FROM The Wall Street Journal:

Abortion is legal in most of Europe, but its proponents are bent on suppressing efforts to change the minds of mothers considering it.

Witness France’s ban on a television commercial showing happy children with Down Syndrome (DS). Produced to commemorate World Down Syndrome Day, the commercial showed several cheerful children with DS addressing a mother considering abortion. “Dear future mom,” says one, “don’t be afraid.” “Your child will be able to do many things,” says another. “He’ll be able to hug you.” “He’ll be able to run toward you.” “He’ll be able to speak and tell you he loves you.”

Read more here.

So many women, with legal abortion used as eugenics, have lost the opportunity of a lifetime.

The Annunciation, Sandro Botticelli; 1489

THE fish is made for the sea and the hawk is made for the open sky. But the human soul is made for eternity. We were made to swim in changelessness, to soar above the little things.

And yet here we are. In the wilderness of time. Can we put our feet nowhere and stay? We look inside and see chasms of bewildering nothingness.

When a small child goes to a rocky beach, he has an instinctive urge to pick up a pebble and throw it in the water. He likes to toss things around. But he is fascinated by the ‘plunk’ of the little stone in the water. It is the sound of depths. We throw ourselves into life. As we do, we hear mysterious depths. They are within ourselves. An ocean within. Or an infinite sky. We only feel truly ourselves when we are soaring in it.

If this vastness is truly nothing, or an impersonal infinitude, then all is meaningless. If it is something, then everything is possible.

The founder of only one religion said that everything is possible — on the condition that we love Him. 

How odd. Moses didn’t command people to love him. Muhammad didn’t say his followers must love him. Neither did Confucius or Martin Luther. But Jesus said we must love Him.  Only an egomaniac — or God — would demand that sort of devotion.

Infinitude and finitude — can we fathom these contradictions within ourselves? We resolve them by loving the Man who was God. In adoration, the conflict vanishes.

In the beginning was the Word: and the Word was with God: and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him: and without him was made nothing that was made. In him was life: and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness: and the darkness did not comprehend it. John 1:1-5

Advent, the season in which we light candles in the wilderness of this frantic, restless world, more frantic and restless than ever, begins today.

These candles seem so modest, but they are the expression of exalted aspirations. They are pebbles tossed into a bottomless sea. We light our own hardened hearts. We make room for the divine babe. We prepare them anew for that wonderful truth.

In one moment of history, all human longing was answered. And the depths, they were beautiful.

SALWA BACHAR at Tradition in Action looks at the cult of ugliness in fashion:

[I]t seems that society has completely lost its sense of beauty. Even with immodest fashions, there were always some elements of aesthetics, charm and refinement. Now, all beauty is thrown out the window and the goal becomes to look as ugly and devilish as possible.

Bucks Country farmhouse, Thomas W. Nason; 1937

I ONCE MET a middle-aged married couple who lived in a beautiful house. It was a handsome stone house built in the late nineteenth century with a lush, well-maintained garden and very tasteful furnishings. The kitchen was a replica of a colonial kitchen except it had the most powerful and expensive appliances. The kitchen floor was covered with a rustic, brick-colored tile. The antique maple farm table in the dining room could seat at least ten people comfortably and exuded warmth. It was hard not to struggle with feelings of envy when visiting this house.

One day, the husband turned to the wife — they had no children, but one much-loved dog — and said to her, in all seriousness and with a grave expression of contempt on his face,

“You don’t interest me anymore.”

The wife was a frightfully intelligent and accomplished woman. Very interesting in many ways, but yet she didn’t always think on her feet. She should have responded with something like,

“What’s your point? You stopped interesting me the day after we were married.”

Instead she just said, “Really?” Or something similar.

He had found somebody else who was interesting.

With those few words — cold, callous, cruel words — the legal machinery of divorce was set in motion, like a truck with bad brakes barreling down a hill. In less than a year, the beautiful house was emptied and sold. She moved to the country. He moved in with his girlfriend.

The moral to the story is obvious: A house is not always a home. Even the most beautiful house, one that outwardly speaks of entrenched and unassailable traditions, one in which the birds sing with contentment in the garden, as if there were no better place to live on earth, is not always a home. One can live in a castle and not have a home. One can live in a hovel and have a home.

You can live in modest shabbiness and find your spouse, if not always entertaining, always interesting. In fact, poverty itself is very interesting. Something is always going catastrophically wrong when you are poor. Little things become big things. Perhaps that’s why it’s harder for a rich man to get to heaven than it is for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle. He’s led to believe things will always unfold beautifully.

Build your house, but don’t forget to keep your home. Read More »

ALAN writes:

It is doubtful that Leftist Revolutionaries have employed any tactic more lethal in their war against traditional America than their prolonged attack on American families.  The worst thing about that is not that they are so zealous in working toward that goal; that is to be expected.  It is rather that generations of Americans have made it so easy for them.

I never had the benefit of a large family. Someone will protest immediately that large families are not a benefit but a burden. I concede that both are possible, but I suspect that most people who come from large families would say they are a benefit far more often than a burden.

The neighborhood where I grew up and attended grade school was populated mostly by German, Polish, and Slavic families, many of whom had lived there for 70 or 80 years.  One of my classmates who lived in the same block where I did remembers families with ten or more children.

A newspaperman wrote in 1967:

 “One feature of the neighborhood is its many large families—households of 10 or 15 children are not uncommon.”

    [Richard Krantz, “The ‘Scrubby Dutch’ of South St. Louis”, St. Louis Globe-Democrat, Feb. 8, 1967 ]

On my daily walk to school in the 1950s, I often walked past a house owned by a Polish family who had 10 children.  The children slept on cots placed throughout the house. Meals were served in three shifts.  Not only did they get by; they took pride in caring for their property and the alley out back.  That was part of the moral fabric of people who lived in that neighborhood.

Three blocks away, there was another family with 15 children.  “We assigned each of the children chores,” their mother told Mr. Krantz, “and when they left for school in the mornings, all the beds were made and shoes were never left lying on the floor.”   Read More »

TO the right and left bushes of some sort, golden and crimson, glowed with the colour, even it seemed burnt with the heat, of fire. On the further bank the willows wept in perpetual lamentation, their hair about their shoulders. The river reflected whatever it chose of sky and bridge and burning tree, and when the undergraduate had oared his boat through the reflections they closed again, completely, as if he had never been. There one might have sat the clock round lost in thought. Thought—to call it by a prouder name than it deserved—had let its line down into the stream. It swayed, minute after minute, hither and thither among the reflections and the weeds, letting the water lift it and sink it until—you know the little tug—the sudden conglomeration of an idea at the end of one’s line: and then the cautious hauling of it in, and the careful laying of it out? Alas, laid on the grass how small, how insignificant this thought of mine looked; the sort of fish that a good fisherman puts back into the water so that it may grow fatter and be one day worth cooking and eating. I will not trouble you with that thought now, though if you look carefully you may find it for yourselves in the course of what I am going to say.

But however small it was, it had, nevertheless, the mysterious property of its kind—put back into the mind, it became at once very exciting, and important; and as it darted and sank, and flashed hither and thither, set up such a wash and tumult of ideas that it was impossible to sit still.

— Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

It is not enough to have love for our neighbor—-we should notice of what sort it is, and whether it is true. If we love our neighbor because he does us good, that is, because he loves us, and brings us some advantage, honor, or pleasure, that is what we call a love of complacency, and is common to us with the animals. If we love him for any good that we see in him, that is, on account of beauty, style, amiability or attractiveness, this is love of friendship, which we share with the heathens. Therefore, neither of these is a true love, and they are of no merit, because purely natural and of short duration, being founded upon motives which often cease to exist. In fact, if we love anyone because he is virtuous, or handsome, or our friend, what will become of this love if he should cease to be virtuous, or handsome, or to love us, or, still worse, if he should become our enemy? When the foundation upon which our love rested, sinks, how can it support itself! The true love which alone is meritorious and lasting is that which arises from the charity which leads us to love our neighbor in God and for God; that is, because it pleases God, or because he is dear to God, or because God dwells in him, or that it may be so. There is, however, no harm in loving him also for any honorable reason, provided that we love him more for God’s sake than for any other cause. Yet the less mixture our love has of other motives, the purer and more perfect it will be. Nor does this hinder us from loving some, such as our parents and benefactors, or the virtuous, more than others, when such preference does not arise from the greater good they do to us, but from the greater resemblance they have to God, or because God wills it. Oh how rare is the love of this sort, which deserves to be called true love! Nolite amare secundum camem, sed secundum spiritum sanctum—-Love not according to the flesh, but according to the Holy Spirit.

— St. Francis de Sales

[Thank you to Brenda] Read More »

The Umbrella, George Cruikshank

ON THIS rainy day, I would like to say something I have never said to readers before: Don’t ever, ever, ever, ever forget your umbrella, especially when it is raining heavily.

I say this with absolute certainty and profound awareness of the drawbacks of having no umbrella. I value umbrellas more than most people. I value them because I never, ever, ever, ever remember my umbrella, especially when it is raining heavily, or any other time.

That’s not entirely correct. On a few, very few, occasions I have remembered an umbrella. But it was nowhere to be found when I remembered it or it instantly broke the moment I opened it.

I have discovered, after years of careful, scientific observation, that some people are genetically predisposed to remember umbrellas and to possess unbroken ones. These people are greatly to be envied. I am not so genetically disposed. I could count on one hand the number of times I have ever been in the rain with a functioning umbrella. Some where in the distant past, an ancestor with very strong umbrella-forgetting genes fell in with someone with equally strong umbrella-forgetting genes … and the rest is history.

I hope you have not had the same cruel and embarrassing fate.

In which case, please do! Please do! Please remember your umbrella! Enjoy what others never do.

Armed citizens take aim. Athens, Tennessee. 1946.

KYLE writes:

As calls for gun control accelerate, it’s important for Americans to learn about successful uses of the right to bear arms against tyrannical government. In 1946, in Athens, Tennessee, armed World War II veterans confronted a crooked political machine, and won. Known as the “Battle of Athens,” this episode perfectly illustrates the potential threat to liberty that the Founding Fathers foresaw when adding the Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution.

Since the Civil War, McMinn County was a solid Republican county until Paul Cantrell, a wealthy southern Democrat, was elected sheriff in 1936. Cantrell closely associated his campaign with the Administration of Franklin D. Roosevelt, winning re-election for sheriff in 1938 and 1940 and then state senate in 1942 and 44. After becoming a senator, his former deputy, Pat Mansfield, took the reins of sheriff and continued the corrupt fee system by which money was generated from every arrest made by deputies in the county. The more arrests, the more money they made. The revenues were funneled into illegal gambling operations, and allegedly helped Cantrell and his cronies launder profits. The scheme became so bold that traveling buses passing through the city were stopped and passengers harassed and falsely arrested for public drunkenness.

“Deputies routinely boarded buses passing through and dragged sleepy-eyed passengers to the jail to pay their $16.50 fine for drunkenness, whether they were guilty or not. Arrests ran as high as 115 per weekend.” Seiber, L. (1985). The Battle Of Athens | AMERICAN HERITAGE. [online]

The political landscape of McMinn County changed further as Cantrell’s grip on the county tightened. Citizens suspected election fraud and reported their suspicions to the U.S. Justice Department in 1940, 42, and 44 to no avail.

“The 1940 election sent George Woods, a plump and affable Etowah crony of Cantrell, to the state legislature. Woods promptly introduced “An Act to Redistrict McMinn County.” It reduced the number of voting precincts from twenty-three to twelve and cut down the number of justices of the peace from fourteen to seven. Of these seven, four were openly Cantrell men. When Gov. Prentice Cooper signed Woods’s bill into law on February 15, 1941, effective Republican opposition died in McMinn County.” Seiber, L. (1985). The Battle Of Athens | AMERICAN HERITAGE. [online]

Over 3,000 combat veterans returned home to McMinn County in 1945, comprising 10% of the population. They became natural targets for the grifting scheme of Cantrell because they were young men who frequented local bars. The veterans decided to run their own candidate in the 1946 election on a non-partisan ticket with an independent group called the G.I. Non-Partisan League. Tensions between the citizens group and the local authorities would come to a head on election day, August 1, 1946.

Panic in Athens, August 1, 1946.

Read More »

Pilgrims’ Hymn
By Stephen Paulus

Even before we call on thy name
To ask thee, O Lord,
When we seek for the words to glorify thee,
Thou hearest our prayer;
Unceasing love, O unceasing love,
Surpassing all we know.
Glory to the Father,
and to the Son,
And to the Holy Spirit.

Even with darkness sealing us in,
We breathe thy name,
And through all the days that follow so fast,
We trust in thee;
Endless thy grace, O endless thy grace,
Beyond all mortal dream.
Both now and forever,
And unto ages and ages,
Amen

MANY WHO are brave in the absence of an enemy, show little valor in his presence; and, on the other hand, many who tremble before the battle, are the boldest in the hour of danger: we should not be afraid of fear.

Walk always near to God, for the gentleness of His shadow is more salutary than the brightness of the sun.

— Saint Francis de Sales

THE tradition of granting presidential pardons to one turkey a year allegedly started with Harry Truman.

But, there is some controversy about this. According to the website It’s About Time, Truman probably ate the turkey.

It’s okay to pardon real turkeys, but not the other turkeys in Washington.

I WISH YOU and your families and friends a very Happy Thanksgiving.

This recording of Johann Sebastien Bach’s cantata, Wer Dank opfert, der preiset mich, sung here by the Monteverdi Choir was made in the Abbaye d’Ambronay in France in 2000. The English Baroque Soloists were conducted by John Eliot Gardner.

Wer Dank opfert, der preiset mich, und das ist der Weg, dass ich ihm zeige das Heil Gottes. (Psalm 50, 23)

Who thanks giveth, he praiseth me, and this is the way that I shall show to him God’s healing.

THE ANTI-NEW YORK TIMES reacts to the news that Michael Bloomberg has pledged $1.8 billion to Johns Hopkins University while California fire evacuees take refuge in a Walmart parking lot:

These two stories form a very telling juxtaposition (a $10 word for placing two things together for contrast) which exposes the soul-less, insensitive, elitist mindset of the PRC (Predatory Ruling Class). As hundreds of thousands of traumatized Americans continue to suffer from the devastating after-effects of various mega-disasters (both natural and technologically engineered) of recent years, the billionaire “philanthropist” class is, for the most part, nowhere to be found.

You see; immediate, direct and substantial aid for the forgotten shelter-dwelling refugees of Hurricane Harvey, Hurricane Florence and the never-ending California “wildfires” would only earn the Mike Bloombergs (cough cough) of this world the ever-lasting gratitude of countless everyday Joes and Janes. Who the hell cares about them? But dump a few million — or in this case, $1.8 Billion — into already over-funded and wasteful institutions such as “modern art” museums, large hospitals, UN-affiliated health agencies, and elite universities — well now, that will win you the adoring accolades of “the great and the good” who think only of their status and their interests.

These ego-maniacal, sick and evil “elites” really are like a separate species unto themselves. The poor burned-out families in California , many of whom fled with just the clothes on their back, mean as little to “philanthropic” titans like Bloomberg, Warren Buffoon, Bill Gates, Ted Turner, Davis Geffen, Mark Zuckerberg, George Soros et al as the suffering of thousands of cockroaches being sprayed does to the Terminex man.

THE RIDER OF THE KNEE

Knightly Rider of the Knee
Of Proud-prancing Unclery!
Gaily mount, and wave the sign
Of that mastery of thine.

Pat thy steed and turn him free,
Knightly Rider of the Knee!
Sit thy charger as a throne–
Lash him with thy laugh alone:

Sting him only with the spur
Of such wit as may occur,
Knightly Rider of the Knee,
In thy shriek of ecstasy.

Would, as now, we might endure,
Twain as one–thou miniature
Ruler, at the rein of me–
Knightly Rider of the Knee!

—- James Whitcomb Riley

KM writes:

I am anticipating the day when techno-music-dancing will be added to our church’s Mass, or at least to post-Mass celebrations.  In three years my Catholic parish went from having a Latin Mass, beautiful music, soul-nourishing sermons, and reverence for God, to having a bland Mass, bland music, and bland sermons about being tolerant, having generic “love,” serving others, and (in one instance) not being “homophobic” which is an offense that surpasses all others apparently.   It’s only a matter of time when we will be treated to sermons on how we should be less pederasty-phobic and polygamy-phobic too. Read More »

WHEN a CD of Gregorian chant by the Benedictine monks of Santo Domingo de Silos in Spain was released in 1994, it sold six million copies worldwide, testifying to the enduring hunger for the world’s most spiritual music. If music can convey meditative silence, Gregorian chant does. If music is prayer, Gregorian chant is, combining both repetition and variety as the body of chants follows the liturgical cycle of the year. It is possible to absorb the meaning of chant without even knowing the words. But knowing the words, “we can rediscover,” as Dom Jacques Hourlier of the Abbey of Solesmes in France said, “the cantus obscurior, the song which hidden from conscious awareness, is yet at the origin of all vocal music.”

You can learn about the structure and history of chant, as well as listen to many samples, at the website (click on ‘translate’) of the Spanish monks.

Here the monks sing the Kyrie Eleison from the Latin Mass.

The Abbey of Santo Domingo de Silos

JONATHON VAN MAREN writes of an unexpected consequence of the Sexual Revolution:

Just a couple of years ago, critics of trans ideology were pointing out that this sort of thing was inevitable: If society was forced to accept that people were whatever gender they claimed to be and biological reality was irrelevant to their assertions, then men would start to demand to go to female prisons (as just one example.) And this has become an increasingly common phenomenon.

One rapist who got himself sent to a women’s prison in the UK under the moniker “Karen White” promptly assaulted several female prisoners. The same thing happened at a West Yorkshire women’s prison, where a man with a fully functioning penis (but claiming to be a woman) got himself locked in with the ladies and sexually assaulted four women, with the first attack happening within days of his incarceration.

Feminism paved the way for “trans ideology.” It never has been about what’s best for women.