Pen as Sword - Social Commentary

A Christmas Message at Easter …

Eternity’s Sunrize, Bill Douglas

happy-resurrection-day-1-john-3-It is early morning, March 28th, 2016, sunny and warm, and conducive to self examination. So I have  begun reviewing all my previous posts with the aim of weeding out the garbage of anger and impurity and self regard or self pity, the petty tirades against my personal Strawmen, my perceived targets of opportunity attacked with uncharitable intensity because I hate these qualities so much in myself when I notice them.

easter-mondaySo far I have managed to wade through about 20 or so posts of previous years and the most surprising thing is that, even under the above lens, I find little so far to edit out or otherwise consign to the electronic trash bin. No doubt I have not yet reached the bad stuff, but I came across the following, however, which I felt invited re-posting. I once commissioned a piece of writing which fortuitously appeared around Christmas time and now I edit and re-post it because it also seems appropriate for the Easter season as well. The underlying theme is one of “all things not being about me”. The piece was titled:

On the New Orthodoxy

Albert_Chevallier_Tayler_-_The_Christmas_Tree_1911A Very Merry Christmas to all my friends and acquaintances (and possibly a couple of readers). I do hope that your Christmas has been as peaceful and blessed as ours has been here among the western frozen chosen … the happy (Any Small Town, Flyover Country ) Bagginses of the plains. After perhaps the worst year of my life we had one of the best Christmases I can remember. My own “Annus Horribilus”  (For those who just went “HUH?”  Annus horribilis is a Latin phrase, meaning “horrible year”.)  ended with an excellent Christmas season both in the business and in the family.

christmas2It is snowing now and not too cold and from all reports this is much better than they are getting back east.  I do hope the weather improves back east, rain in December sucks big time.  Cheer up you poor drowned rats, colder weather is coming your way.

You probably know that I read a lot of blogs. There’s a lot of good, provocative, and perceptive writing going on in the blogosphere now. I wish I had the time to read everything. Of course, blogs, like all things resulting from human activity, are subject to Sturgeon’s law, and many who try to blog either become bored and quit, or have little to say which would be of interest to anyone other than their friends   (a sort of “Facebook” post writ large). But with so many people trying, even among the residual 10% of non-crap there are now thousands of people writing good content.

At the risk of offending many in the 90% (myself included probably) , I take a moment to repeat “Sturgeon’s Revelation“, which was wrung out of him after twenty years of defending science fiction literature against the attacks of people who used the worst examples of the field for ammunition, and whose conclusions were that ninety percent of SF is crud.  Unfortunately for the critics, using the same standards that categorize 90% of science fiction as trash, crud, or crap, it can equally easily be argued that 90% of film, literature, consumer goods, services, government programs, etc. etc, ad-infinitum is also crap. In other words, the claim (or fact) that 90% of science fiction is crap is ultimately uninformative, because science fiction conforms to the same trends of quality as all other human endeavour.

Theodore_SturgeonThis is a rough paraphrase of Theodore Sturgeon’s remarks, from a talk given at New York University in 1951.  Even Kipling remarked on this aspect of human efforts in the late 19th century. It does seem at times that things have only gotten worse with the advent of the web and the web-blog but this has been an observed, remarked on, condition of humanity’s efforts for well over a hundred years now. Fortunately there are notable exceptions to this reality, namely the other 10 %; who continue to generate great work in spite of ridicule and troll-posts and many unwarranted attacks from other folks who simply can’t handle the fact that the rest of humanity does not necessarily agree with them or think like them.

Her Britannic Majesty the Queen delivers a Christmas Message every year, year after year, for at least the last 60 years or so and is frequently criticized at length for her efforts.  The BBC and even the CBC cover it in it’s entirety, although I often wonder why since she usually speaks of ideas and sentiments alien to modern Civ and the values of the media covering her presentation. This year’s was especially important; about reconciliation. But she is not the only one with a thoughtful message. (There is probably a good blog post on “Psychological Projection and Transference” in there somewhere but that is for another day.)

So with grateful acknowledgement to , another WordPress blogger of much greater experience than myself, here is another thoughtful message composed by one of my favorite scribes. In the spirit of brotherhood, just see if it doesn’t generate some reality vibes … if not, that’s OK too, just consider who sent it to you and adjust your reality accordingly. It should be noted that David Warren has begun a new chapter in his long career of writing provocative, thought provoking pieces, moving to a new model that includes writing commissioned articles, the topics of which are suggested by the commissioning patron but the content of which David reserves the right to control. He writes very well. This is my unsolicited plug for his work. If you have a secret wish to see your own thoughts broadcast on the aether “Better said than I could say myself” then you might consider patronizing him in the New Year.

this is his first commission in this venue;

Morning Dew, The Wanderer, Adrian von Ziegler


“Eerie sounds this morning, on the balconata of the High Doganate. It was the wind spinning in branches and eaves: dry chatter beneath a softening rainstorm roar. An old train-whistle moan blew through the crack of a loose sliding window. The city for its part remains unearthly  quiet, the usual crash of traffic damped below nature’s breathing. It is the sound that cars make when they are parked; of a million cars not driving to church on Christmas Day.

For those not shut in by age and illness, and even for most of them, there is no excuse for the loneliness that is hyped in the media at this time of year. The child Christ rests by His altar, and God is always near. Always, there is something to do, and there could be peace in any cell or hermitage, in prayer with and for the whole world.

Or one might wish to consider the nature of one’s loneliness: what it is, and what it is not. True loneliness is peopled by friends absent, displaced through space and time. Sometimes, in age, what was once a multitude has come down to a single soul, perhaps with his photographs of Christmas Past; or even without them, memories of love in a distant time. Dark, dark, they’ve all gone into the dark, and in a moment these memories begin to catch within his throat: that when I am gone, no one will be left to remember them, in this world where they were once so alive.

Old lady or old man in the corner of a room, languishing in a nursing home, waiting patiently on death row, for they have learnt there is no better way to wait; and more likely than not merely enduring the forced, professional, gaiety of strangers. It is the end of all their adventures. They have come to what is called, “the last place on earth.”

Those who have the decency to visit, may not realize that duties come with such chivalrous endeavours: the fair maiden must be won. Love that is not ardent is not love:  the visitor is bound by love to keep his promise. He must return. He must make himself wanted, must put light in those repining eyes.. I’m amused by the politicians of the nursing homes: those who arrive with a glad hand for everybody. By all means, vote for that person, and the jolly spirit that is cast around; it is a real
service. But the knights have fixed their attention. For love is in the eyes, that meet the eyes: the ardency of love, that takes one out of oneself and into the heart of every friendship. That is what tells you that you are not alone; that you have something better than a text message.

People are not only lonely in the “home.” It can be done anywhere.

For nine-in-ten, if not more, the loneliness is a pose of self-absorption. One is actually not feeling lonely, for anyone in particular, but rather more generally, sorry for oneself. Why? Because of course no one loves you. How could they, given the way you have behaved? Your whole life has consisted of abandoning people, from the moment their use to you had passed; and now they have all abandoned you, in quiet retaliation. They have lives too, after all; and their own commitments to self-absorption, their own agendas of self-will.

Western Civ, or we should call it more precisely, Christian Civ, had its orthodoxy — still observed in outlying places. This was not a set of rules, however complex; not a succession of algorithms delineated in base 2. It was a way of life, with ritual and custom. It encompassed huge variety, from generation to generation, and place to place. And yet it cohered: was held together by a Spirit, in all times and all places; and a common apprehension of that Holy Spirit. It was, “One nation under God,” except, a nation above all the little nations, themselves birds of passage. It was, as every high civilization, comprehensively hierarchical: a place for everyone, and everyone in his place. Such that: whatever one’s location, from chimneysweep to king, one existed to serve something higher. And all ranks met before the King of kings, which is to say, in church. A civilization can be defined by that in which it reposes Faith; by that to which it turns, not only in adversity. (“In God we trust.”)

In the fading of this Western, Christian Civ, we have seen a new civilization arise, appropriating all its goods for its own new purposes and building up a new orthodoxy. I have watched, all my life, this grim, solemn, methodical progression, from rites to rights.

The new civilization has its own cosmological conception (the Darwinite vision of randomness); its own moral ethos (wherein every person is a law unto himself); its own intellectual and aesthetic norms (establishing that not only beauty, but truth, and goodness, are in the eye of the beholder). It is governed by metastasizing rules and regulations — in which custom has, formally, no jurisdiction. Faith itself, and the conduct it has governed, is taken to be a purely personal matter, and all values associated with common belief may be dismissed as equally arbitrary. This leaves arbitrary “equality” as the one ideal: the value that denies all other values. Pope Benedict called this, “the dictatorship of relativism,” and those who resist its dictates may very well find themselves in court.

From thirty-five years ago, I recall a book that was on many coffee tables: The Culture of Narcissism, by Christopher Lasch. It was an essay in post-modern sociology, but in its season it clanged a big bell. Lasch wrote of the destruction of the traditional family by the “organized kindness” that had assumed its functions; of the radical movements that emerged in the ‘sixties to enforce the atomism that was the inevitable result. And then he plunged into psychological observation, reviewing everything from New Age cult affiliations, to the popular obsession with oral sex. By the 1970s, the typical American was displaying not some, but all the symptoms of what had once been diagnosed, in the psychology textbooks, as pathological narcissism (Any reader who is interested should also consult Lasch’s much-ignored sequel, The Minimal Self,  in which he spades deeper into the XIXth-century roots of this phenomenon, and defends the objectivity of his thesis against both critics on his Left, and inconvenient fans on his Right.)

We’re beyond that now. Even the word “narcissism” tends to be employed in pathologically narcissistic ways. And while that older, Christian worldview remains — now as a counter-culture, providing closed environments in which narcissistic behaviour is still instinctively punished — it is going underground. For this new orthodoxy also invaded, and made a conquest of most of the Church, as well as rolling over the “mainstream” Protestant congregations. The victory of narcissism is glaringly apparent in every single liturgical innovation of the New Mass: from the turning of the priest towards the people, to the stripping of the altar now placed between them; and in every direction from there. The new gestures, from the 1960s forward, distract consistently from the divine presence, and mediate a message that is “all about you.”

And so it is with the lonely at Christmas, (and Easter), vaguely remembering some other age. It is all about them. For most my age — and I am getting older — it has been all about us since time out of mind. We grew up in the Pepsi generation.

Those nursing homes are now filled with contemporaries of the Beatles and Elvis Presley, as one may discover in the foyer, when they’re wheeled down for a sing-along. Their memories of Christmas (and Easters) go back, increasingly, to broken homes, where what they actually remember is themselves being “in the way” of their parents’ private lives. Their memories, too, are free of church attendance, and so throw back to the commercialized sentimentality of treats and gift-wrapped, heavily-advertised products around a casually decorated Christmas tree, Easter egg hunts and chocolate bunnies and shredded tissue basket stuffing —  a kind of semi-annual pay-off for minding their own business. And, what is the most terrible thing I have seen in there, when that past is challenged, and anything better is proposed: that flicker of defiance, that parody of faith which still declares, after a lifetime of sin and error: “I’m as good as you are!” For it was a culture of narcissism to which they bought in.

This is the new orthodoxy, which Christians must be careful to respect, as tourists remove their shoes when entering a mosque. For it is considered extremely bad form, to disturb the votaries while they are at prayer, making their devotions to the pond image.

But the winds howl, and the waters roughen, and Christ was always coming. It is something to think about, for no matter how you cut it — whether you are a traditional Christian (there can be no other kind), or  a perfectly conventional, orthodox Narcissist — the message of Easter is not, never was, and by its meaning never will be, “all about you.”


So Cheers, Happy Easter and a sincere toast to you, your health, and prayers for your future well-being in the anno Domini 2016 . If you read this far … Bravo!


This Too Shall Pass

Always remember, “be charitable in your judgements, never take yourself too seriously” and of course “Do not argue with an idiot. He will drag you down to his level and beat you with experience.”

Sometimes when I post, I look at my sig and wish that I’d follow my own damned advice.