more accurately.  I’m settling on “cultist”.

Mr. Cambria describes them well:

“In every century of the Christian era of Europe there were blasphemers who championed the forms of the faith against the substance of the faith. Walter Scott depicts such a “Christian” in his novel Old Mortality. John Balfour, a fanatical Scottish Covenanter, violates the law of chivalry, which was written in the hearts of all Christian Europeans, by killing, in the name of his mind-forged Christless faith, a Christian soldier of the royalist party who came to Balfour bearing a flag of truce.

“A free pardon to all,” continued the young officer, still addressing the body of the insurgents—“to all but—“

“Then the Lord grant grace to thy soul. Amen!” said Burley.

With these words he fired, and Cornet Richard Grahame dropped from his horse. The shot was mortal. The unfortunate young gentleman had only strength to turn himself on the ground and mutter forth, “My poor mother!” when life forsook him in the effort. His startled horse fled back to the regiment at the gallop, as did his scarce less affrighted attendant.

“What have you done?” said one of Balfour’s brother officers.

“My duty,” said Balfour firmly. “Is it not written, ‘Thou shalt be zealous even to slaying’? Let those who dare NOW venture to speak of truce or pardon!”

They champion the forms of the Faith against the substance of the Faith.  Yes.

A few years ago when I was optimistic enough to sit through a college class, my Western Civ. professor told us Christianity was a cult.  “I’m sorry if you don’t like to hear it, but it’s true…” he said, with typical smugness.  I wasn’t going to die on that hill so I stayed quiet.  I remember thinking we’d have to delve into semantics and figure out what was meant by “cult”.  The insulting thrust of the word didn’t bother me.  If someone defined it in such a way that it applied to Christianity, then so be it; I’d simply be a supporter of cults.

I’ve since refined my view and were I in the class now, I’d strongly object (see footnote 1).

In short, a cult is a congregation of individuals who identify themselves by their mutual allegiance to and shared passion for a set of doctrines.  These doctrines are usually taught or exemplified by an individual who, in addition to having tapped the secret vein of knowledge, is usually a charismatic speaker and able to win people to his views.  In turn the foot-soldier “apologists” for the cult become experts in defending these doctrines against the doctrines of other cults.  This description only applies to Christianity if we conceive of Christianity as a set of doctrinal dogmas and talking-points, expertly taught by some guru or other (be he Jesus, Paul, or Fred Phelps).

Tragically, I think my Western Civ. professor would be right to call Christianity a cult…today.  There are almost no manifestations of the Faith today that aren’t cultish in nature, and almost no apologists who aren’t ideological foot soldiers for their particular denomination of the cult.

O who hath causèd this?
O who can answer at the throne of God?
The Kings and Nobles of the Land have done it!
Hear it not, Heaven, thy Ministers have done it!

This isn’t a post about how Christendom imploded.  I’ll only say, along with Blake, that our ministers and our nobles hath done it.  The Enlightenment convinced westerners that man and man’s intellect were the measure of all things.  Once that was believed, Christianity nose dived into cultural irrelevancy.  Modernism is a direct result of the Enlightenment and today most Christians are modernists because they  believe their own rationalizing will get them to God.  Christianity becomes a matter of doctrines and dogmas – a cult.  The “isms” and the “ists” are multiplied because the game is an intellectual game.

I’ll stop my commentary there and note that, once again, I’ve been attacked by one of these cultists.   This Todd Lewis guy reminds me of myself when I was 19 and zealous for my cult doctrines.  Last year, if I recall, he tried posting on my blog but due to his lack of respect and civility, quickly earned himself the boot.  Cultists know honor and chivalry like little girls know lions and tigers: academically, or through picture books.  But they don’t know what it’s like to be honorable and chivalrous in the wild and if they meet honorable and chivalrous men in the wild, well, they quickly realize their academic concepts and the reality are frighteningly different.

I think Todd’s upset with me for two reasons: I try to work with non-Christians and I’m a “judaizer.”

I’m a “judaizer” because I’m a theonomist, apparently.  His critique of the theonomic thesis is passe’ and uninteresting (his sorts of criticisms have been answered by theonomists for years; there’s no reason to re-hash them), but I do think it’s ironic that he claims I’m a judaizer when *HE’S* the one forcing extra-Biblical standards onto me.  Who’s the real “judaizer”?

Imagine we go to the beach and someone points at a girl and says “her bathing suit is too immodest!”  Well, what’s the standard there?  Where do we turn?  On the theonomic view, it’s up to the community to interpret God’s law and set those sorts of fashion precedents…but that makes us “judaizers.”

Where would Todd turn?  Being a cultist Todd naively thinks he can turn to Scripture and magically discern these sorts of moral standards, not just for a particular community at a particular time, but for all communities at all times…worse, he thinks he can do this without appealing to the explicit law statements of the OT!

In our case, he thinks he can define exactly how close a person is to be with a non-Christian.  On his view, Parrott, Heimbach, and I have violated this clear standard of Scripture; which is to say, we’ve violated the moral standard he’s magically extrapolated from Scripture.  Todd, however, hasn’t violated it.  His living and working around non-Christians is different than Trad Youth’s living and working around non-Christians, somehow?  Unless Todd wants to claim he lives in a bunker with no access to the outside American world.

The Pharisees, like Todd, were cultists.  They extrapolated hundreds of extra-Biblical law standards from Scripture (using the same cult magic Todd has access to), then brutally and inhumanely oppressed their fellows with these magical extrapolations – as Todd would certainly do if he ever had authority in some situation.

They champion the form not the substance.

I hope Todd finds his way out of cultic Christianity and into the arms of the real, flesh and blood Jesus.  I hope he does it in a more direct route than the one I took; who knows how many people I annoyed and how many times I caused someone to question their Faith before finally discovering my zeal for doctrines was misplaced?

I think Todd’s mosquito-like criticisms of Trad Youth are a sign that he’s interested in our work and wants to take part.  He’s certainly intelligent enough for it and his added energy would be much appreciated.

If Parrott were smart, he wouldn’t debate Todd on some podcast or other.  He’d give him a job to do.



1. This professor was only slightly older than me and I suspect, not as well read, although I readily admit he had me beat in history.  He would get frustrated and intimidated if I asked my questions in the wrong tone. Once, in response to one of my queries, he angrily declared to the entire class “I’m a HISTORIAN! And I DON’T appreciate it when someone insults my profession!”  I replied…”Well, I’m a Christian, and I don’t appreciate it when someone insults my Faith!”.  We worked out our differences in his office after class and our relationship was cordial from that point on – at least until I had to write an essay defending liberalism, which I refused to do, choosing to defend monarchy instead.  I cited the so-called “Dark Enlightenment” as a contemporary monarchist movement and apparently he didn’t like what he discovered when he Googled the Alternative Right.

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