Category Archives: For the Benefit of Mankind

Covenants How Made Voyd

Men are freed of their Covenants two wayes; by Performing; or by being Forgiven. For Performance, is the naturall end of obligation; and Forgivenesse, the restitution of liberty; as being a retransferring of that Right, in which the obligation consisted.

Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan

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Nor With God Without Special Revelation

Leviathan

By Thomas Hobbes

1651

LEVIATHAN OR THE MATTER,
FORME, & POWER OF A COMMON-WEALTH
ECCLESIASTICAL AND CIVIL


To make Covenant with God, is impossible, but by Mediation of such as God speaketh to, either by Revelation supernatural, or by his Lieutenants that govern under him, and in his Name; For otherwise we know not whether our Covenants be accepted, or not. And therefore they that Vow any thing contrary to any law of Nature, Vow in vain; as being a thing unjust to pay such Vow. And if it be a thing commanded by the Law of Nature, it is not the Vow, but the Law that binds them.

The Flower of the Flock by Pierce Egan (1865)

In Three Volumes.

Vol. I.

London: Published By W. S. Johnson & Co.

1865


Chapter 1

The Shadow in the Sunshine


And the sunlight clasps the earth.

—Shelley

From her chamber window he would catch
Her beauty faster than the falcon spies;
And constant as her vespers would he watch,
Because her face was turned to the same skies.
—Keats

Abright sunny morning, at the end of June, in busy, restless London. The overarching vault of heaven was filled with an atmosphere of golden hue. Sunshine was glowing upon cathedral turrets and upon the church spires, upon the pinnacles of lofty buildings, and the crowns of tall factory shafts. The bronzed and tarnished ball and cross of St. Paul’s, and the shaggy-crested Monument, which “like a tall bully lifts its head,” shone as if they had been newly gilded. There was sunshine upon chimney-pots and housetops, golden beams permeating the confined air in close garrets, through their narrow, half-closed windows; flooding wide streets, and illuminating pestiferous courts, where riotous hilarity sometimes, but joy never came.

Sunshine blazed upon the broad and winding Thames, over whose flowing surface lazy barges dawdled, and panting river steamers raced, leaving in their sinuous paths myriads of scintillations—and rather an unpleasant odour as well. Sunshine was on the footways, and in the roadways, and in the gutters, making mirrors of small muddy pools.

Sunshine there was for the ragged and the richly dressed; for the beggar and the prince alike; for the robust and, happily, for the sickly invalid.

Sunshine everywhere, making brilliant the parks and open places, and interpenetrating all the foulest recesses of this huge city. Giving light where it was rarely seen, and rousing to a glad activity the teeming life already in its first throes of daily labour.

Beautiful in this, the bright sunshine! but oh, yet more enchanting in the glory with which it invested the fair face of a young girl, peering out of the upper window of a house situated in one of the City’s closest streets.

She stood there, gazing heavenward, her mild blue eyes bending beneath the influence of the golden glare of sunny-waves of light, yet seeming to revel in their luxuriance as though they spoke to her in fairy language of other and happier times and places now far away.

Upon the opposite side of the street, in the shop of a working goldsmith, one John Harper, there stood a youth, an apprentice to the noble art of working in gold. The beauty and the clearness of the fair morning had elevated and refreshed his youthful spirits, but ah! how much greater their exhilaration when his upturned eyes were gladdened by the sight of that beautiful young girl, whose radiant face, and delicately modelled form, were brought out in brilliant relief by the dazzling sunbeams.

It seemed to him that his brightest conceptions of the beautiful, his dreamy fashionings of a faultless ideal, combined with all his native and his acquired skill, had never yet enabled him to realise “a thing of beauty” to rival the perfect excellence and marvellous charms of that young face upon which his eager eyes were now fastened.

Raphael, in his rarest art-performance had not in his belief attained the sentiment of angelic purity beaming in her features, nor had Carlo Dolci, in the loveliest Madonna he ever painted, anticipated it.

Motionless he stood, and with suspended breath gazed upon her as though she were one lone bright star, shining unaccompanied in the vast field of the deep blue heavens, in the silent night, his mind the while lost in a maze of rapture and of wonder.

Yet he had seen it often for years!

And now he had a consciousness that a saddening gloom overspread the earth far and near. What made the surrounding space in a moment so sombre? Had a huge cloud suddenly sprung up from its sullen rest, and spreading itself enviously over the broad sky, absorbed the sunlight? Was the sunshine which had converted smoky London into a city of golden palaces abruptly withdrawn? No! sunbeams yet glanced upon the buildings, and danced upon the rippling waters, but the young maiden had disappeared from her window. She had suddenly fled from it, as a startled fawn would spring into a covert at the sound of the approaching footsteps of a hunter bent upon its destruction.

So, though the sunshine was as brilliant as before—the whole universe, in the eyes of Harry Vivian, the young goldsmith, seemed plunged into a profound and solemn gloom—for she was no longer where he yet gazed.

He felt oppressed in this glittering sunshine, which had no light for him, and he drew towards the outer door, that in the free fresh air he might breathe more freely. As he gained the threshold, he started, and an exclamation of surprise escaped his lips.

Opposite, at the door of the house in which dwelt the young girl upon whom his eyes had gazed so fondly, stood a man who in costume and manner was the reverse of prepossessing. Who was he, and what could he want there? were questions which Harry at once put to himself. He had come on business—most disagreeable business—that was beyond a doubt, for there was nothing either in his garb or in his manner which betrayed the idle visitor. Harry, therefore, conceived it to be his especial duty—with rather questionable propriety, however—to observe his movements.

He saw the man examine the house from the scraper at the door, to the parapet below the roof, and then make a peculiar sign to some person or persons, who lying perdu, prevented Harry from catching a glimpse of them. Then he gave a treble knock at the door, facing which he was standing. Young Vivian did not like that knock. It was not a peal of three distinct knocks for a third-floor lodger, nor was it the easy rat-tat-tat of a genteel visitor. No; it was a bad imitation of a postman’s knock, followed by a faltering, sneaking tap.

Had any embarrassed individual, accustomed to visits from rent-distrainers or process-servers, heard that knock and caught sight of that man at his door, he would have instantly implored some other inmate of the house to tell the visitor that he had sailed to the furthest extremity of the Hudson Bay territory, and would never be home again.

The fact was, it was not alone that the knock was a tell-tale, but the man’s dress also loudly proclaimed the purport of the visits he paid. Upon his head, slinking down to his eyebrows, was a hat which had long endured severe stress of weather, to its disadvantage. Upon his body—and that was his mark—he wore a loose brown great coat, styled by advertising tailors, “the sack,” It was dirty, discoloured, much worn at the pockets, and strongly impregnated with the odour of the cheapest and rankest tobacco.

That coat, worn at the hottest end of June, betrayed him. It was his sign-board. A child brought up in that neighbourhood would have told you, by that coat, worn in the height of summer heats, the nature of his profession.

The young goldsmith, on seeing him, held his breath; he had a conviction that the man’s errand would of necessity prove an unpleasant one; and, after a moment’s reflection, he stepped over the threshold of the shop-door, apparently engaged in looking up and down the street, but he never took his eye for an instant off the man in the dingy brown coat.

That individual had just raised his extremely dirty fingers to repeat the offensive knock, when the street-door slowly opened, and an elderly, wan-faced man presented himself.

“It is her father,” muttered the young goldsmith, retiring within his shop, yet only a few paces, for—though uninfluenced by any meanly inquisitive motives—he felt constrained to watch the proceedings of the shabby, brown-coated personage.

He observed the wan old man and his visitor engaged in rather a vigorous colloquy, conducted with brutal coarseness on the part of the man in the brown coat, and on the other side with the air of one upon whom some heavy and startling demand is made, which he is wholly unprepared or unable to meet.

After some extravagant gestures had been exhibited by both persons, the individual in the dingy brown sack abruptly terminated it, by thrusting rudely back the pale-faced old man, springing past him, and ascending the stairs. Wringing his hands, with a distracted aspect, the old man staggered after him.

The quick eye of Harry Vivian had detected the agonised bearing of the old man during the whole time he was in conversation with his unwelcome visitor. He had with pain perceived the emotion of horror which seemed to paralyse his limbs as he tottered up the stairs after the dusky fellow, and, with nervous apprehension, he wondered what scene was then being enacted in the apartments above.

Was that fair young creature present? In all human probability she was. Possibly subjected to the coarse insults of the unprepossessing individual who had forced his way into her presence. The teeth of the youth set firmly together as the thought intruded itself, and he felt that it would prove an infinite comfort to him, if he detected the vulgar rascal in any act of insolence addressed to her, to grip him by the nape of the neck, and fling him out of the window into the street.

At this moment, old Harper, the goldsmith, his master, and his uncle too, made his appearance from an inner workshop. Young Vivian, who was racking his brain for a scheme which should enable him to make one of the party opposite, turned quickly to him and said—

“Oh, sir, I am glad you have come in! There is the silver race cup from Rixon’s, which ought to have been sent to the chaser’s; it has been overlooked. It is wanted home quickly. Don’t you think I had better run over with it at once to old Wilton?”

“Wilton! No, Hal!”

“No, sir. Why not?”

“He was so slow over the last things we gave him to chase. You ought to remember that, Hal, for you used to run over there constantly to urge him on, you know.”

Hal turned suddenly scarlet.

“That won’t do,” continued the goldsmith; “so in future, I think we had better send all these jobs to old Verity, at the back of the Sessions House.”

The perspiration stood in small globes on the forehead of young Vivian.

“You forget, sir,” he said, with a pleading tone, “that Wilton has been long in failing health, that it is not so long since he lost his wife. Oh! sir, this is not a time to take his work away.”

Mr. Harper gently stroked his chin.

“Well, no, Hal, it is not,” he said, after a short pause; “but, at the same time, his unfortunate position is not an excuse we can offer to the firms who employ us for delay in the work with which we are entrusted; and it would be unfair to ourselves to allow the shortcomings of others to prove the occasion of loss of custom to us.”

“But I will answer for Wilton’s punctuality this time,” urged Hal, eagerly; “and you know he is our best chaser. Shall I run over with it, and impress upon him that it is wanted as soon as it can be done?”

“Well you may, Hal,” said the goldsmith; “but remember to point out to him the necessity for punctuality. Assure him that if there be any delay over the completion of this job, he may reckon it as the last he will have from us.”

The apprentice, with a pleased smile, nodded his head, caught up the cup, which bore upon it a rare example of his own skill, and ran out of the shop.

A moment more, and a sharp ringing knock was heard at the door of the house in which dwelt old Wilton the gold chaser.

Another moment, and the apprentice stood within the chamber he had so longed to enter, and he became at once a spectator and a participator in a painful scene.

The sounds of angry altercation caught his ear as he reached the room door, the gruff tone of voice of the unwelcome guest preponderating. Acting upon and animated by an impulse which he perhaps would not have cared to acknowledge even to himself, he did not pause to crave admission, but entered the room without displaying the courtesy of a preliminary knock.

He saw before him old Wilton, and facing him the terror-dealing man in brown. They were at high words. On the appearance of Hal, both men became silent, and fixed their eyes intently and inquiringly upon him. They waited for him to speak.

The apprentice cast his eyes quickly round the room, but the maiden he hoped to see was not there, and he drew breath. He perceived that he was expected to commence the conversation, and, clearing his voice, he said, hurriedly—

“Mr. Wilton, I have some work here for you.” He put the silver cup upon the table. It will require your nicest skill, and the instructions are therefore rather elaborate, so, if you please, I will wait until you are disengaged before I”——

“No! no! no!” exclaimed old Wilton, interrupting him, Snatching up the cup, he thrust it back into the arms of young Vivian—“take it away—take it away!” he added, almost frantically, “it must not remain here now. No! no! no!”

“Why not?” asked the individual in the loose great coat, sharply.

“Silence! speak not,” cried Wilton, hoarsely, glaring at him; and then turning to the apprentice, he ejaculated, with great excitement, “Go—go; I beg—I entreat you to go away. Pray, young sir, go!”

“But I interposes a objection,” intervened the former speaker, and, turning to Vivian, he said, with an assumption of authority—“You’ll be so kind as to put that ’ere piece o’ plate down where you put it jes’ now.”

“Suppose I do not?” rejoined Vivian, sharply, turning his bright eye full upon the speaker, with an expression that savoured very strongly of a disposition to resist. The dirty man did not like the language it spake, but he affected not to be influenced by the threat it conveyed. He answered, temperately yet impressively—

“That is jes’ what I don’t suppose. Look here, young genl’man, you don’t know me—my name’s Jukes!”

It might have been Snooks, or Wiggins, or any other name not down in the category of the young man’s acquaintances or friends. The indifference he displayed on hearing it could not be greater if it had. He so expressed himself, for which Mr. Jukes rewarded him with a stare of astonishment, and whistled. Then he chuckled—

“You’re in luck, you are,” he continued; “but then you are young, you’ll werry likely know me better some day. I’m a sheriff’s officer.”

Certainly the youth recognised the office if he did not the man’s name. A thrill ran through his frame as the fellow hissed the words between his teeth, and a sound like a low wail burst from the lips of old Wilton.

The youth turned towards him, his bosom swelling with the generous impulses natural to his age, and, in tones of earnest sincerity, he exclaimed, “Can I, in any way, aid you, Mr. Wilton?”

The tone, the look, the gesture of the warm-hearted youth needed nothing to commend them to the keen appreciation of the old gold-worker, and his eyes filled with tears as the generous proffer fell upon his ears, but he shook his head sorrowfully.

“I thank you, Master Vivian,” he said; “but you cannot help me. No, you cannot aid me.”

“You do not know, Mr. Wilton, what I might be able to accomplish, if you would give me the opportunity,” he urged.

“No, no,” replied the old man, “leave me to battle it out with this man as best I may.”

“And jes’ leave that cup afore you go,” exclaimed Mr. Jukes, addressing Vivian. “It’ll help the hassets.”

“I do not intend to go yet,” said Hal Vivian; “but when I do, believe me I shall take no instructions from you about the destination of this cup.”

Mr. Jukes whistled shrilly by the united aid of his first and third fingers, and instantly the room door opened. A couple of yet shabbier and much dirtier personages than Mr. Jukes made their appearance. That individual waved his hand towards them, and performed the ceremony of introduction.

“Mr. Nutty and Mr. Sudds, genl’men,” he said. “One on ’em, Mr. Nutty, I shall leave here in possession on a fi. fa., and Mr. Sudds will assist me in arresting Eustace Wilton on a ca. sa. and in taking on him a country walk to a spunging house.”

Old Wilton turned as pale as death, and groaned in bitter anguish. Young Vivian felt a flush of heat pass over his frame.

“Can nothing be done?” he asked of Jukes, earnestly.

Mr. Jukes raised his dirty hand to his mouth, and recklessly bit his foul thumb-nail. He plunged into a fit of reflection. Suddenly he raised his head, and said to his companions—

“Go outside a moment.”

They obeyed him, and quitted the room. Then he said to the youth—

“I hold warrants on two judgments against Wilton for one thousand pounds each. On the one I takes his traps, on the other I takes his body. So you see as he can’t satisfy ’em, young mister, he’ll be cleaned out, and become a reg’lar pauper, on the poor side, in quod; and he must rot in quod, for he can’t take the benefit of the hact, that I knows. That’s bad enuff, ain’t it?”

“It is horrible!” ejaculated Hal, with a glance of commiseration at the old man, who, with downcast eyes and set teeth, was listening to every word that fell from the man’s lips.

“Of course it is,” repeated Mr. Jukes, with an air of triumph. “Now he may save himself from all this, and like the princesses and queen’s children in fairy tales, live happy ever arterwards, if he chooses not to be hobstinate.” Mr. Jukes spoke with emphasis. “I wants him jes’ to sign a little bit o’ paper. He has only to make a flourish with a pen, and there he is a free man agin with all his traps about him.”

Mr. Jukes paused. Young Vivian approached old Wilton.

“Your position is a grave one, Mr. Wilton,” he said: “let me respectfully suggest that if a simple signature will free you from two heavy claims”——

“Two thousand pounds, two thousand pounds!” interposed Jukes, elevating his voice as he repeated the amount of the sum.

“Simple signature!—simple signature!” almost screamed the old man. “You do not know what you ask, young sir. Sign it. Never! I will starve, rot, die, first.”

“Then you must starve, die, and rot,” roared Mr. Jukes, entirely losing his previous equanimity. “We’ll have no more o’ your nonsense. Hallo there! Sudds and Nutty, come in here, and let’s go to business; ketch ’old of Eustace Wilton there, Sudds; and you, Nutty, begin to take a hinventory of these ’ere chattels.”

Had the men thus summoned to appear, indulged themselves while outside the door with the pastime of listening at the keyhole, they could hardly have made a quicker response, than they did to the call of Jukes.

But as they entered the room by one door, a young girl ran into it by another, and cast her arms about the old gold-worker’s neck, saying, in an affrighted tone—

“Dear, dear father, who and why are these men here? why are you, in such grief?”

The old man sank upon a seat; bowing his face upon the table and burying his hands in his gray hair, he sobbed with agony.

The girl only tightened her loving embrace, and turned her face towards the ruffians who were about to jest at the situation.

It was the young Madonna-faced maiden Vivian had seen at the window, seeming like a golden seraph in the sunshine.

When Jukes perceived the exquisite countenance of Wilton’s daughter turned with an aspect of distressed inquiry towards him, he instinctively removed the hat of many showers from his dusty head, and made her a slight bow. His satellites also approached as near as they could to an imitation of his action, and stood still, instead of displaying, as they had intended, a vast amount of unnecessary activity.

This respect was an instinctive tribute to her innocent loveliness. Purity commands reverence even as beauty does admiration.

Vivian felt, with a rising in the throat, a sudden desire to produce from his pocket—which contained but a very few shillings—several thousand pounds, with which to pay off the debt, and then an almost irresistible inclination to trundle down the stairs, and out of the house, the three fellows whose presence created so much misery.

He could do nothing, however, but clear his voice, and, addressing the young lady, say—

“This is a most unhappy affair, Miss Wilton; and I regret very sincerely that it is in my power to do little either in the way of assistance or advice; but, with your permission, I will fetch over my uncle, Mr. Harper; he possesses vast experience, and no doubt he will show us a way out of this maze of difficulty and affliction.”

He did not wait for her permission, but running across the road, returned the silver cup to its former place; and, in a few hurried, passionate words, explained to his uncle what had occurred. He succeeded in prevailing on him to return with him to Wilton’s apartments, in some vague hope that he would be able to suggest a mode by which the old man might be saved from destruction.

A most painful scene followed the appearance of Mr. Harper. By pertinent questions, he elicited that, under circumstances which could not then be explained, Wilton had given bonds to the amount of two thousand pounds; that those bonds were over-due; that he had been sued for the recovery of the amount; that judgment had been obtained against him, and that execution had issued; but, withal, the man Jukes was empowered to withdraw arrest and execution, on the condition that Wilton signed a certain document which Jukes then had in his possession. This signature Wilton sternly and inflexibly refused to give; and when it was urged upon him to do so, for the sake of her who was wholly dependent upon him, he grew frenzied, and vowed that he would submit to death rather than comply. Mr. Harper, the goldsmith, finding that reasoning, expostulations, suggestions, and pleadings, were alike in vain, said there was no way to save him, and matters must take their course. Like a vulture pouncing upon its prey, Jukes seized upon the almost lifeless old man, and proceeded to drag him away. His daughter clung in horrified agony to him—in truth, it was a sad and painful sight. It was scarcely more than a year since death had ruthlessly torn her mother from this fair young child, and now it seemed as though the grim tyrant, in the person of Jukes, was robbing her of her father also.

The old man’s knees trembled, and his under-jaw quivered, as though he had been smitten with the palsy. He embraced his daughter with frenzied emotion, and in tones of passionate grief, cried—

“Flo’! Flo’! my own, my beautiful darling, I leave you but for a brief time. Bear up against this dreadful visitation as bravely as you can, my girl. It is for the sake of your brother and for you, darling, that I endure this misery; but have trust, my child, in an all-righteous Creator—happiness will come to us again some day, my child—some day.”

“I will do my best, dear father, if you will take me with you,” murmured Flora, through her blinding tears: “I will strive to be brave, and to endure patiently and calmly; but oh! indeed, indeed it will terrible to be left here alone.”

She flung herself upon his neck, and sobbed bitterly.

Mr. Harper coughed, a watery mist shrouded everything from the sight of young Vivian, but Mr. Jukes, declaring that he had no warrant of arrest against any “gals,” turned spitefully on old Wilton, tore him from the agonised embrace of his weeping child, and bore him away. Mr. Harper followed them down the stairs, to see that no unnecessary harshness was employed in conveying the trembling prisoner into the street.

When they were gone, Flora Wilton sank, half-fainting, into a chair, Hal approached her, and, in a gentle voice, he said to her—

“Your brother Mark and I were intimate friends, Miss Wilton, before he went abroad—will you not also look upon me as a friend? It is not in my power to do much, yet all that I can do to serve you shall be done with my whole heart. Pray believe me. I will not obtrude upon the very natural grief which now so heavily weighs you down, but I entreat you, when you may need aid not to forget me.”

Flora rose up. She turned her large, beautiful eyes—yet more lustrous from the tears which filled them—upon him, and with a quivering lip, murmured—

“Oh, Mr. Vivian, kindness at a moment like this is doubly valuable. It has a language which of late has been very, very strange in our ears; and now that—that he—he is gone, I—I”—

Her voice gradually became inaudible, as her features were overspread with a death-like paleness. She stretched out her small white hand, as though to feel for some place to lean upon for support. She appeared at a moment to have been stricken with blindness; she tottered, swayed, to and fro, and would have fallen heavily upon the ground but that Hal, with a sudden cry, caught her in his strong arms and saved her.

The exclamation uttered by Vivian attracted the attention of Mr. Nutty. He was making out an inventory of the furniture in the room, and had just written down in a penny memorandum book, “4 ’orsaire cheers, 1 tabbel,” when he heard the same voice cry—“Run for some water! Quick! Run!”

He responded instantly:

“Water be blowed; I can’t go for no water; I’m the man in possession.”

Continued…

From Gutenberg: The Flower of the Flock

Star Wars – The Last Jedi (Goodbye, Star Wars)

The Last Jedi

The last flicker of whatever love I had for Star Wars after the broadside called The Force Awakens died this week.

As Regressives always do, Disney has utterly eviscerated the Star Wars canon and mythos so they can warp the brand into their bizarre social and incoherent political image.

I am not kidding, The Last Jedi feels not like just one stab in the back, but fifty. My god, this movie is so mean-spirited with regard to the original cast and story, it continues The Force Awakens’ outright revenge against George Lucas.

That’s the word: revenge.

This movie is so spiteful there is no other explanation.

You are watching revisionist history in progress. In fifty years, Lucasfilm will be as far removed from its founder’s original vision as the east is from the west.

When you talk with someone about something deep and meaningful and they just regurgitate Facebook and Twitter soundbites, and you suddenly realize they know absolutely nothing about the very subject they are screaming at you about… you know, to prove they believe it… and you wonder how can something be so completely removed from its original source material….

Pay attention, friends. Disney is giving you a Master Class is revisionism.

Like The Force Awakens, this movie is relentless in destroying all things Star Wars under the guise of “deconstruction” (destruction), “fan service” (mockery and belittling), and “progress” (capsizing all truths).

As was done with the Star Trek reboot, this beloved franchise has been hijacked by people who actually despise the very things it stands for.

Star Wars is now being perverted into something else… and that something else includes propaganda. This movie is one big middle finger aimed right at George Lucas. Frame after frame, the contempt is palpable.

Then, if all that wasn’t enough, this movie doubles as a shrill social and political screed so busy shaking its fist at phantoms, it strangles the entire narrative from the opening frame to the last.

D. W. Griffith’s Birth of a Nation is subtler.

The Last Jedi proves Disney & Co. are less interested in cinema than having a global Millennial soapbox.

Earlier this year I swore off the Dallas Cowboys for their ungratefulness.

Now, I swear off Star Wars.

Why?

First, it is a poorly conceived and written heap of media. The special effects dazzle and the framing and cinematography is breathtaking. But the plot and the story are incompetent, typical of any script J. J. Abrams is within a thousand yards of.

Second, it is a direct contravention of all Star Wars canon: it is an attack on its very soul. It really is no wonder why Disney went through so many directors before settling on Ryan Johnson: the others were not willing traitors to canon. Disney ended up having to run a talent search for tradition-hating book burners.

Third, “progressivism” is the art of convincing people they are proudly marching forward when they are really stumbling backwards. Read Orwell: totalitarian movements always brand bad things as good. It is a game of labels. Because most people are incapable of analyzing claims and verifying premises, they just blindly go along with the drumbeat. There is no light between modern “progressivism” and, say, 1st century Roman paganism: they are the same. Obedient, uncritical, moaning, overly-sensualized drones are the goal of such people and today they have legions of them.

The original Star Wars trilogy was about dreams, dedication that brings one to decision,  those decisions playing out in different directions, eventually clashing, and being judged as to their respective Force potentials for the people themselves and even the galaxy. It was about right and wrong, good and evil, the Light Side and the Dark Side.

Disney’s version of Star Wars desires to obliterate any priesthood (Jedi) to sacred power (Force), rewire its main defenders as realizing the stupidity of their devotion (some imaginary patriarchy), throw away their desire to defend justice (light saber duels), destroy all foundational works (literature, reading, and history of course) and monuments, and just grant all people in all places equal and easy access to Divinity without having to improve (righteousness)… without having to change (repentance).

Disney’s flirtation with the infantile Kylo Ren, a genocidal, five world-ending, race-exterminating war criminal proves what side of psychopathy and holocaust they prefer. Rey’s psychic pseudo-romance with such a bipolar fiend reflects no better on Disney. After all, any good communist knows: it’s not a war crime if the right people die.

Message: heaven is for everyone.

Including the devil.

Joss Whedon famously said “Ultron was right”, proving he sided with that villain’s estimation of Mankind. How often we find the most cherished words (cherished by the filmmakers) are those they put in the mouth of serial killers. Why not kill the past? Anything that keeps a man, or woman, or child free — anything, including the past — must be destroyed in order for Unfinished People to convince their saner countrymen to unpin their ethics and morality and give up all the finer points of their humanity.

Kill the past! Reject your parents! Burn your traditions!
Obey us! Walk away from the Light!

How many times do we hear this in Hollywood movies? An indoctrination (sometimes subtle, sometimes overt, always sinister) trying to convince people to give up everything that defines them, and everything that empowers them to resist being dominated.

And just so you know, I am not talking about opposing technological progress, advancing stories and moving from one victory to another: this is none of those things. I refer specifically to broken men and women trying to lure you away from Truth to follow superstitions, exchange independence for psychological incarceration, and throw away anything that will prove you are, in fact, dealing with Unfinished People trying desperately to escape from their own consciences.

If you ever wondered how Emperor Palpatine subjugated the galaxy, Disney is giving you a trainer course.

Just another dystopian Sith nightmare.

This was a painful post to write. I saw Star Wars when I was nine years old and it has always had a privileged place in my heart. But between the prequels and Disney, I know my Star Wars is forever lost to me.

Farewell.

36 Months

cross of life

The fame of some is counted across decades, while the careers of others are measured over ten, twenty, thirty, forty years… or more.

The influence of still others is measured in poetry or plays, Academy Awards, sports, famous battles, famous inventions, or great contributions to peace, or the sciences, or to human advancement.

But there is One Man, known throughout the entire world, who’s name has been spoken in every tongue, who has won more ground and minds than all the armies of all the nations across all the ages of the world.

And you can comfortably measure His ministry in months.

36 months.

That’s it. 36 months.

That is only 1,095 days and the world has never been the same.

I am old enough now to realize people either adore Him or completely avoid Him. In my opinion the latter is the least sincere response to the Son of Man.

Fear is the natural response of the natural mind. The Man of whom we speak is both Us and Other… and that Other can be pretty intimidating, even frightening.

There comes a time one matures beyond hiding in the dusty but comfortable corners of one’s own mind: when we are finally able to think outside ourselves — beyond our senses, our pain, our fright, our personal catalog of betrayals and self-assurances.

Someone is knocking at the door of our heart. The mind can feel this gentle rapping, yes, this strange invitation, but it cannot comprehend it. It is both familiar and alien, simultaneously Us and Other.

So open the door…

And marvel at the Other Side of Life.

Christmas 2017

Gold Star

Today we celebrate the greatest life ever lived, laid down, and picked up again.

It is entirely appropriate that we do this.

Today should not be a peculiar mood. All the great and meaningful things this season reminds us to observe, we should observe every day. Yes, that’s difficult, but it is the highest mountain that has the best view.

Many of you respect, adore, and cherish the memory of great men and women — defenders, artists, writers, presidents, scholars, saints, explorers, scientists, kings — who themselves respected, adored, and cherished the Man for whom Christmas was named.

I submit if you want to know what made those heroes truly great, you must look past them, back through the centuries, to Bethlehem.

There, like today, you will find skepticism and wonder.

I invite you to consider the latter.