The Reason for Lent: Part 2

The Books of St. Paul's Jihad

Mar. 6, 2016

      “According to St. Paul’s manual of arms,” Thieu impresses upon me, “we fight not flesh and blood, but Powers and Principalities -- the hosts of a Quipothic realm.

      “In fact – forgive me for my impertinence, but I have a feeling that Henry Demonford is speaking through me. He is telling me that these Powers and Principalities, which we call nations, cartels, and corporations, are truly great demons who thrive by driving us to commit those boundary violations through which our sense of humanity becomes humiliated and debased.

      “Does not your Christian Augustine inform us, that most of the Gods who were worshiped by the pagan Romans were once men or women who gained such renown that, just like Henry here, they came to represent the same virtues for which they came to be remembered? And in the same way, were not these corporations which have become the godlike demons of our modern world, once simply the idea of a person or a small group of persons, whose bodies have now become ashes and wormfood, but whose economic engine has attained to a state of virtual immortality?

      “There is one thing more, I feel that Henry wishes to remind me of the reason for the season. Lent is a time to remember those who did not survive the winter. In the olden days, when social services such as we have now were non-existent it was more common – but even now, there are many who find the dark days oppressive and the rigors of the winter too extreme. And so even now, we shall find reason to pause in remembrance of those who did not live through the winter.

      “But now I feel, that Henry is admonishing me. He is telling me that we should not mourn them – it is far more accurate to say that they mourn us, because they see us committing the same mistakes of which they have now repented. They want to be remembered, not because they still need us but rather, because when we remember them, they shall be able to lead us, so that we can be more free and can avoid some of the pitfalls which they fell into when they were alive on this earth.”

The Architecture of Belief

Are we not in the suburbs of St. Augustine’s City? When we look about us, do we not perceive the architecture of both Heaven and Hell? Heaven perceives in outworn Gods, a mirror of those sicknesses which have corrupted the people. But then, instead of chaining these demons in ways that compel them to heal their victims, the architecture of Hell shall force the soul to wear the concrete boots of dogma, and thus imprison the new vision in a prison of unyielding stone.

      Here is the church. Here is the steeple. Here is an ideological superstructure designed to impede progress and confine your spiritual experience to the world of names and attributes only.

      Religions have been born from the dreams of those whose flesh has now become ashes and wormfood. It is said that their souls have ascended into the empyrean Realm, and they are therefore called Malakutis.

      We contemplate the architecture of Hell. Hell is rooted in the flames of our rebellion, those flags of treason raised by our own jealousy against our Creator. We are empowered to represent God, as servants of the Creative Will. But unfortunately, the Brother who’s drunk on Crude Oil cannot be satisfied with the role of a servant.
      Those who are drunken on Wormwood shall try with all their might and main, to construct an ideological or economic machine which can become everyone’s master, and walk like a God on the earth.

      We have seen how, on account of the reluctance of normal men to rob the sanctuaries, the temples of the Old Gods have become the centres of the banking system. The Old Gods of Rome became imprisoned with the golden ingots stored within the sanctified vaults of their temples. Men of discernment had long ago lost faith in these Gods. But the Old Faith could not be allowed to die, because if the temples of the Old Gods became deserted, the banking system also would collapse.

The Reason for Lent

March 6, 2016

      It used to be said that the Sun never sets on the British Empire. Today, that Empire has been humbled and transformed into a Commonwealth. While that Commonwealth has been struggling to acknowledge its debt to non-European sources, the great ideal of a world that would be governed by Fair Play has been replaced by a Chaosium in which strange things fall from the clouds and winged mechanical drones home in from the skies to kill people who are celebrating their weddings.

      The day is sunny and on the lower elevations, wildflowers are beginning to blossom. Nevertheless, at these higher altitudes, patches and even expanses of snow remain on the ground.

      Thieu and I are driving out to place flowers on the memorial to Henry Demonford which has been erected over his grave.

      All about the cemetery, it is snowy. It is only the naked stones that rise up to proclaim that here lie creatures who once used to be called human beings. These stones, indeed, proclaim the destined end of all our mortal striving.

      The chill and melancholy wind reminds us that there was nevertheless a profound rationale driving the aspirations of those of us who came to maturity during those fateful years of the 20^th Century. The chill that hangs in the atmosphere today reminds us that if we committed ourselves to act in foolish ways, there was nevertheless a purity of motive which is today becoming increasingly obscured under the residues of post-traumatic compulsions.

      There was a time, only a few decades ago, when most of us had great hopes. We saw, quite briefly, a vision of the sun – but then the world became tormented by the spectre of a cruel shadow which is eager to impose compulsions, and which is intent on the extermination of any cultural influence which questions the all too superficial dogmas of its self-appointed leaders.

      We, who had wanted to believe that the women among us were sweet angels, whose breasts swelled only with the milk of human kindness, were to learn that this is not true either. Weary of suffering for our causes, these women began to make little deals with the Other Side. As we discovered, the Cruel God whom we had allowed to claim Heaven had left a cruel shadow here on earth.

      That cruel shadow took the form of an economic incentive which pitted men and women against each other on the stage of a Theater of Cruelty. Nevertheless, I did not have the sense to save my life, and found myself falling in love with these women.

The Ground About the Tomb

Henry’s tomb is marked by an angel who is pouring out an amphora. At the angel’s feet, a plaque is inscribed:

It’s not the power of guns and bombs
But the grace which can heal the wounded heart Which shall finally conquer all

    Thieu and I leave flowers on the grave, and say a little prayer for the departed. And I find myself wondering why it is only we, the old soldiers who have managed to keep none of the commandments, who can see through the web of deception the social neurosis has woven.

      Can it be that our whole society is highballing down the main line to Satanhood, and that one can only recognize this after one has made a personal decision to leap from the train that is carrying everyone down to destruction?

      I now begin to understand, just why the sickness of the world is so distressing. The choice between heaven and hell belongs to those of us who have died and returned to the earth. When first we grasped this truth, we strove with might and mein to move the world. We pledged ourselves eternally to some social ideal, even though we remained in denial concerning the hubris and the power-lust which hide beneath the cross of the Crusader.

        In the world of Eternal Recurrence, Lancelot falls once again from his horse. He grasps then what it was he loved and then betrayed. He's looked up into heaven, seen Valkyries descending. In polite society, he'll speak of them as angels. He begs them for mercy, forgiveness and healing; they remain in heaven, teasing him all the way as he hobbles along into town. From the depths of his heart he cries out. If it he could renounce everything, would angels please release him from this world?

      And the Valkyries laugh. "You ask us why your world is chiseled from the essence of pain? You ask us why your love has been unwise? Look then to find a lady writhing on a stake. And the man who has judged she should burn -- he thought he had self-mastery, but why this fatal flaw? Return to the world in our service -- redeem her from this jealousy which turns every prophecy false."

      He rides then into town, beholds the lady burning as a witch. It's then he knows the cause of foolish love. We love, because the pain of love sustains the soul against all baser fires. And the soul rapine has shattered may only survive by throwing itself to the flame.