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Opiates for the New Masses

In a time when religion is blamed for bin Laden, intolerance and other modern impertinences, Marx’s old bluster that “religion is the opiate of the masses” has gotten a second wind.

But religion was never a good opiate. When it does its job right, religion startles its adherents with a bracing picture of reality, and a terrifying apprehension of divinity. The only religious opiate that exists is the psycho-babbular cult of mega-church convenience and anonymity.

The real opiates are quite secular in nature. Take a look at these very real opiates for the masses, especially the new ones.

Sports.
Not softball or sandlot baseball, or flag football, but all professional chimeric productions hyped by steroids, shrill agents and million-dollar contracts for $100 slum shoes. This opiate includes suburban and wannabe-suburban parents who overbook their kids’ weekends with soccer to get themselves out of church and behind chain-link fences so they can holler at the coach who plays his own kids and not theirs. Sports TV is false history and gradeschool arithmetic on crack. But professional sports is not nearly as opiate as is …

Professional politics.
Amateur politics in Elks Clubs, church halls and mildewed Grange chambers is human and earthy, almost holy, even with the carbuncles of certain pot luck pots (e.g., “slippery pot pie”) and shoe-banging deaf octogenarians. This is politics in the way of Aristotle, even Machiavelli, and can be understood within the bounds of human nature. But what we have in the procession of real power is no longer human. What we have on TV has little to do with real power, but is instead a soap opera soporific, where one donut president can change races on a whim, and another oilman president is an avowed enemy of the English language. I might vote for a Ron Paul/Obama ticket, but what I will get, like death and taxes, is Clinton/Clinton.

Wall Street. Wealth management.
Or, more accurately, wealth protection via human sacrifice – a term that includes abortion, partial birth abortion, and renunciation of childbirth (note the sterility of Western Europe and Russia, and the new chic cult of young adult self-sterilization). Human sacrifice also includes the globalization and free trade zeitgeist that produces unholy couplings like the Chinese über-oligarchy in “civil union” (if it can’t be called marriage) with trans-national corporations like the lead-based Mattel corporation. Wealth protection also demands the sacrifice of other natures, like forests and rain forests, coral reefs and chaparrals, farms and childhood, home, heart, hearth and earth.

Self-determination. Auto-cephaly. A single American jurisdiction.
The first explains why American religion must gravitate toward the hoodwinking, hackneyed ecclesial format of the townhall meeting. The second term carries the seed of its own destruction, like a lysosome, because autocephaly usually produces encephalitis. And the third term ignores (or fantasizes against) the most important lesson of all American religious history (something missed by the otherwise spot-on Ahlstrom): in America, a centralized ecclesial administration will always tend toward a heretical departure from Christianity: first from traditional ecclesiology, then Incarnational ethics, and then finally from Trinitarian faith. These departures are necessitated by the transgressive personal behaviors of an independent and academicized bureaucratic elite, who look with disdain upon the “trite” moralisms of the grass-roots, the rank-and-file blue-collar non-initiates who have not attained the 33rd degree of institutional gnosis. Sin produces heresy, because sin necessitates heresy so that sin can abound (sin, and the passion that produces it, is militated against by the sheer presence of Orthodox doctrine). One cannot believe in the Trinity whilst one is sodomizing, or self-aggrandizing, or intellectualizing. So one must turn the Trinity and Incarnation into something else, another more palatable narrative. Something more egalitarian, more industrial, more cosmo.

Entertainment. Fun.
Jesus did not have fun. St. Paul and John Chrysostom did not have fun. Joy, yes, but not fun. Fun is diversion, a pseudo-ecstasy that proves to one’s acquaintances or “social network” that one has been “happy,” and is therefore “justified” in the modernist semantic mapping of salvation. But fun as a goal is like a greased pig, like a djinn who might grant three wishes but always one damnation camouflaged in the fine print. Our celebrities have lots of fun. QED.

Professional sex.
This sort of sex used to be confined to the red light district, but has now invaded the heterosexual bedroom – through the mediation of checkout aisle glossy journals and “christian” and oh-so-not-so-christian sex manuals for once, twice and thrice marrieds (like the guy who wrote about martians and venusians in bed). Sex is now, for many, a goal, even a gateway into gnosis. I have heard that it is even, by itself, a sacrament. It is most certainly not. It is a blessing for a married man and woman. But it becomes a curse if perverted and engaged elsewhere and elsewise. But even married sex has become the stuff of science and serious technique, with counselors unwittingly channeling the spirits of Masters and Johnson, Kinsey and the toe-curling pages of Cosmo. Is modern sex necessary for marriage? No. Is transgression necessary for modern sex?

Public relations. Communication science/industrial psychology. Sociology.
This is the commercial apparatus for the processing of reality into spam-information (which is mistaken for knowledge). "Spamfo" is marked by an abundance of statistics that act as  miraculous evidence for an unholy tradition. "Public relations" is a modern corporate invention that exploits facelessness and namelessness, and relies on the rhetoric of repetition, ambiguity and public inattention. Consumerism presents the corporate enterprise of mystification with a ready-made ethos: consumers want to believe the companies, simply because they want their stuff. I am not anti-business in the least, because I come from a clan of farmers, truckers and shopkeepers, even printers. But I cannot abide Wal-Martian newspeak ... oh, and since when did sociology replace history? And doesn't the very term "industrial psychology" creep you out, with Matrixian foreboding? How is "communication" ever a science? Is this not blasphemy?

Third Rome. Fourth Rome.
One should raise one's eyebrows when phrases like "monolithic unity of church and state" are bandied about. One should not be surprised if Anchorage might be crystal-balling, instead of eastward toward Long Island, westward 4309 miles away. One should not put their trust in mortal princes, even in best practices, even in open democracy, even in the satisfaction of cranky web sites. One should not neglect prayer and doctrine, the Trinity and Christology, for the sake of any number, dollars or census. It is best to let modern trans-episcopal jurisdictional offices wither by time, if only to preserve the mystical realities of the sacred ordo. America is a hundred years from a patriarchate. Not only are we doctrinally unready (too entertained still by Tübingen), but we have not even arrived at, or apprehended, the heart of the nation. We are still immigrants.

Opiate mantras – to be chanted drowsily like Huxley’s crowd for soma:

“Self-determination will make me free.”
No, but it will make you determined, just not by your self (more likely, another self).

“Casinos are fun and will enrich our cities.”
No one has fun in casinos. They think so because that is how they interpret an adrenaline rush from the abbreviated ecstasies of cash fountains: the money, though, is like water in a mirage. Or, they confuse fun with libidinous and gluttonous climax – a flash of eros that dims when the hallucination fades, and the sun rises nacreous behind the gray bank of nimbostratus. Enriched cities? Are you serious? That there will be enrichment there is no doubt, but the cities behind the facades will turn into the back yards of Atlantic City. The riches will not go to the cities, but to the already rich. The poor will voluntarily put on more chains of debt, sacrificing generously of their personhood for the welfare of the faceless, nameless wealth managers who live in gated ghettos – far away from the fluorescent inferno of buzzers and bells.

“Lotteries will help our schools and old people.”
See above.

“There is no moral difference between large corporations and small businesses, between agribusinesses and small farms. Farms are businesses, nothing more.”

"Any lovin' is good lovin'."
Apologies to BTO, but this is just not true. In fact, it is dangerous and obscures the simple fact that one certain and PC form of "any lovin'" is, after needle-sharing, the most frequent cause of AIDS. But of course, you didn't hear that here.

"It is insignificant that 1400 African-American babies are aborted daily. It is ineffective, inappropriate, inauspicious, moralistic and so pedestrian to join the March for Life in DC. Besides, only a few thousand attended."
I was there, and the first number should be the first note of any Martin Luther King commemoration. The second number is off by a factor of a hundred.

“Evolution is necessary for good science, and good science is necessary for evolutionary survival of the fittest in the competition of nations.”
In other words, “we must beat the Chinese by math and science education.” This is really a mystification for “we must divert our young from humanism and metaphysics, and harness them for the cause of industry.” Evolution is necessary for the industrial project. That is why, thusly, intelligent design (and the Creator) must be stomped out by “good,” or lackey, science.

"We must listen to smart people. Evolutionists are smart. Textual criticism is smart. Comparative religion is smart (you know, don't take the Trinity so seriously). Advanced degrees are smart, especially when they confirm the authority of post-modern prophets who liberate us from the violent narratives of patriarchal bigots. When we go to big important schools, we must stifle our backward upbringing, practice bohemian chic, and put on the nouveau skullcap of industrial mundanity and privatized, individualized, commercialized QVC religion: 'you deserve a break today, so have god(dess) your way, to go, wrapped in plastic'."

“Virtuality is better than reality.”

Reverie at the Flying Inn

Peasantshearth Please, sit down. The fire’s banked in the hearth, blazing cheer in this gray November. Let us lean back, hidden, in these leather wingback chairs (circa 1750) and stare at the embers.

Hidden, overlooked signs and stories take shape if you glint your eyes just right at the glimmer. This is an old-fashioned talent of ours, us men at the Flying Inn, anyone can do it for it’s in the blood. Nothing magical: just the low-grade prophecy of looking around, sniffing at the hickory and apple wood burn, the aromas of the last Inn.

Breathe deep now: all the others have been prohibited, or turned into the congregations of boorish alcoholics and sodden priapists.

We talk of anniversaries. Barzun is turning one hundred this month. Bloom’s book has been out now for twenty years, imagine that. What did their books achieve? we ask each other. And I tell you that they did a lot for me, especially the old Frenchman’s, who singlehandedly led me into the true liberal arts after my desultory performance in college (I think, Professor King, I still owe you an essay on Joyce).

Bloom said that the American Mind has been closed since the fifties (or the thirties, or the sixties). No one likes classical music anymore, he said. No one reads Plato or Aristotle, Shakespeare or Dante, for the sake of liberal arts. They might read them for political deconstruction in master’s level seminars, but they don’t read them for constructive reasons.

And because of this, the Mind of America and the West has been shut down. The lamps are out, the curtains are drawn. Entertainments have replaced the arts. Celebrity has supplanted the hero. Opinion has eclipsed reason.

I tell you that I disagree with Bloom – not with his survey of the problem, but with his etiology. I tell you that the American Mind is not closed for want of Plato and Shakespeare (despite my awed gratitude to them both).

I tell you that it is closed for want of knowledge of the Trinity.

And then I begin to complain, man to man. I don’t want to sound shrill or trite, because the Cassandra channel is blaring incessant portents of asteroid collisions, global warming extinctions, bloodthirsty jihadists, forest fires, droughts and hurricanes.

But I complain, sotto voce, that these days, the Trinitarian community has lately taken a lot of hits.

There are leaderships who squander money then obfuscate the figures and process.

There are laities who jump at any failure of leadership to exploit their own protestant aims.

There are clerics who gossip ad nauseum on the phone like a vignette from Hee Haw.

There are external groups who seek out our Nicene people and promise them better friendships, more attention to their “felt” needs, childcare and exciting youth programs, and draw them into their easier brands of sans-eucharistic alternative gospels, who tell me (not caring about perdition) that “sheep stealing is sheep feeding.”

There are schools who schedule athletic events on Sunday mornings and play directors who demand perfect attendance at rehearsals during Holy Week.

There are demands that the Church “prove itself” with articles and pictures in the paper, on TV, trumpeting a charitable endeavor, because “we need to show that we care and that we're there.” But I thought, I tell you, that we are to care without showing, without PR.

There are statements that call into question Bible and Creed, dogma and catechism. One can count on an immediate and impolite argument should he quote the words “I am the Way, the Truth and the Life” as if they were true. Some say, even within the precincts of the Church, that Mormons are Christians, that Jehovah’s Witnesses are within our “orbit,” that the Muslims worship the same God, that Christianity represents “all nice people.”

There is an antagonism to dogma: many do not like to be told what to believe. They must be convinced by an appealing dialectic, especially if it is accompanied by glossy four colors and catchy jingles. They must be cajoled into intellectual assent, which is not enough for faith in the first place.

There is an anti-culture that cannot tolerate signs of the transcendent, or any delay of gratification. It is a therapeutic society that is allergic to the sacred order. There is a rigorous denial that someone might be better than I.

I calm down, remembering the Peace, and I tell you, brother, by the firelight, that you are my better.

How smart is that fiend in Hell's block of Cocytus ice, wafting his cold grim winds across the fires of heat without warmth, consciousness without memory, passion without attainment, flame-rained desert that burns the soles!

The Voice of Wisdom, Whose job it is to call out "Come eat of my Bread and drink of the Wine I have mixed ... leave foolishness and live, and walk in the way!" ... She, Wisdom, who is to call, has been nearly shut up in her own internal intra-psychic quarrels. Orthodox struggle over jurisdictionality ... post-Romans struggle over who is the New Rome ... monastics cut off patriarchs from their diptych lists of approved Christians ... ecumenicists sidle up to vacuous  mainliners, who all look like a duck with a secret sorrow, and they are roundly excoriated by anti-ecumenicists as if they were Luther and Altizer themselves ... and of course, Orthodox and Romans fire patristic broadsides at each other, being so very well practiced after five hundred years ...

... and meanwhile, during this Animal House food fight, we teeter at the lip of the Abyss: listen, you can hear the echo of our silly wrangling from the cosmic walls, where there should be instead the songs of "Alleluia," "Holy God," and "Lord Jesus Christ Son of God have mercy on me a sinner."

The voice of Wisdom is the proclamation of the Church. The Church is the Pillar and Ground of Truth. She is the Lady who calls. There is no other source of Wisdom.

Bloom was dead wrong. The closing of the American mind happened long before his precious Europeans came over and made our universities respectable. It happened even before there was an America.

The true closing of the mind is what initiated the course of decline that now obtains in American/Western society: it is called decadence, and it is the inevitable product of the denial of the Trinity, the deity of the Son, and the possibility of the deification of man.

I tell you that it is the Doctrine of the Trinity, the witness of the Church, that keeps the mind of the West together. At Pascha, all paganisms, including “secular” philosophy, came to an end, and their good was subsumed into the Apostolic Proclamation.

Since that Great Day, the only way to see the Truth, and the Totality, is in the synopticon of the Church’s vision, articulated in her dogma.

I am a Trinitarian not because I want to be right, to get a correct score on my catechetical exam at Judgment. That sort of thing does not move me. Doctrine is not an object of intellectual assessment: it is itself a devotion, a love, an existential condition called "peace." Thus, I am a Trinitarian because I want you, brother, to be okay at the End.

And before that Day, I am a Trinitarian because that doctrine is the secret life-giving stream not just for the Church, but for the epistemology of the West.

Without this truth, and its meditation, there is no West, for without the Trinity there is no Peaceful thought, and all consciousness is fractured.

We watch the tendrils and sparks rise up with the steam, and the wisping curls of carbon and flame.

“As the sparks fly upward,” you murmur.

“Let our prayers arise,” I rejoin, “as incense.”

Wormwood's Back and Celebrated

A New York Times piece marks the legalization and return to the West of the real, wormwoody absinthe.

Absinthe Until recently, the green stuff marketed in shops contained replacement ingredients for wormwood, because wormwood contains a terpene called "thujone." This substance was thought to induce the mind-altering effects rhapsodized by the likes of Hemingway, Wilde, and van Gogh -- three stellar figures who did not shine with Phoebus, but orbited in black velvet with Selene. But the distillers of the old pre-ban recipe were able to prevail on European and American authorities to permit the sale of the $60+ bottles of the Green Fairy Potion. I guess with a commodity like that you have lots of money to lobby with, as opposed to the Corn Squeezin's Kartel squirreled away in the smoky woods where I grew up (clear stuff, not green, poured in old Pepsi bottles).

It is entertaining to see the gourmand and sophisticate community doing cartwheels, joyous and revisionist, over absinthe's restoration from its ban in 1912. Wannabe artists and writers (not the most dangerous kind, just annoying and cloying) shudder like debutantes over the allure of -- get this -- "visionary consciousness."

I thought that term belonged to the hesychasts. Imagine my surprise at finding out that it was Oscar Wilde who beat them to the punch.

[Sorry about that last line: I must remember that punishment is the absinthe of humor.]

For those of you who wonder what went wrong with the modern age, which began its extrusion out of La Belle Epoch and Cubism, and went through puberty in the Really Big War (i.e., I'm one of those odd ones who conflate WW's I and II), the Green Muse is certainly one of the signs. Witness these remarks from Edward Rothstein's piece in the Times:

... even those who hailed absinthe saw unsettling shadows. Wilde explained: “After the first glass, you see things as you wish they were. After the second, you see them as they are not. Finally you see things as they really are, and that is the most horrible thing in the world.”

Absinthe’s effects suggested, it seems, an inherent instability to perception, as if mixing and distilling the shimmer of Impressionism, the nightmares of Expressionism and the skewed images of Surrealism. Van Gogh made a glass of absinthe vibrate with energy. And when Manet, Degas or Picasso painted absinthe drinkers, they appeared introspective, alienated, not because they have been drugged into oblivion, but because they have seen too much.

At least in imagery, then, absinthe reflected a certain view of modernity: A firm, reliable order weakens, giving way to bleak uncertainties.

I guess if you want your kids to grow up like Wilde, van Gogh or Hemingway, teach them the fine art of the louche, drop by drop in the glass. It's fancy, pretty, and exotic, and carries just the right flavor of darkness -- which is exactly what the modern mind is all about.

Litotes of the Year Award

This year's peerless understatement was made in the November 2007 edition of The New Criterion, which is, some days, my favorite magazine.

In the "Notes & Comments" section, which -- I think -- are penned by Hilton Kramer and Roger Kimball, the following bon mot is entered with sardonic mastery:

We think ... of the marquee outside the National Portrait Gallery in London that features, on one side, the beaming visage of Mick Jagger with the words "Please allow me to introduce myself" and, on the other side, an abstract portrait of T. S. Eliot with a famous line from Four Quartets: "Human kind cannot bear very much reality." It would require a lengthy disquisition to enumerate everything that had to go wrong to produce that conjunction.

Hear, hear. The NPG was right to quote Sir Jagger (I kid you not about the "sir" -- a sorry event that has to account for one of the beastliest signs of England's decline into Great Britain).

But the tragically idiotic reference to the thrush in Burnt Norton is akin to the story of one sycophantic gent, who once approached the poet Frost for his autograph. "Please write 'good fences make good neighbors' above your name," gushed the philistine. The man had joined the unlettered zillions who had snipped the line out of the sense of Mending Wall, and had rendered it into proverbial gas.

"No, they don't," Frost averred, and -- I think -- he refused to sign.

Imagine with me what Eliot would have done had he the unpleasantness to see his words juxtaposed with Jagger's satanic paean. He would have embarked on just the lengthy disquisition necessary to "enumerate everything that had to go wrong."

"Had to go wrong" and most assuredly did go wrong.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

If anyone ever sends me one of those craven evil eye emails that curse you if you don't send it on to 83 other people, please understand that I will not do so. I will even stand out on my porch and make it easier for the curse to find me. If it does, I will quote Scripture at it, clutch the Cross, and watch it wither into vapour for the stews of the Vestibule. I spit at the evil eye and intentionally stomp on sidewalk cracks.

But if such an email questionnaire, or tag, ever finds me that asks me who I would like to invite from history or fantasy to dinner, here is how I would answer.

First, it won't be dinner, because it is hard to talk at dinner. Talking is better done at a place like the Eagle and Child, with a roaring hearth, a complete absence of fluorescence (pseudo-light from hades that probably causes ADHD and other forms of industrialist brainwashing). There is also real darts, even though I'm a rotten player. The floor is not so clean, and we don't have to do that wretched "meta-thinking" about having a conversation that one finds oneself doing at dinners with mixed company and awkward.

Second, it won't be about sports, TV shows, video games, or unmanful subjects like the stupid things Dick or Bob is doing and what a nutter he is and did you hear about what he/she did at the conference last week? You can't blame the feminists for taking manhood away, because the men are doing that all by themselves by watching too much TV and learning to talk like the View. There can be some mention about football teams or rugby to establish kinship (baseball or cricket is okay, but only in the mystical sense). Politics, yes, but only as a necessary evil. Philosophy, certainly, but not at all in the "meta-thinking" wraith-language of academia. The American university system would be better off giving up workshops and advanced degrees, and taking up instead the noble business of  dwyle flonking, where one could, if he is lucky, in the course of four snurds, become a flonker, a girter, or even a jobonowl (better, much better, than a Ph.D.).

Poetry of course, but only the kind with a humane prosody like a ballad -- iambic tetrameter that even rhymes (and is thus rendered unfit for acceptance into the modern canon). As Belloc would say, ... bad verse, oughly verse into which a man may get his teeth. Not sloppy verse, not wasty, pappy verse; not verse blanchified, but strong, heavy, brown, bad verse; made up and knotty; twisted verse of the fools. Laughter, occasional silences. Perhaps a numinous reading framed by swirling clouds of pipe smoke punctuated by the crackling fire.

Second, it won't be any of the saints I'd invite, because I am not worthy to tie their shoelaces. I would be happy, more than happy, to simply bus their table and not be seen or heard. What in the world would we talk about as peers, simply as we are not peers? Who am I to ask them anything, or -- God forbid -- to say anything to them? Forsoothe, the nerve: "Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldest enter under my roof."

Third, it won't be Gandalf or anyone like him, because he might tell me something meaningful and disturbing like "All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us" (which was said, by the way, in the Shire and not in Moria). Neither will it be any hobbits or dwarves, because eating with them could lead to dancing on the table, and no one who appreciates truth or beauty would want me to do that (all the witnesses would be traumatized and end up liking top-40s music because the experience would have destroyed their good taste). I don't know about elves: I think it would be hard to sit back and rub elbows with anyone who can walk on the surface of snow and belongs to the other shore of an uncurved Sea (although I do like the idea of pointy ears and waking up trees). And neither will it be anyone who can do magic, because I would find it too spooky and unsettling for my digestion: card tricks yes, magic no.

Fourth, no politicians, not even a great one like Lincoln. Not Washington, maybe Franklin (only if he takes a bath). Not Quixote or anyone who can't rise above their gaseous quixotic vocabulary. Absolutely no Napoleons, or anyone of such secularist ilk (like Voltaire) who takes his own character seriously and reads his own biography. Accordingly, no Democrats, no Republicans. Distributists yes, agrarians yes. No Tsarists. No one who believes in the first, second or third Rome. I would prefer anyone who knows Homer more and less of focus groups, polls and surveys. Curse surveys and censuses: they are all vapors of the Vestibule.

Fifth, no one who wears a bluetooth-earwig (which burrows through gray matter, laying eggs along the way) or who carries a blackberry-amulet: such people speak constantly to the ether and communicate with strange spirits, staring blankly and schizophrenically into some vanishing point outside the room. It goes without saying that they violate all conventions of the convivium. They divinize with chill runes and necromantic glyphs on little fertility pocket gods, on which can be heard, occasionally, chants of dark Dionysian rituals. No one, either, who cannot tell the difference between reality and virtuality, or who would ever prefer the latter to the former. Orthodoxy and the wearing of the One Ring (which is the demonic sacrament of technolust) must come into sharper contradistinction.

Sixth, not Satan, neither devil, nor admirer of the darkness nor destroyer of the sacred order, nor vandals of the same. Neither Joyce nor Warhol nor Mapplethorpe nor network executives. Anathema.

Seventh, it will be my family and friends if we can all promise not to talk about people or the Today Show. It will be you dear reader. It will be some of the Inklings (maybe not Charles Williams -- I read him but can't eat with him), especially if they promise to read new stuff. It will be Bertie and some of his pals but not too many: then there would be that hobbit and dwarf problem. It will be Tom Bombadil and Farmer Maggot. Chesterbelloc. Wendell Berry. Allen Tate. Ochlophobists and Axegrinders, philosopher moms, handmaids, scriveners and minor clergy. It will be my English profs and my favorite History prof at Malone (yes, you, Mr. Oliver). Dante, Shakespeare, Cervantes and Chaucer. If they come, I would have more qualified people sit with them and tell me what they're saying: put me at the back corner of the room, close enough to see the light.

We will talk about the past and the end of the world, yes. But more, we will sing the songs and tell the stories that will take us safely through to the harbor, poetry that opens the shutters of the lantern of the Last Day upon this shadowed present.

And we will discover, in our recovered language, the words to prayer that calls down miracles, and magically lightens the mundane up to the harmonious spheres. Still there, after centuries of alchemy and science.

I will not bow before the iron crown, and I will help you not to either.

Reading with the dolphins

Dolphin2 Before he splashed away (like Flipper), the Tursiops truncates suggested an anthology of helpful readings. Astounded that he was literate at all, it did not bother me that he was not up to date.

The bottlenose’s obvious deficiencies in being au courant should in no way detract from our careful reading of his narrative.

Here is the first of his readings:

But at least the anti-individualistic --

Flipper suggested here a consistent substitution of “individual” with “personal,” since the text is written in the less precise year of 1930

-- forces had at last shown themselves unmistakably for what they were, and so had given him a conception of something eminently worth doing – namely, to wage an individual civil revolt against the established economic fetish. For now he had a fuller realization that the prevalent order affected not only those who had become “almost mechanical” at their machines or office desks, but, in a lesser degree, perhaps, but still visibly, affected any person who subsisted where this order was generally accepted. William --

“Who is William?” I asked; the patient dolphin answered, “Obviously a simulacrum, perhaps a representation of the essayist himself”

-- understood himself well enough to know that not all of his ego was active; that there was a lazy part being catered to, invited to partake of manufactured products of which he had no real need, and, what seemed a thousand times worse, was being invited to renounce the ardors of individualized leisure for the effortless diversions of seeing motion pictures chaste from having no carnal connection with life, reading boiler-plate fiction on the run, professing a travestied Christianity so nicely abstracted as to require little effort, and that only intellectual, hearing tasteless music and lyrical soap advertisements from a horn as one ate or read or solved cross-word puzzles --

“Obviously a more literate age,” clicked Flipper in echolocation, wondering where the academy went,

-- and, all other pastimes failing, riding in the ubiquitous automobile --

“At least William,” I averred, “still went out to the real outside” … “We happier swimmers cannot know about virtual reality,” answered the sea mammal.

These blandishments were strong for William; no one knew it better than he himself. He had a decided taste for the material luxuries of life – but a selective one.

    In his very selectivity he thought he espied his salvation; for the active part of him became increasingly wary of material benefits; they could too easily be sops thrown to pale creatures that once were men, in order to reimburse them for the loss of their souls

“Ouch,” I said … said Flipper, “Touché”.

This mistrust he kept secret from his friends as a matter of policy; he did not care to be scoffed at as a Puritan ascetic; he chose, rather, to think of himself as a critical skeptic. A line from a useless classic haunted him to sound the fundamental tone of his spiritual state: “Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.”

“I hate it when they use Latin,” I muttered, “it makes me feel so very low.”

-- adapted from "A study in individualism," by Henry Blue Kline (1930, pp. 318-9)

What the dolphin said

Bottlenose_dolphin_copy On the seventeenth of August, at the Atlantic strand of Old Dominion, a curiously well-informed dolphin spoke whilst leaping into the blue light of the oceanic sun.

I will translate his four-pointed address:

POWER/REVOLUTION

Production and money do not determine politics. Politics determines economics, and politics is determined by religion, which in turn is determined by the bodiless powers. "Economy is the secular image of religious conviction."

Religious conviction is especially acute (and pernicious) when it acts under the mask of secularism. Few prophets are more fundamentalistic than are the imams of scientific materialism.

Today's economy destroys homes and families, folk groups, folk-ways and folk-churches (leaving only anti-folk industrial constructs in its wake, burning à la auto da fé the hardback hymnals of more faithful times), and militates profoundly against personhood. Two careers in the agora are now necessary to keep up with the prurient commands of the Sekhmetian American Dream (i.e., "sad"), and the children are left in the care of surrogates. The preponderance of divorce, the packing of nursing homes, the ubiquity of ADHD and the epidemic of autism should be enough to indict industrialism. But the court that could have adjudicated my complaint has been long adjourned (since WWI).

A nation sins, as a whole, if it destroys nature, especially human nature. A nation sins when it pollutes the earth, to be sure. Atoms should not be ripped apart to unleash satanic destruction. Polar bears and Amazonian botanicals should not be extinguished. Artificial hills should not be erected out of immortal disposables, diapers and twinkies.

But human nature is the crown of material Creation, and it is most sinful to pollute this ecology. Human and diabolical oppression violates human nature, to be sure, but so does licentiousness, slander, and libertinism. What is more, human nature cannot be isolated in the individual: this is the mistake of most so-called "ethics," and that is the main reason why this word and enterprise ought to be retired in the dustbin of worn-out sciences, where phrenology, spontaneous generation and abiogenesis are already mouldering.

Human nature embraces persons and people, a celibate, a family, a sobor and koinonia, and a city. It may extend farther than that to a "people" or a "nation." But it may turn out that democracy cannot obtain any further than the extent of the old polis: a nationalized democracy is an important myth in modern history, but it may turn out to be fantasia. Certainly, internationalized democracy, or any virtualized "community" (which is the appearance any so-called community larger than a polis must take) is a particularly heinous fad.

In any case, persons and people together comprise human nature. And when a nation corrodes or destroys nature, there'll be hell to pay. When children suffer the slings and arrows of parents who enshrine their self-determined "needs" higher than the icon of Christ -- which shines everywhere in the home and its faces -- then not only are the parents invoking the winds of perdition, but so is the nation that cut those winds loose, as did the shipmates of Odysseus with the bag of Aeolus.

The winds scatter everywhere, and drives every ship and soul nowhere toward safe harbor, instead only to founder on the shores of Circe, where men are transmuted into the shape of their passions, or directly into the maws of Scylla and Charybdis, even down to Erebus itself. A man sits at night with the keyboard, and calls up, from the grave, succubi leering in tumescent phosphorescence: he assumes, as a fool, that he is only being aroused temporarily and privately, but has no inkling that hell thunders with derision, because his holy intercourse and authority have been stained, and he has been unmanned (it is idiotic for him to think that he was rendered impotent, or emasculated, by his wife: self-willed pornography had stunted him long before). Subsequently, a woman leaves her children, not out of the tragic necessity to fend off starvation, but to "improve herself," and to demonstrate her likeness with man. And she, like Electra, calls her rejection of the Marian chrism "feminism" and "egalitarianism": she, too, has no inkling that she has demythologized fatherhood and motherhood, and the children are consigned to androgyny.

These winds, among many others wafted from Cocytus, were all done in the name of the nation, you must know, because as Coolidge once did say, apocalyptically, "The business of America is business." When did Americans become so foolish as to accept this traitorous calumny?

But it is not completely the fault of men:

Politics is no longer determined by the nation: America is no longer ruled by the USA. The eutectic rhetoric of Lincoln and the humanistic analysis of de Tocqueville are both predicated on a moral ecosystem (the only meaning of "culture") that no longer obtains. The powers-that-be are not the President, the Congress or the Supreme Court: instead, they are networked coalitions that transcend nation-state borders. They themselves, the powers-that-be, are ruled in turn, perhaps unknowingly, by the powers-that-are.

Which are, of course, the determiners of the first (i.e., pre-Christian) and third (contemporary transgressive) worlds. They are the dictators (via mechanistic inspiration) of type-written world-narratives, the tenure-bestowers to their priests and priestesses, who in turn intone the ritual epistemological chant of Creation-destroying and deconstructionist necromancy.

Who decides to revolutionize culture, to replace one order with another? To descend into a more lurid, fetid milieu of consciousness-fragmentation and materialistic demonism?

SekhmetsacredtravelcomIt is not the stock market, as this is only the offering collected at the temple.

It is not the celebrities (whether on the vaudevillian stage or in the goblin peep show of politics), as these are only the fetish-dolls of the tantric-rites of the new ishtarian pieties (the pertinent religious tracts at the grocery racks, whether they give the histories of stars or soap operas, are the same and should not believed, because the truth is worse). 

It is not the hieratic/academic deathworkers (i.e., deathwork bards, or deconstructionist new prophets of Baal) (2nd i.e., these are probably represented by Harry Potter’s death-eaters) as these are only the epistemological factotums employed by the powers-that-are. The suixante huitards, now in their flannels and walkers, who won the war quite prettily for the university, really hoped they were heroes, but knew deep down they were only plagiarizing Epeius on the whim of Athena (who despises the sacred order).

Too many so-called "conservatives" are conservative only because they seek to conserve (or renovate) their own obsolete privileges. These are not true conservatives. They are only bourgeois wannabe aristocrats -- and the world has had enough of both. True conservatives save the good from inferno, and preserve the sacred order.

Revolution is inevitable insofar as the rumor of war and evil permeate the fallen world. All revolution, especially the French one and this present, begins in Tartarus.

This is the proper interpretation of "revolution" -- that is, as a cataclysmic social renunciation of the sacred order. It is often masked by a well-intended appeal to democracy ("man as passive bovine will become, if bothered enough, the Minotaur"): but the mask is always lifted to reveal the furious face and leprous of Alecto. Sekhmet's hunger must be assuaged, her breath must be expelled: no barn has been better stocked for these First World entities than the foodstuff larder harvested by the Third.

The sacramental, apostolic church is the only defense against this chthonic scourge. The last revolution, consuming the last men described by Zarathustra, will precede immediately the Last Day.

NATURE/TIME

Dolphins know that time is not a member or constituent of nature (as is assumed by most physics): rather, it is the other way around. Nature-as-Creation is a member of time, as it is based on time.

Truth is coherence with time and nature. Untruth is digression from time and nature, and will inevitably produce regression from consciousness -- which is also known as death.

Consciousness is the intersection (or, rather, interaction) of the soul with time, because Time is a Grace, a Rhetoric Divine. The other word for "consciousness" here is "nous."

Between and above the poles of chaos and determinism rises Personhood. One cannot help but to predicate all consciousness on his own personhood. That is why the Lord said that a man will never fail to love himself. But a man can fail to love others and God. Likewise, he can ignore personhood outside himself. Consequently, this deliberate ignorance produces a stilted view of the psychic landscape -- a Stygian topology, if you will. He who allows no personhood but his own will see Chaos above him, so that nothing can oppose his own deity (which is the only personhood he now understands -- the word for this is "Self"). And below him -- the chain of being that he assigns the status of consequentiality -- is determinism. The rejection of personhood, beyond the cold walls of Self, is the vocation of the overman. This construct can exist only if the natural view of Creation is eclipsed, like windows curtained to keep out the morning -- a common occurrence in the age which has lurched from industrialism to virtualism.

If he cannot grasp this Nietzschean brass ring of homo superior, then he would rather dismiss the world as unreal if he thinks at all.

Thus are the anti-natural schools of the existentialist, who wraps himself in Chaos, and the Übermensch, who crowns himself with the Darwinian scepter of self-determinism. Both have a vested interest in obliterating any vestige of the Person, especially the Three Persons in One Essence from Whom all personhood flows.

Most materialistic observers of persons assume that a biological phenomenon, if observed, must lie at the basis of behavior. Instead, many biological phenomena occur as a result of free decisions (a passionate man will produce, in himself, a genetic and biochemical complex that will accommodate his self-determination).

Of course, the unnatural character of much of human behavior and experience cannot completely be explained by self-determination. There are effects caused by completely external factors, whether by the destruction waged by other people (consciously evil or not), environmental catastrophes, or completely meaningless/"chance" occurrences (such as the debilitation of certain genes or developmental milestones that produce congenital defects, or physiological determinisms that appear later in life -- cerebral palsy is an instance of the former; heart disease is an example of the latter).

Also of course, of all the non-self-determined evils waged on existence, the inheritance of death and the legacy of the preponderance of orientation-to-sin is the greatest of injustices. The customary assignment of blame to God for this is the greatest darkness of the Western mind, and persists in the cultural cousins of reformed theology and atheism.Achillesshield

Too much time is wasted on fixing blame for sin and pain.

On the other hand, persons, who don't waste time complaining, are restored by gardens and sacraments. Such is the anamnesis of Paradise, the irony of the shield of Achilles, the lesson of Odysseus' olive tree. It is especially the vision of beauty and the peace of the Eucharist: no Christian can complain of injustice at the Table of Divine Conviviality. One Word at the Feast silences the totality of demonic noise ... one Song at Sion's Festival, under the Tree of Life, resolves the aggregate threat of meon.

PRAYER/PARTICULARITY

Good stories -- that is, stories that should be told or read, as opposed to many stories that should be ignored or immediately regretted as having been ever told or written (and especially, grievously read and cathected) -- good stories should be like trees that are lovelier than poems, grown from the ground of person and place, watered by memory, pulled up by the love of the tri-hypostatic sun.

Prayer must be like story in this way, rooted in heart, in hearth and earth ... "Pray Thyself in me" is the Trinitarian way of understanding this wise nut that is hard to crack.

Some people say that history must be “dealt with” in prayer (but they use the institutionalized corporate term "engaged with" for "dealt with" -- don't trust those talking heads that can't speak English). That is all fine and good if one means by "history" the prophetic and apocalyptic sense of the past. But alas, that is never meant this way: it is more likely that what is meant by "history" is the acceptance of self-serving and cultural self-justifying myths fabricated about the past, not from the past. One cannot pray if one's dogma is sociologically informed: Christian prayer is predicated on dogma that is theological.

Prayer, of course, must be rooted in memory and real theology (the only philosophy that can survive the Resurrection of Christ) -- this is the mustard seed of faith that is alone efficacious enough to move mountains and sharp enough to squeeze through the eye of a needle.

Only persons can pray. Persons are inspired, through eros, to pray as oak leaves yearn toward the sun. They learn, through ascesis, to pray in faith only through Tradition and Liturgy, never ever through the lesser erotics of entertainment. This is why the historic institutional Orthodox Church exists today. This is also why it can never attract popularity. It will always indict the industrialized cows of Bashan, because it must always cleave to the House of Prayer.

Prayer that is non-environmentalist (and insensible to global warming) must needs be gnostic, and should be heartily eschewed. Prayer that is non-personal is calvinist and therefore jovian, not Trinitarian. Prayer that is simple and fervent, orthodox and childlike, winsome and importunate, unencumbered by and liberated from the chains of Job-ian theodicy-obfuscations, illuminated by ecclesial vision and charged with joy, buoyed up by peace – that sort of prayer is simply prayer that is prayer.

Orthodox prayer that is efficacious must be relieved of the weights of churchmanship and bureaucracy. If Orthodoxy has been hobbled at all in the modern age, it has been handicapped by the customs of ecclesial politics siphoned off from Rome and the Franks: if institutional Orthodox ever sputters, it is only when the ecclesiastics have little to do with ekklesia. Bureaucratic prayer (a difficult phrase, if not impossible) distributes men on ladders of importance: the Pharisee, sniffing at the Republican, did such a thing, and it was adjudicated as judgmental, not justified.

Prayers that are not simple, that fail to be Orthodox, are inarticulate groans in the night, but are heard anyways, because God is always forbearing to deficiencies of doctrine: whenever mercy is truly begged for, God turns aside and anoints with Samaritan oil. Count on it -- especially if you, on the way to Jericho, have fallen among the thieves.

It is always better to opt for God as a Divine Neighbor than a philosophical construct. Any flower or tree, mountain or sea, if properly looked at, will keep one from knowing about God rather than knowing Him. One cannot denature the Apostolic Vision into propositions. One cannot subject theology to philosophical categorization, simply because theology is not an intellectual object: as it is the empirical experience of God's Uncreated Energies, it is above all academic captures and caricatures.

Perhaps in the West it is permitted to define theology as "a word about God," but not in the East. Theology is the experience of Triune energies, the apostolic vision of the Uncreated Light: any intellectualized confinement of "theology" -- especially in a dialectic manner -- is a diminution of the term. The intellectual prejudice against experience is the reason why St. Paul's rhetoric at Mars Hill was a mixed success. St. Dionysios heard and received the Word -- not because he was an intellectual, but because he was willing to be called a fool for a bright enough light.

Prayer has been wounded by the Reformation. And since Prayer must live, the Reformation will continue to fade. What will not fade is the world militated against Prayer. Since Prayer will live, the third world of transgression will become more shrill: atheism, more and more, will be outed as a sheer cover for passion, a rejection of repentance. There will be those, as there are already, who will pledge themselves to the rooting out of every vestige of Christianity. Christianity can co-exist with non-Christians. The reverse will become ever less likely.

As Christendom is deconstructed, culture declines and love will grow cold. The rumors of war will become pronounced. Many will come in His Name and lead some of the elect astray. Words will become completely unmoored from the other side of appearances. Symbols cannot survive in a virtualized "world," where what purports to be real is directly perceived, and nothing is represented by the appearance. Prayer -- which is the communication with reality that is beyond appearances -- relies upon the symbolic. Deconstruction and virtualization (the twin demons of unleashed by industrialism) choke symbols, and wage war against prayer. When words lose all symbolic dimension, and become cardboard posturings for power, then the last man will have finally, and completely, forgotten how to pray. Then it will be truly night, and the Thief will come.

Language and culture are free "sub-creations" by man of the White Tower of Prayer. Prayer is the ultimate aim of language and the zenith of culture. The neglect of this truth is the chief pathology of civilization, the engine of decadence, and the only fact that sociology can accurately observe.

HEROES/BEAST

The utterance “Thy will be done” is the most liberationist, consciousness-raising, promethean statement of all, and can only be pronounced by free people, i.e. “saints” who are sinners who still call sin “sin,” and do not seek political endorsement of sin for an aggrandized self-awareness, but seek salvation instead from the isolation of self-awareness – a self-awareness from which Sartre found no exit.

But the heroes who are the saints and the persons, alone can see others as the persons they are because they are no longer self-determined by sin. They can see beauty because they believe in the Three Persons in One Essence, and they see beauty reverberate in all Creation. They return their cathected images of real beauty over the distance to the Creator in thanks, and thus they turn the world upside down.

This is the true power of man. Saints are the only real magicians (i.e., changers of their phenomena), as Love may proceed from Persons alone. The lesser magicians and tyrants of the age, the warlords and corporate moguls, are puppets of goblins. Satanists, manipulators of goetia and crystal-mongers, burning-man orgiasts, jihadists and skull-and-bones-tycoons are afflicted with the same pneumopathology: they entertain themselves with reveries of independent power until the next mood hits, and they lurch off, bidden, to the next diablerie of war.

That power is the mere vandal power of deathwork, like toilet paper on college nights, graffiti in the sky, orcs cutting down the trees. It is not, and never has been, the true power of Love.

Sacraments can only be agrarian (and Patriarchal and Trinitarian, scandalously exclusive and conservative), and cannot help but revile the industrial religion of the Beast. Religion cannot survive the virtualized ringwraith world of technology. There is art and there is craft, and in each there is a sub-creator and  his tools. But there is the shadow world of technology, into which individuals lurch, deceived into the night: and of this world it is well said, "one to rule them all and in the darkness binds them."

This must be the theme of any Christian enchiridion for survival in the new globalization prophesied by that quintessential testament of Mammon, “novus ordo seclorum”.

All youth workers and seminary professors and clerics must wrestle with this fact, or they will become obscurantists at best, or emergent megachurcher multistaffers at likeliest. Cowardice in this matter produces heterodox clerisy (i.e., mainline "egalitarian" elitism).

There is no unseen conspiracy. The blueprint of the Beast is written on every dollar bill for all to see: his narrative has long been plainly published. The dichotomy “You cannot serve God and Mammon” will become more literalized with every passing year of this virtualized age.

And when the culture of the antichrist is accomplished atop the new Dark Tower of Babel (being erected, like Baradur, in the cyber-den of virtual Dis), the number of the Beast will be revealed, finally (and simply) as line 37 of the 1040 tax return.

With that, the dolphin, on purpose, vanished into the looming, arching wave.

Talking points for social liberals at evangelical conferences

Let's assume that you're a nationally sought-after speaker from an eastern college, who for some strange reason has developed egalitarian sensitivities on behalf of the feminist and homosexual consciousness movements.

Let's assume, too, that you will be appearing on stage to about two thousand adolescents and adults and clergy from a denomination that only lately characterized itself as fundamental, but has now stepped boldly into the progressive evangelical church growth (read "anti-ecclesial") movement.

Let's assume, finally, that this happened last week somewhere in the midwest. What talking points will you (or did you) follow in order to entertain the masses?

  1. Don't worry about the administrative brass: they paid too much money for your appearance to ask you the questions they are morally responsible to ask. That's called "cognitive dissonance," and it's a dynamic that the modernist movement has used against Holy Tradition for hundreds of years.
  2. Paint yourself (in your expletives and jargon) as a youth and a co-sufferer of theirs against the older generation and the hide-bound establishment of traditional conservatives. Be sure to call conservatives "Republican."
  3. Sprinkle your speech with expletives and small quotes from the King James Bible. You will sound paradoxical (and thus cool), especially if you meld thee's and thou's with anglo-saxon terms for barnyard phenomena.
  4. If you get questioned by revenant preachers from the old order, simply -- like all politicians -- never answer the question outright, but punish your interlocutor with immediate and interminable forays into diatribe, hyperbole and anecdote. Hey, you're a big pomo speaker on the old Youth for Christ rubber chicken circuit: no need for old fashioned logical dialectic here -- it's all political rhetoric, baby.
  5. Answer no doctrinal questions. Say nothing about the Trinity. Remind everyone that dogma is old-fashioned. What is better, nowadays, is experience, relationship, and -- drumroll please -- authenticity. It doesn't matter authentically what: just the adjective, not the noun.
  6. Label old-fashioned pro-lifers and anti-homosexuals as legalistic, Pharisaical fundamentalists who do not care for the poor. Exploit the natural adolescent concern for social justice by linking it exclusively to the pomo egalitarian gender-neutral and multi-orientation platform.
  7. Make it a point to sound like you're amillennial, and mention that once in a while you read important stuff like Dostoevsky. Talk about "sophia" a lot, and say something vague about the "feminine side of God," and that being something that the Orthodox Church "has always known about" (despite the fact that you couldn't stand Orthodoxy if you stepped into it). This will make the wannabe intellectuals friendly to you, and will confuse all the latent Orthodox hankerers in the crowd. At least it will confuse them long enough until the check clears.

Dis-Appointment in Second Life

Warhol_marilynIt was in the irony of Second Life that the youth minister, armed with a Fuller degree, thought of despair.

He found himself (or his avatar, rather) climbing a black staircase in a dark tower. The walls pulsed with the dim shades of Andy Warhol’s offerings. Though he hardly recognized them, a dim memo from his 8th grade art class reminded him that these pictures must be backwards.

But it didn’t matter. He had just seen the MySpace pages of his membership, even his staff, even the kids who signed the celibacy pledge and had gone to Mexico with him the summer before. He could picture them, just like the pop shots of Warhol, waving raised arms on Saturday night, praying with the orphan kids, but in cyberspace, other pieties reigned supreme. “I’m not gay but I love my gay friends” shouted out a community collegian, who had thought of seminary once upon a time, “and I don’t give a f___ who doesn’t like it,” he continued in perfectly acceptable MySpace dreckish. The words brokeback mountain, bitch and whore dribbled off in a litany from the pages. A nice girl who usually won the Bible Quizzes, on a popup YouTube window, pranced and doused her t-shirt to Prince, and also speckled her bio with f this and that.

He had spoken of his concerns to the denominational brass. He was, he found out, too insensitive for one thing, perhaps even phobic. He was also, he was told, too moralistic, and needed to grow "in faith formation" a more biblical narrative "ethic." "Kids will be kids, boys will be boys, we all have our hangups from way back," on went the headquarterian elitist drone. "Don't take it so seriously. Don't make such a big deal."

He was almost to the top step now. He had been trained to exploit all technology for the Gospel of Christ. Even the Internet. Even virtual reality. That’s what Warfield and Moody did (with the new electric lights on Sunday night). That’s what Finney preached, and Schuller, Wagner, Schaller, Warren, Wimber, George, Sunday, McPherson, Robertson, Bakker all, in their seminars, urged. Use everything. Exploit everything for Christ. Show movies, play laser tag. Build a virtual chapel. Invite anonymous sex questions. There is no right or wrong in the medium.

“Maybe,” he thought, “Benedict the XVIth is right. Maybe we are deficient.” And it seemed true, and in Second Life, "seeming" is about as close to truth as you can get (although commerce is quite real here, and if that is the only real thing in this fog of Tartarus, then capitalism truly is forever). Calvin and the Reformers, and their diminishing successors, were silent here in Second Life, palled by that ubiquitous gray dull bass hum, the inimitable groan of black flame, punctuated by the grind music of solipsistic erotica, of avatars prancing to other aroused monologues, pixelated up, shall we say?, with exaggerated appeal.

This is the end of the Reformation, right “here,” on Warhol Tower, in the second life of virtual reality.

He thought these dejected thoughts as he stepped out, onto the precipice. Looking down, he saw right then why Marilyn Monroe was looking left instead of right while he was climbing the stairs. He was seeing the backside of the painting. Now, for all to see in the dim horizon (is Second Life flat or round? does it matter? is it matter?), flashed the Tower a succession of Marilyn, of knives, of soup cans, of (of course) John Lennon, Mickey Mouse and bananas. On the outside of the Tower, Marilyn was looking right as she always did in virtuality.

Then, there was a prophetic, pathetic murmur from the Tower: Everybody has their own America, and then they have pieces of a fantasy America that they think is out there but they can’t see ... So the fantasy corners of America ... you’ve pieced them together from scenes in movies and music and lines from books. And you live in your dream America that you’ve custom-made from art and schmaltz and emotions just as much as you live in your real one.

“I have cooperated with this program,” the Fuller youth minister thought, “and I have no Virgil to shield my eyes. Suicide is impossible here: I can not fall in a land already dead.”

O you whose intellects see clear and whole, gaze on the doctrine that is hidden here beneath the unfamiliar verses veil (Inferno, ix, 61-63, Esolen).

Then one came dry shod over the waters of Styx. He swept his arm out in front of him, clearing the gross virtuality from before his face. Despite his lack of training in Pasadena, the youth minister saw that this unprogrammed visitor must be a herald sent from Heaven.

O cacciati del ciel, gente dispetta,” upon the horrible threshold of the Warhol Tower the Angel began, “ond’esta oltracotanza in voi s’alletta?”

Since he had the gift of interpretation (from Sayers, Hollander and Esolen), the young man understood: “O you despicable race cast out from Heaven, whence do you fetch this pride that feeds on you!”

And, freeing him from the Furies and the curly lock of the Gorgon, the Angel conversed with me.

“There are things you must know.

"There is only one moment and one reality.

"There are no shortcuts. Any expansion into a higher dimension involves a magnification of distance. There are no wrinkles in time. There are no wormholes. There is only infinite expansion. No one flies. There is only the motion of Love and movement by Grace.

"Physics and biology are continuous with morality and belief. The reliability of materialistic science is due mainly to dynamics of self-validation. But he who prays well, knows well and sees well. He who does not pray, sees what he wants to. He who does not pray well, does not because he does not believe enough: and he too, outside the Church, ends up seeing only what he wants to see.

"There are no parallel universes, only retrograde. You see the beginnings of it around you now.

"All of creation can carry grace. Fantasia, not imagination, is the rejection of grace. This ‘place’ is the rejection of grace. It is the rehearsal of Inferno, the rupture of Hades into the world.

"Created reality saves from passion -- which is always the necromantic evocation of perdition. Virtuality can produce only despair, the gift of the Gorgons. This nether world rejection of substance, this virtuality, will become less and less the invention of technology, and more and more haunted by souls destroyed, and the dissolution of time.

"Time is not space nor is it a dimension. Time is grace: death is grace rejected, heaven is grace expected and received.”

With that, he took the boy's wrist, and wrenched him from the Warhol Tower, and set his wandering attention back to prayer and the sun.

That being said

That last post on Fr. Neuhaus' homily was laudatory, but it should be taken with the proverbial grain.

I've been wondering, for a while, why the folk at FT are so interested in playing the raisonneur, as though the rest of us comprise a sort of Savanarola torch bevy, quoting St. Falwell and white-hooded. It's been fatiguing, reading Barr and Collins trotted out and defended (against the ID mob, arrayed like the villagers in Mrs. Shelley's book) as the canonical interpreters of our Creation "myths."

I like First Things. Their occasional publication of Hart and Bottum is enough to warrant a subscription. Neuhaus' crab digest in the back is usually good for a literate caffeination of a late afternoon doldrum. But the mission of the magazine -- I've been thinking -- is getting a tad conventional.

Enter Gabriel's post at "Going Along." Here is a nice quote toward the end of the post (you should read the whole thing):

Combined, both articles demonstrate the usual state of the Christian intellectual in these times. He may be very sophisticated in his knowledge of the Faith, but he is “wise” enough to realize that such knowledge is better put to use at private cocktail parties than in—to use a favorite term from First Things—“the public square.” Whether Novak, Pannenberg, or other Christian intellectuals want to admit it not, intellectual discussion is still governed by the rules of the Enlightenment: reason first, intuition second, mad speculation third, and religion if—and only if!—it can made to fit in with the other three.

I've long thought that Neuhaus is too sanguine about the Public Square. I am much more pessimistic, since I think that natural law is not so lucid since reprobation is now so ascendant. The collegiality that may have existed in modernity (i.e., "the Great Conversation") no longer exists ... the college, or public square, that made that Conversation possible has been teetered by Nietzschean prophecies and the post-modern critique.

Reprobation (how's that for a scatological term?) is the obfuscation of God's image in man, and the heretical adoption of a passion (or two or three) as the replacement destiny of man: theosis has been overthrown in favor of ganymedean hubris.

And Fr. Neuhaus still thinks we can dialectize the colleges into Christ? Those who have ears to hear, still, are precisely those who still have ears (i.e., the subscribers to First Things, and other things). Perhaps the former Lutheran is holding out for the good old days mainly because of his Roman predilections.

I think, crank that I am, that what remains is only the rhetoric of peace. It is better we work on that, than make accommodations in the style of Pannenburg, Novak and Barr.

Thanks, as usual, to the Ochlophobist for his watchman-like ways.

Memento mori

Today is the last Soul Saturday of the year. Today, I’m going with my youth class out to the cemetery to repair and dress the graves of some, from my parish, who have no families or anyone else to trim the grass, clean the stones, set a flower in the granite vase.

I suppose that the usual response from my more sophisticated acquaintances, who do not like the dead, would be the habitual shrug and yawn, and the skeptical notion, “Could not this have been given to the poor?”

So on this day we remember the Lord’s words: “God is not a god of the dead, but of the living.”

This is a keystone of our religion, placed there by the Author and Finisher of our faith Himself. You can’t have Christianity without the Resurrection, just as you can’t have faith without the Eucharist. Take the Eucharist and the Resurrection away from Christianity, and you have something like a Western Europe of the mind.

This verse is a strong corrective to a false thought that sprouts like chickweed in moments (and areas) of weak faith and superstition. The falsity holds that if we forget the departed, or fail to attend to the proper services for them, then they will lose substance and fade away. It is as though their continued existence depended on our faithfulness. Or, to put it another way, our neglect might make them “fade,” and as we forget, we kill forever.

Thank heaven that this is not the meaning of our well-known hymn, “Eternal memory.” The words remind us that God’s mindfulness of the departed is eternal. And since that very mindfulness is the life-giving basis of the one who has departed from our own contact, and even our failed consciousness, nevertheless, the departed lives on because – and only because – of the “memory” of God.

It is true that the departed benefit from our prayers, and that is one of the two main reasons why we embrace the service for the dead. We pray frequently for the repose of the departed. We have liturgies especially dedicated to these prayers. We have smaller services that highlight these prayers.

You cannot be Orthodox without paying attention to the dead, and often.

And it is only known that somehow (and we don’t know just how), the dead are blessed. Every time someone prays “Lord have mercy,” mountains are moved, and the Spirit rains down mercy upon the just and the unjust. The unction of healing and the streams of blessing descend, in a cleansing tide, the agnostic culture of the Samaritan woman. That is why we pray “Lord have mercy” three times, twelve times, forty times in a row and seventy times seven. Not for repetition’s sake, and not even because the Lord needs us to call His attention (as if we could ever “invoke” Him). When we pray “Lord have mercy” a million times, a million sinners receive grace.

Even in hades, in paradise, even in the intermediate state of the soul. The soul of the departed man or woman is opened ever wider to the Uncreated Light of Tabor, the Energy that proceeds incessantly, infinitely, ubiquitously, from the Essence, the Holy and Consubstantial Tri-Hypostatic Sun.

That is the first reason why we pray for the dead and dress their graves: it helps them. It also serves to remind our society that this is part of Christianity. Many people are allergic to our attentions to these matters, and they have been heard to suggest that we are morbid. I have even heard of some misguided Orthodox parishes giving up on “perpetual” (i.e., anniversary) liturgies altogether, and to divert the funds into more “practical” uses like capital improvements, missions and charity.

Nonsense. Christianity must deal with the dead, and that brings me to the second reason why we pray for them. It is also the main reason why we sing “Eternal memory.” We are not reminding God to remember the departed, lest the departed fade away. We are, rather, reminding ourselves to remember our departed loved ones and all the dead, lest we fade away … lest our faith desiccate into protestant cardboard … lest we – in forgetting the dead -- end up forgetting how to live.

In this month’s issue of First Things, Joseph Bottum writes how you can look far and wide in San Francisco and not find a single human cemetery. You can find pet cemeteries, even parrot cemeteries, but human cemeteries are prohibited by law. It has become, I’m sure, far more convenient to do the burning thing. It’s cleaner, antiseptic, and it’s much easier and quicker to get to that comfortable “just forget all about it” stage of acceptance.

It’s also a good way to stick your head in a pillow, which is what I think the San Francisco state of mind is all about in general.

With bright poignancy, Bottum recalls that San Franciscans have no grace-full signs of death like cemeteries – for remember (as the consummate essayist did not mention, but I do) that cemeteries are for those who slumber. What visible sign they do have is a big one, to be sure, and that is the Golden Gate Bridge, whose portal is not traversed toward the Son.

In denying death, and its attendant grief, and the metaphysical springs of meaning that rise up from its meditation (memento mori), the avante garde steadily, pillowed and cosseted, drink their Ghirardelli on Fisherman’s Wharf, thinking of Big Sur. Oblivious, of course, to the expenditures of fetal tissue and old bodies slated for this year’s line of soylent green.

We who remember the dead are not so besmirched by dread. We kiss the beloved in open casket before the priest blesses the body (not the “remains”), to the strains of Eternal Memory, Vicnaja Pamjat. We do not burn or discard that which reminds us of our mutability. We are more courageous, as Christians, than the existentialists who feared their own death: we grieve more the death of others than our own, and recognize the advance and immature grief at our own repose as the latent paganism it really is.

In denying death, one is left with statistics and the latest PowerPoint models of molecular extrapolations. There is no soul, so there is no death, only cessation, disappearance, inconvenient, but entirely expected and should have been prepared for were it not for your emotional humanistic handicaps of faith and love. It is as if you were substituted midgame, and the crowd sees only another number on a like jersey, or you didn't show up to work, and another desk jockey slipped in your chair, and changed your preferences, your screen saver. You should have been able to take all this, but you're so handicapped with that "forever" wish.

We who are so emotionally handicapped face death, embrace faith and the soul. For through the sleep of death comes the face to face, the single ubiquitous Beatific Vision of the One Who Is, Love, the God of the living, and not the dead, for there is, finally, no one who is.

Dead, that is. Now, whether they are in bliss, or in despair depends entirely on whether death was listened to, and the humilities of belief were engaged.

Today, my youth class knelt amongst the memorial stones, cutting crabgrass thatch away from the names and the days. They looked very much like any gathering of a dozen adolescents. One was even wearing a replica shirt from his hero, Napoleon Dynamite. But this bike-shorted, T-shirted acolyte was touching the very ground of community, even in a pre-Christian sense of civilization.

The dead were moving amongst my young, my congregation, names of aunts and uncles, grandparents, and great-grandparents, founders and benefactors, first-generation immigrants from the old country who didn't know any more english than it took to run a coke oven, or stack bricks in a blast furnace. These poor hunkies of long ago brought Church with them to these shores, and didn't modify it to suit tastes in a different land.

Christopher, my vibrant Napoleon acolyte, was surrounded by the dead who continue to help make his community live, and he thought it was meet and right.

And in a patently Christian sense, this community reaches to heaven, as the single Sacrifice subsumed all sacrificial propitiations for the sake of the living. Around us, and especially in the secular schedule of my juvenescent friends, the West is lurching backwards toward the ancient (and barbarous) scapegoat economies – economies guided (and compelled) by the jealousies of the Furies. Before our very eyes, the Eumenides are reverting to their old habits, and are changing their corporate logo back to “Erinyes”: the Potniae, the Maniae, the Praxidikae. Without the Christian meanings of death, the world is enthralled again to the awful madness of revenge.

But here still, in the light of the Son, there is Peace from the one Death that transmuted dread to hope, regression into Life. Our dead, the repository of our memory and political meaning, will be changed.

This all came clear, as I watched the living among the dead. In the twinkling of an eye.

Boys will be not be boys, today

Dr. Anthony Esolen, to whom I am indebted enough for his translation of the Divine Comedy, has this neat story about Teddy Roosevelt over at Touchstone:

From a children's encyclopedia (first printing, 1914), on a man whom the writer justly calls our most popular President, Teddy Roosevelt:

     "While at college he taught a Sunday School class.  One day one of his students came to class with a black eye.  He owned up that he had got it in a fight and on a Sunday at that.  He confessed to his teacher that during the morning service a boy, sitting next to his sister, had pricked her all through the hour, so after church he waited outside and they had a good 'stand-up fight,' and he 'punched him good,' although he got a black eye in exchange.  'You did exactly right,' said his teacher and gave the lad a dollar.  To the class it was ideal justice, but when the church authorities heard of it they were scandalized.  Young Roosevelt was dismissed and took himself and his ideals to another Sunday School.

     "Many years later he gave this bit of advice to his Boy Scout friends: 'What we have a right to expect of the American boy is that he shall turn out to be a good American man.  Now, the chances are strong that he won't turn out to be much of a man unless he is a good deal of a boy.  He must not be a coward or a weakling, a bully, a shirk, or a prig.  He must work hard and play hard.  He must be clean-minded and clean-lived, and able to hold his own under all circumstances and against all comers.  It is only on these conditions that he will grow into the kind of a man of whom America can be really proud.  In life, as in a football game, the principle is: Hit the line hard; don't foul and don't shirk, but hit the line hard.'"

I read this in the fine essay from Esolen just this morning (after returning from a Diocesan priests' convocation where Archpriest Patrick Reardon was the main presenter).

Just after I got back to Pittsburgh last night, these events unfolded:

While waiting for my wife at the mall, I chanced upon a scuffle played out on the asphalt, under the facade of Barnes and Nobles.

But this was no honorable duel, rewarded by the better Roosevelt. This scuffle was a tête-à-tête between mall security (an oxymoron if there ever was one) and two shirtless pubescents, stomping on their skateboards.

The partners couldn't believe they were being asked, politely, to curtail their thrill quest (and, perhaps, prurient peacock dance). They were even more offended that they were required to amend their shirtless attire, by -- I suppose -- shirtting on themselves.

Up to this point, Teddy might not have found much to disavow. Skateboarding is distantly related to sport, in the sense that the Huns and Greeks both could be described as societies. And TR may not have found shirtlessness offensive. He probably swam naked, but there were no women around the pool. Waist-up nakedness was still naked when the nicer, softer gender were about -- and there were some perambulators of this sort in the parking lot.

No, where the Big Stick would have bristled was at the moment the boys engaged in that peculiar modernist habit of "hostile wailing." They actually wept -- hot salt water streaking dirt tracks down their pockmarked, jejeune-bristled cheeks. They stuttered, inarticulate, their grievances at being charged to cease and clothe.

At the same time, oddly, they grimaced in rage, clenching fists, planning even at the moment to wage revenge, that night, when it was safe, of course. After all, the clenched fists and the rhetoric were impotent, unfortunately unlike the more biological appurtenances that had seen too much service.

But tonight was different: a little time jumping the curbs, certainly, then to work on scattering trash from the dumpsters, slashing a few tires, breaking a little glass. "We'll show them who rules the night."

All under the facade of Barnes and Nobles, where the biographies of TR are for sale, but not his stories of Sunday School, or the Boy Scouts.

Leftover

I gave to God my leftovers
A mass on Saturday night, half an hour thank you,
between the ball games and morning tee's.

I gave to God my leftovers
A sentimental thought, a nostalgia from the glowy
Currier and Ives lithoprints of my past
(a little airbrushed, I know, but so very Hallmark),
church with the family,
sacraments from the old country,
Amen to all that
but no more:
couldn't stand the thought that I'd be called
a fundamentalist.

I gave to God my leftovers
a renovation of the New Testament
to make it a lot more appealing to the seekers,
the people who need liberated,
change the pronouns, level the leadership,
make the order nice and more, you know,
inclusive.

I gave to God my leftovers
'cuz I'm tired after all that TV
and its commands:
the Nephilim there, in nether space,
tell me, urge me,
to enroll my children in soccer and judo,
and spray their souls into the cyberious shadow
of lust and black flame.
tell me, they do, urge me
to watch, eagerly, with discipline
and iron rule, unwavering obeisance to dogma
as Simon Says on an Idol showing
in America.

(Swann, recherche but never knowing
du temps perdu,
is flying from the whiteness of the whale.)

I obey, without question,
the TV career
and I submit, neck bowed pale
as my head drops to slumber in chip dip and beer.

I gave to God my leftovers,
thank God He gave me His,
twelve baskets,
when only a crumb will do.

Why I am not a good ethicist

For one reason or another, I receive essays on ethics for perusal. The day before yesterday, my e-mail program announced, with a ding, the odd arrival of an old article from the Boston Review, written by a man who claims Orthodoxy now as his “faith tradition,” having been drawn out of Roman Catholicism about a decade ago.

There is much to commend in the article. Its complaints about racism and consumerism won nods from my stiff neck. It faithfully affirmed Fr. Alexander Schmemann’s definition of secularism (i.e., reducing religion to a particular “department” of life). It discussed the reality of the Eucharist as the Body and Blood of Christ, and how we Christians are transformed by that singular transformation.

But the nods soon faded into sighs. The obligatory “I personally think that abortion is appalling” vote was cast, but it was quickly conditioned by an acceptance of the doctrines of privacy and individual freedom. There was the old saw about the abortion rate increasing during Reagan’s years, but decreasing during Clinton’s (I’m not sure what point is being made here).

There was that equally tiring saw about how there just isn’t any political party to suit the Orthodox taste:

I am troubled that there is no political home for my consistent ethic of life, but I also take comfort in the knowledge that electoral politics is not all there is to politics. If Chesterton’s idea of an America with the soul of a church has any validity, I believe it lies in our tradition of voluntary activity, through which faith can mobilize people to participate in the long and difficult grassroots struggle to transform our communities into a more just and peaceful society.

Well, yes, I have looked for a party for a long time, and there is just no Eagle and Child to be found in Pittsburgh. And who can argue against the need for voluntarism? Everyone, and not just Christian voices, knows that we should do more for the poor, the powerless, and all of Creation. Yes, yes, yes, by all means, we should attend to the “liturgy between the liturgies,” we should attend to the altars of the suffering poor on the streets outside the Temple.

That will never change. “The poor you will always have with you.” We should build houses in New Orleans, serve the soup lines in our boweries, and clear up the mess in Greenfield, Kansas. We should take care of addicts, protect children, feed the hungry on the other side of the world and the working poor in our town, and preserve families.

No one doubts this. I certainly don’t. But what sets me apart from most of my ethicist brethren (and sistren) is that I also do not doubt that the poor we will always have with us. We will never end poverty, or war, or injustice. We wait for the Messiah, and work whilst it remains day, for the night is coming, and the harvest is great.

I believe, coming out of my “faith tradition” as I do, that the main reason why we feed the hungry here is not to acclimate them to the world, but to help lead them into the next.

Yes, and I’m sure we should probably do more about justice, but I am not nearly as confident about the particularities of political struggles and social justice as are my professional colleagues in ethics. I am confused when hierarchs like +Archbishop Iakovos (of thrice-blessed memory) are applauded when they walk with Martin Luther King, but other hierarchs are denigrated, with those sherry-and-canape academic harrumphs, when they are seen slumming with the National Right to Life March.

I am quite sure about the pro-life movement as an appropriate movement for Christian political involvement, as it is a clear moment of ecclesial prophecy. In all of its phases – anti-eugenics, anti-abortion, pro-decent provision for the fatherless and single-mothers, and anti-euthanasia (or, more accurately, anti-“geriatricide”) – the Orthodox ethic is clear.

I’m not sure that such clarity is achieved in other, more radically chic, political endeavors. For example, I do not think that the politics of homosexual liberation has any place in an Orthodox prophetic witness. Neither do I think that the gender politics of inclusive language or female ordination have anything to do with justice, in the Christian sense (perhaps it has something to do with other senses).

The problem here is a tension that emerges not from what Albert Raboteau said in his rather fine article, but from what he didn’t say. And here, I should mention that I’m picking on Raboteau mainly because of the esteem I’ve felt for him since his old interview with Franky Schaeffer in the Christian Activist (that erstwhile, occasional magazine whose publication schedule was a Messianic secret). Raboteau said, in his Boston Review piece, that he was drawn to Orthodoxy because of deeply-felt affinities between his African experience of "joyful sorrow," and the same experience in the Apostolic Church of the ancient East.

Yes, yes, and yes. I agree with all my heart. But what I disagree with here is that Raboteau failed to proclaim the substance, the salient point of the Orthodox ethic and the prophetic witness of the Kingdom of God:

We do not protest injustice (in the Marxist manner).

We do protest wickedness and sin.

We are against slavery and abortion not primarily because they are oppressive acts of socio-economic bondage and tyranny against the powerless. We oppose these bad things (and many others) mainly because they are unclean works of the devil … because they are evil and demonic, not because they deprive the meek of material goods.

We do not primarily affirm social justice.

We affirm, instead, holiness and spiritual peace through Jesus Christ, and in His Communion.

Oddly enough, in Raboteau’s article, and in the essays of most Orthodox, Roman Catholic, and even conservative Protestant ethicists, there is very little mention of the word “sin.” There is just as patent an aversion to the word “holiness.”

It may be that there has been a decline of the frequency of these horrid old-fashioned and patriarchal terms concurrent with the decline of the place of metaphysics in the intellectual agora. With the loss of divinity as an acceptable referent in polite conversation, the only terms that can be pronounced are jaundiced words like “ethics,” or, my favorite, “faith tradition.”

There is a common push toward the recovery of a “patristic worldview” in the Orthodox and Roman realms, and even in the Protestant constellation. There is, in this worldview (a term probably too hard for the Fathers to understand), an affirmation of a sacramental or liturgical lifestyle, even an “eschatological ethos.” Under these rubrics, it seems that old-fashioned words like “sin” and “evil” have been modified into more progressive meanings (like “oppressive,” or “insensitive,” or “patriarchal,” or “colonial”).

Pastors and parishes receive, in annual or semi-annual batches of snail-mail and e-mail, the voluminous statements and study guides from official ethics committees (the publication of study guides, videos, and "resources" exist as rationale for next year's budgetary allocation: "See? We put out thousands of pages on modern concerns? How could they get along without us?"). As the cluster headache fog of mystification descends on the native intelligences of the rank and file, the last clear ethical thought goes something like this: "Why is it that the more these committees work, the more I'm confused, and the more old-fashioned sinners are left off the hook?"

It is hard to defeat the notion, held in the back of many lay minds, that central administration commissions do a lot of cultural accommodation in the obfuscating language of bureacrateze (or is that "bureaucratish"? -- you know what I mean: that special melange of rhetoric and vocabulary that enables corporations and commissions to defer responsibility, edit reality, and manage re-education).

The odd thing, here, is that those very Fathers who are the source of things "patristic" were quite firm (and offensive) in their use of words like “sinful” and “wicked.” St. John Chrysostom, as is well known, railed against the rich and their failure to give to the poor, but he also railed against their failure to attend Divine Liturgy regularly. He protested against the Empress, to be sure, but his protest was against her rather self-serving silver statue, not against her wars.

His social protest and the sum of his ethics – like that of all the Fathers – were aimed against wickedness, and he and they urged Christians to attain holiness and piety.

A real, Orthodox ethic might agree with an article like that of Professor Raboteau (and with the articles of many other salon Orthodox writers, Yannaras amongst them). Yes, the environment should be cared for. Yes, the hungry should be fed and the poor sheltered. Yes, racial prejudice should be suppressed. Yes, hurricanes, tsunamis and tornadoes should be responded to with great generosity.

But you could read this sort of thing from anywhere. Tony Campolo and the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops say the same thing – that your sense of social justice and politics should be informed by your Sunday morning identity.

But an Orthodox ethic shouldn't even be called an “ethic.” “Ethics,” by itself, has to do with a false dichotomy between action and knowledge, existence and essence. It has been aberrantly set in contraposition to theology. A better word here is “prophecy,” and such a term is far truer to Scripture and Tradition. There were no committees on ethics or social issues in the Patristic era.

But there was prophecy.

There was no such thing as "worldview" (Dilthey notwithstanding).

The Fathers just said "world."

So an Orthodox prophetic witness would protest all the usual things that Raboteau and other Orthodox ethicists protest. But it would also rail against gambling, usury, excessive profiteering. It would not shy from denouncing the trendy agenda of legitimizing homosexuality, imposing egalitarianism, and deconstructing tradition. It would do more warning against celebrity-worship, pornography and unchastity than organizing boycotts of SUVs, rare woods and fur. It would complain trenchantly about church absenteeism, and the failure of Christian parents to lock the world out of their homes. It would condemn the pride that is inherent in slander and gossip. It would also excoriate the anti-clericalism and anti-hierarchalism that are rife today.

Never once, in my entire ethicistical career, have I ever heard mentioned, in committee sessions in Harrisburg, DC and NYC, the base problems of swearing and church absenteeism. And yet, these two problems in particular are mentioned frequently in the Gospels and the Epistles, in contrast to the complete silence on social issues more amenable to modern sensibilities. "Swearing" (not to be confused with vulgarity) is of enormous "ethical" concern in the Sermon on the Mount and the Epistle of St. James. It is of little concern today.

And finally, an Orthodox prophecy would correctly identify the reason why all these things are happening. It would correctly identify, too, just where we are eschatologically – and not simply limit this identification to that commonplace (and quite protestant) simplification of “inaugurated eschatology,” the “now-and-not-yet.”

It would say that the root problem of Orthodox Christians is their failure to pray as Jesus taught -- sacramentally and ascetically. It would say that the root problem of the world is its refusal to protect and listen to the Apostolic and Orthodox Church.

And it would say that the reason why the world is warming is because of the usury of corporate dragons like Smaug, not because of all the poor people who have to gas up their cars to get to their McJobs.

It would say, too, that the Islamization of Europe calls not for a Crusade, but for repentance … and this for the simple reason that any prophet, like Amos, would have no trouble recognizing the new Islamic Jihad for what it really is: another incarnation of the Assyrians, a harbinger and agent of Dies Irae.

This is what prophecy would probably say. And it goes without saying that this is not what Raboteau and all the respective denominational social and moral issues committees would ever say.

They wouldn't say it because they are ethicists.

And that is the problem of the age, my friends: ethics and prophecy do not mix. And I'm afraid they can't.

Concatenation

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.

But the cats didn’t like this, as this was too patriarchal for their tastes. So they arranged a Conference, and held long Committee meetings, and heard numerous Consultations and the reports of Commissions, and engaged in some serious Creative writing, couched in the first person plural but (rather not like the Divinity) invariably framed in the passive voice.

So the cats, conferring and consulting, and creatively commissioning, said:

As it has come to our attention that there is a frequently experienced phenomenon known as (but not limited to, as there are other understandings) “existence” or “life,”* we hereby affirm our commitment to our firmly-held conviction that this condition either has always been as we have experienced it, or it has developed over time and in different understandings (all of which are of equal incredibly unique and important value**) to become, incrementally and in seamless transition, what we have been in the here and now.

We courageously affirm the importance of our conviction that the embracing of this metanarrative, this understanding of understandings, has enabled us to experience richly the possibilities of “community-based ontologies” – that is, sociologically-conditioned theories of reality – rather than the outmoded and limited prejudicial theories (i.e., of only one “reality” and one “time”) that have produced regrettable notions of “rightness” and “wrongness.”

We are excited about the infinitely-varied and wide range of possibilities that have become available to our communal and individual consciousness. As together, in a community of freely-inclusive and self-committed individuals, we affirm a “phenomenal consensus,” and in that affirmation we have experienced a richer range of evaluative alternatives that can generate more effective affirmations of lifestyle choices (by re-framing them as extensions of individual psychologies and inevitabilities), we embrace the mandate of electing an ethic for every possible endeavor. We revel in the tapestry of multifaceted ethics, in which each one articulates a new narrative of consciousness, liberation, commitment and free decision-making.

We value and greatly respect the treasuries of past understandings, and freely and inclusively embrace the legacies of sectarian traditions, each of which apprehended its own particular affirmations of totality. We, however, have sought a more affirmative and wider understanding of the present and the future. We believe that it is more effective to model our own experience upon our convictions, rather than “react” to paternalistic possibilities of “creation.” These negative possibilities inflict an undue burden upon the potentialities of future narratives, and restrict the range of future decision-making. This paternalistic pattern has even gone so far as to consign some valid potentialities or choices to the biased and hate-speeched modalities of “wrongness” and “sin.”

We reject these stereotypes that stem from obsolete ethical theories, and we gratefully remind ourselves that we have been privileged to reframe the ethical enterprise into a consensus-based, democratically-conditioned endeavor. We have benefited from the new, hopeful possibilities – an “eschatological narrative of hope” – of the enjoyment of “committee” over the confining prejudices of “creator-ism,” “truth/goodness-ism,” and “morality-ism.” Now that we have identified the implicit narratives of liberation and consciousness underlying the God-myth of more provincial traditions, we have courageously accepted the responsibility of defining our future by the identification and extrapolation of our psychologies and sociology. By this, we have transitioned th