The happiness of people is always buttressed by the sorrows of another. This sick artifice must rest on some poor soul who has no happiness. Woe to the happy and joyful, woe to those who are alive and don’t even know what means.
What new catchphrase is next? Atheism, Deconstruction, White Privilege. Perhaps a suggestion: wouldn’t it be a useful investment if, in the recent past, you had seeded into mainstream Christianity many famous “Christians” who were dependent upon their fame and their image for their nourishment. Then, when the time was right, you could pull the rug out in a matter of years and see the chaos to follow.
Return to the Lord, for the Kingdom of God is AT HAND. Trust not at all in me for I will fail; I lust, and I struggled with doubt in the past. But I am honest; flee far from the mountains of the perfect, for they will be flattened.
Forewarning: If you are certain or exceedingly confident of your faith in Christ, in His role in your life, and how this relates to others, then no need to read further. I have no wish to cause doubt in others. I only wish to release my own confusion, doubt, and suffering in an attempt to reach those who struggle, those who never speak of God for fear of being found out a hypocrite but yet still believe, who search and rarely find, who know with dreaded certainty that suicide or worse, the willful, malevolent sin-creature crouching at Cain’s door would possess their soul but for an unbreakable, yet tiny and often invisible thread holding them to Christ. That thread will last unto the new, the eternal, the wonderful novelty of perpetual joy. Hold fast.
Doubt and cynicism often creeps into and saturates my writing, but I have come to terms with it. It allows me to speak from the heart and to speak, if I may say so, more truthfully and encouragingly than the standard cookie-cutter perfectly polished bland middle-class blogger who will leave the faith once they get cancelled or find the doubt lurking around the corners of their soul intolerable when they discover any mildly inconvenient hurdle to their sickeningly perfect flabby life. Please, tell me again how God spoke to you and revealed who would be your husband or how one should absolutely save oneself for marriage while you make millions off the shame and stifling of sexuality and then drop away the first time you hear there may be inconsistencies in the New Testament. Really?
That wasn’t something you thought you should wrestle with before you turned women against sex and drove men underground to watch porn and jerk off into a sock? But then again, wrestling with an angel would undo your button-down cardigan pullover and expose yourself to the infinite. No, much more palatable to convince young women to look for men with whom they should be friends first and not lovers, men who will be their friend even after being rejected, parasitically clinging on until the woman, after consulting her motivational Bible verse bought from Target and of course slightly confusing this with a direct revelation from God, will mistake the undying patience of a hungry golden retriever for a humble God-focused man who in reality is willing to sacrifice everything he should hold dear as a man in order to appear as she, or God, or feminism (oh wait, I am sorry, all three are indistinguishable), would like: safe, nice, and platonic. Just like God is: safe, nice, and platonic.
The biggest fight of their marriage, besides how many prayers to have during their wedding, will be whether to have a hyphenated last name or to fully take on the wife’s name.
And there they live out their lives, the wife never orgasming but for the amazing, caring, and god-focused conversation she partakes in with her knitting partner—sorry I mean husband.
And the shame eats away at them.
The wife deadens into a cold winter night. Her emotions, which should have been emboldened, enflamed, and released in all their beauty in conjunction with their opposite, the masculine, are frozen and numbed. Here at least she consoles herself in that on cold winter nights one feels nothing but one can certainly hear for miles. And so, all her energy channels into “hearing” “revelations” from “God” and reveals itself in banal platitudes, Facebook likes, and essential oils. The man, slightly disappointed with something in him that he cannot put his finger on, plumps up a bit, always tucks in his shirt, and every 6 months or so binges on gangbang porn. He broaches the topic of anal sex once, but, when chastised for his despicable masculine urges, remembers his place in God’s modern revelatory pecking order and retreats to taking solace in glimpsing his wife naked every other fortnight. He won the battle by retreating. Here lies the nice guy friendship tactic so loved and revered by the God of promise rings, over-protective dads, and zealous youth pastors.
The man’s psyche becomes split, cavernous. Shame engulfs the void between two realms that should be connected: the masculine and the sexual. Now the masculine is given over to the blandishments of middle-class youth groups and their hope that connection with a beautiful female is secured backhandedly through the aforementioned friendship tactic. But that raw visceral attraction, that overpowering masculine energy that only find its proper outlet in its opposite, remains and was not satisfied. And this awesome energy, no matter how distorted, must go somewhere. Either the man is stifled by this continual displacement of energy and settles into his man cave feeling slightly dazed and achieving an erection at odd intervals with his even wife, or he completely shuts down this rather large dynamic element of his soul, always feeling guilty but not quite knowing why his anger flares up when his wife compliments him on taking control of his Bible study or figuring out how to use a lawn mower.
And they walk hand-in-hand in public
sometimes.
The woman only fleetingly wonders at stories in the bible where man wrestled an angel and the angel was overcome, or where Samson and David were men of great stature in the eyes of God yet would have been nowhere near a promise ring friendship bracelet. As she nods off to the snores of her obese husband, she grasps at figuring out why they were men of great stature in the eyes of God; it certainly was not because they were emasculated. They went too far in their pride and masculinity.
The Pyrrhic victory goes unnoticed; he played the game, won his wife, lost his soul.
Oh well, all for purity right? Gotta make sure I sell more books. And plus, what other video will we play next Sunday when I am too lazy to dive into the Word of God. Hmm, yes, God definitely doesn’t exist because I did everything correct and still everyone is not worshipping me yet.
Modern Christian women never stop and wonder if they are a generation of Deliyahs, only courting those they have already cut the hair off of, thus eliminating any sort of potential danger and masculine madness that could eclipse their own power. Men of God were bold and spoke truth, they sinned and sinned greatly and paid dearly and greatly and repented and accepted the punishment; hell Abraham wouldn’t have remained a friend to a scorned lover, he wouldn’t even be submissive to God in his request for a child. Men desire and men lust: for women, for power, for God. Any of these can be used for the highest good or the highest evil. But by stifling sex in an attempt to cut out evil, all good is distorted as living water is filtered.
Sexual attraction should not be stifled. It should be molded, encouraged, tempered, endorsed by the Church. But oh wait, sex is shameful and forbidden and completely cut off and excised anywhere outside of marriage, and only those placid enough to believe and endure this absurdity are rewarded with their modern Protestant Christian wives. But the rewards turn sour upon taste for the wife has viewed sex as irrevocably tinged with shame and will not shake this curse in marriage, especially to someone to whom she cannot in good conscience submit.
There is no pursuit anymore; apparently, it is unchaste for a man to pursue a woman he finds attractive sexually, and by sexually I mean all of her being. Nope, gotta make sure he can patiently wear that friendship bracelet, and turn off his filthy masculine urge to subdue and fill the earth. Only then can I be sure that he is the one for me, henpecked by God. Ignore all those Jacobs, walking with a limp from their willingness to have a spine. The future, after all, is feminine. Or, more precisely, the future is females who act masculine, while men kill themselves.
Deconstruct all you want; your foundation was always built on sand. And in your sandbox you’ll remain.
Anew Principium 