I just saw a wonderfully disappointing archeology show debunking old Israel’s Exodus and God. The wild conjecturing of those atheists thundered down with Luciferian authority, demoting any other explanations, more plausible or not, to persecutable heresy.
Just the latest raking voice in the cacophony…
Some of the louder railing these days is coming from the Gay Disorder and its minions. Our previously neutral neighbours selling themselves against us, we become an ever smaller minority that refuses to swallow the easy, relieving lies that man is destined to sin and destined for hell, and that there is no sin nor hell.
Hell, friends, is the growing brain of a child of God being suffocated by the tiny, solidified skull of human arrogance, with nerves severed from the evidential sights and sounds of faith. And there surely is a hell, because we see most of mankind suffering from this awful condition.
The diversity of voices is a sad trial, and I despair that any of us will find the truth; but the more strange ideas I hear and the more "learned" I become, the surer my original thoughts remain. As one teacher told us for a test, "If you don’t know, trust your instinct; your first answer is probably right." I’ve found this to consistently be the case with moral issues, since my first education was holiness. Stretch the issue this way and that, twist it like a lump of clay into the strangest of forms, or shape it very delicately, and in the end, it reverts most comfortably to the lump it started as. Or take a pure canvas and begin to mar it with colour; paint the most interesting or bizarre figures, or represent beauty… and you’ll think you’ve discovered some new truth, sure. But add more and more colours — add them all until you’ve mixed them into one — and your white canvas has gone to black. So only by withholding colours, or holding back truth, are you ever left with shades of morality. All things, in the end, are either white or black.
And the more voices I hear, the more sure I am of this impossible reality:
Our lives have a great Purpose. Truth has its pure source.
Oh, sad world. I’ve been so lucky, and you have not. If it’s sad to be alone, yet it’s fortunate to be a lone survivor.
I have to forget those deafening, maddening voices, and leave them to themselves. They are squabbling chickens left in the coop to await their plucking, while I’ve caught a gust and have flown to safety. I must not look back, nor care anything for their resentment.
The gust, my fowl brethren, rises up from the ground, like a dead man’s whispered lament.
Catch it, if you please.