“God, please, if you exist, help me to feel what that man Bulkington feels and see what that man Bulkington sees.”
My history as a Christian is similar to that of many Americans, with the fortunate (or unfortunate, if you’re a Satanist) fact that my father read old literature to me. The best Friday afternoons were the ones I’d see my father in the government school parking lot in the afternoons. My sister and I (twins) would emerge from our bleak indoctrination session, dreading the 45 minute, coon-riddled bus ride home, but then we’d see that beat up yellow Toyota and run joyously towards it.
He’d take us to the library where we’d check out old Disney movies and a few books. I was fond of Hitchcock’s the Three Investigators (or the Hardy Boys – but I enjoyed the Three Investigators more). One Friday I remember asking my dad to check out a book about Jason and the Golden Fleece. From the Greek myths, we moved into European myths and then to Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. These stories are all the more striking when read to children by their father – a sense of nostalgia and connectedness accompanies the story telling. I’ll never read about Bilbo without remembering my dad’s old yellow Toyota in the school parking lot.
I also grew up in the church of Christ – a church which implicitly relied on rural traditions and mores to govern its polity, rather than denominational or bureaucratic confessions. The only real doctrine held to (and held to passionately) was baptism for the remission of sins, but this aside, the sermons were usually personal in nature, reflecting on Christ’s aid to the sinner throughout the battle of life. The church of Christ also (fortunately) resisted the end-time lunacy so popular in the Baptist churches.
This two-fold aspect of my Christian raising (a non-propositional Christianity with a mix of old literature) is what has put me at odds with the modern Church, especially those Presbyterians, a body of whom have, once again, piously rejected me from their fellowship. (I say it’s a two-fold aspect, but I really ought to say three-fold: Cambria Will Not Yield has resonated with me so much that I’m unable, even now, to judge the role it will have in my future development).
I have a high standard of what it means to be friends. If I’m friends with someone, I’ll go to the death with them, or, at the very least, help them if they move (even if they own a piano). But modern Presbyterians have no concept of friendship, honor, loyalty, nor an inkling of what it means to be a human. Masculinity, an abstract concept, is habitually re-defined to match the whims of the day and avoid conflict (unless, of course, it’s conflict with white heretics like myself). But I’m cursed with this impulse to repeatedly try to make friends with these people. And repeatedly, they let me down; and repeatedly, I get really down about it.
Well, I’ve had enough of it. After this past incident, I finally saw clearly that they and I worship a different Jesus. We bow knee to a different God. And as of now, I confess that have no more inclination, desire, or emotional impetus to reach out to them with my savvy talking points.
I feel like there’s something unmanly about trying to calmly and dispassionately convince a negro or a mestizo that they ought not rape and pillage my people (even when such things are politically sanctioned). To acknowledge their role as self-professed, reasonable judges over my people and my God is to “put God in the dock”…and that, I’ll never do again.
I’ll be an antiquated unchurched heathen…because that’s the only role left for me.