What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a wise man, I would do my part;
Yet what can I give him, give him my heart.
-Christina Rosetti
__________
During the regular year I usually hover around the 90% line: I spend 90% of my time in old Europe through the good offices of Scott, Dickens, Shakespeare, and the legion of soldiers of the cross who lived, worked, and died on the European side of the Great Divide. The 10% of the time I spend in Modernia is my concession to the powers that be. The liberals are the malevolent rulers of Europe, so I must spend enough time in their world to see what they are up to. But at Christmas time, which I regard as the twelve day period starting on the 25th of December, I shut the liberals and their world off completely and stay exclusively with old Europe throughout the Christmas season. And I find that the complete Christmas immersion heightens the contrast between old and new Europe and makes me, upon re-entry into Satania, even more conscious of that which was lost and the evil we must combat. Let us once again gird up our loins and attack the liberals. We must hate them with our whole heart and mind and soul because of Him whom they fight against and whom we fight for.
There is no mistaking the Great Divide. Prior to World War I there still existed a sturdy Christian peasantry throughout the European nations. There was a large segment of intellectuals that had gone over to the culture of the cynical smile and the scornful sneer, but there were still a few Christian defenders in the ranks of the intelligentsia. With the wholesale apostasy of the European intelligentsia after World War I came the gradual deterioration of the Christian peasantry. A Christian ethos survived until 1965, and after that all was cheerless, dark and deadly: the new Babylon had supplanted the old European Christianity.
The literature of the West in the early twentieth century reflected the change in the Europeansâ collective soul. Suddenly the old Christian storytelling tradition represented by Dickens, Austen, and Scott was considered immature and frivolous. The new novels, which were impossible to understand without an authorial glossary and a reference book of literary symbols, became fashionable. Literary critics, who were confused and conflicted men, pronounced works like Joyceâs Ulysses and Proustâs Remembrance of Things Past to be ârealistic masterpiecesâ because they depicted man as a confused jumble of emotions without any spiritual core. Man was simply a stream of consciousness without a beginning or an end. Twentieth century literature, with the exception of certain deliberate throwbacks such as C. S. Lewis and John Buchan, is full of authors who see man as part of cosmic nature, a soulless creature subject to the laws of a natural world that has no God over and above it.
At first the message of âman as bugâ literature was one of despair. Man is alone in a universe that is not, as was previously thought by unscientific Europeans of the past, animated by a loving God. âThey have taken away my Lord out of the sepulcher and we know not where they have laid him.â But the despairing cries of anguish of the early twentieth century writers gave way to a new faith by the latter half of the twentieth century. Men — not even liberals who professed to be supermen that did not need God as a âcrutchâ — could not live without some human incarnation of God. Science had destroyed the Christian God and replaced Him with cosmic nature, but cosmic nature â âMay the force be with youâ â was not enough. Who could be the incarnate god of cosmic nature? All that needless metaphysical angst of such writers as Camus and Sarte. The answer to manâs aloneness in the universe was staring them right in the face. All they needed to do was to pick up a copy of Rousseauâs work on the Noble Savage. In the latter half of the twentieth century the black man became the new Messiah. Around their new saviorâs throne, the liberals rejoiced and bid the new peasantry fall in line and worship the god of cosmic nature. âWe are happy, we are fulfilled, we are content,â sang the not-so-happy, not-so-fulfilled, not-so-contented grazers.
The liberals have presented their new cosmic nature religion as an advance: âChristianity was anthropomorphic, Christianity was infantile, Christianity was unscientific.â But really what is so intelligent and âadvancedâ about a religion that has negro gods? Nothing, of course. Which is why the liberals will not acknowledge that they have made the negroes their gods. That admission would indicate that they could not face existence with Mother Earth alone, that they needed an incarnate God who embodied all the natural virtues of the earth â vitality, innocence, and purity. Are we talking about the same God? Well might you ask that question. I donât see what the liberals see in their incarnate god either, but then I am not a cosmic naturalist, I am a reactionary European.
There was no Christian counterattack when the negro became the liberalsâ god, because Christ had been theologized out of existence by European churchmen determined to remove the European taint from Christianity. At the moment faith becomes abstract theology, it becomes as a sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal, a worthless faith in the human mindâs ability to perform endless intellectual gymnastic feats to no purpose. A truly sustaining faith must be rooted in the human heart, where all momentous questions of existence are decided. Since the theologians have presented a false Aslan to the European peasants, an Aslan that was a mere composite of the intellectual vapors of soul-dead theologians, the peasants stopped believing in Aslan. They are now in the process of learning to love the negro Aslan. The extent to which the European people can become content with the negro-as-God will determine whether we will continue to live under the yoke of Satanists or whether His people will break through the walls of Liberaldom and restore His reign of charity.
The biggest obstacle preventing the emergence of a Christian few â and a few is all that is necessary â is the parasitical, theological churchmen, who live off the Christian patrimony of the antique Europeans whom they despise. The churchmen exist to serve Satan. By rejecting Christâs church â âwhere two or three are gathered together in His nameâ â and locating Christâs church in the organizational minds of theologians who have rejected âthat good partâ of the faith in favor of their own abstract versions of the faith, the modern churchmen have made organized Christianity synonymous with negro worship. There are many ways of killing the Christian faith. The modern way is the way of the men of theology who plague the organized Christian churches. They place Christ in a subordinate position to the sacred negro and then claim divine sanction for their church. So long as church buildings and church organizations are considered the holy repositories of the Christian faith, the religion of Satan will flourish.
Secular liberalism sprang from the minds of Christian theologians who sought to scientize God, to put Him in a magic box that only they had access to. âIf youâre really good,â the theologians told us, âwe will give you a quick peek in the box. But only for an instant, and then God must go back in His box where only we can have access to Him.â âBut if God can be found in nature, the biological nature that scientists study, why do we need the theological middle men?â was the irreverent response to the theologians who thought they had God in their magic boxes. So secular liberalism soon engulfed the Christianity of the magic boxes. Now, in order to be heard at all, the churchmen must preach liberalism louder than the secular liberals. This essential unity between the church (as defined by theologians) and the secular liberal state was highlighted at the funeral of the blood-soaked black terrorist Nelson Mandela. âReligiousâ Christians and mad-dog liberals all flocked to pay homage to the noble black savage.
The unhallowed churchmen of the satanic, negro-worshipping organizations called Christian churches are sometimes made uneasy by the militancy of the gay rights, sexual-depravity wing of the liberal juggernaut. But they mute their criticisms of sexual depravity while concentrating on the unifying symbol of nature and natureâs god, the negro. The modern return to nature and natureâs god is like the ancient Hebrewâs return to Baal. The curse shall not be lifted from our people until we leave the temples of negro worship and join with the people of God, the Europeans who are gathered together in His name.
Because I am tall, elderly ladies often ask me to get certain top-shelf items for them in the grocery store. After obliging an elderly lady the other day, I noticed she was barely able to walk. We had a short conversation while I took her groceries to the cab. She told me she was suffering from a degenerative spine disease and didnât expect to live much longer. Nothing unusual here, is there? We all must suffer and die. But the woman was in such obvious pain that I had a strong desire to place my hand on her and heal her. And I thought how wonderful it would be to have the power to heal the sick and lame as Christ did when He walked this earth. Do you remember what Tiny Tim said to his father that day in church?
âSomehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas-day who made lame beggars walk and blind men see.â
We all must suffer and die, but must we suffer and die without the hope that our suffering and death will be redeemed by Christ? The civilization that believed in such a hope, the Hope of the world, has been replaced because it was deemed to be racist, unscientific, and stupid. Let me conclude this Christmas season by stating my complete and uncompromising hatred for the new world of cosmic nature with its negro god, while renewing my love for and my fidelity to His Europe, the dear, dear land of storybooks that leads us to the Light that shineth in darkness. +