by Glenn Fairman 12/30/16
2016 will go down in history as the time when the West’s inexorable march towards oblivion halted in its tracks. It was the year that the tyrant’s mask slipped and showed the world that its Global City was really a poisoned ant hill. It was a year when the glory of the hive was stripped bare. A year when cowardice and whoredom were checkmated. A year when men exchanged the safety and security of the rendering plant for a new breath of liberty. Indeed, the Brexit and Trump elections were the modern day shots heard around the world. By the grace of God, we have been offered another opportunity, perhaps our last, to redeem the day. Can you not hear the pillars tumble? Can you not feel the static in the air?
And lord, what a bullet America dodged! We have been given an opportunity to strengthen what yet remains, and to bottle up the secularists who would scrub the public square clean of any hope for a moral-political regeneration. Just think: The libs had control of every institutionalized avenue of power, and still they lost! And if you don’t think this is a miracle, then you are not seeing things clearly. In hating the Constitution and its understanding of liberty, should we then be surprised that Progressives despise our miracle – just as they do we who take refuge in it?
As Progressivism is merely the contemporary “Happy Face of Marxism,” it should come as no surprise that an aversion to the sacred is the movement’s default judgment. Yet, this crowning deformity, one that scorns the transcendent, harbors a poverty of soul that embraces the untethered purpose and its joyless world. For such as these, the pursuit of personal redemption can find no traction in a heart intent on remaking the earth out of vapor, and of the zealot’s lust for the power to do so.
Having slain the personal for the sake of the political, have they not wrung the charm from life by reviling the precious and common virtues that once moved good men to good deeds? Having traded grace and humility for the curse of perpetual dissatisfaction, have they not sacrificed themselves to a distant and unloving idol – becoming as cold and loveless as their egalitarian god while toiling incessantly to spin affluence into straw? Wracked with guilt and self-loathing because they were heirs to giants, have they not become the most miserable souls on the face of the earth for disdaining their fathers’ house, and thus warranting the curse?
Liberalism is the world’s moral-political Peter Pan complex. It is narcissism arrayed in utopian longings. It believes that the wisdom that once fueled our civilization was merely a shattered stepping stone to its own bloodless ideal of perfection. It believes without question the perennial delusion of the Serpent in the Garden: that once we had rebelled we would achieve our own homogenized Valhalla. Having gone back to their tents under the delusion of their own cruel wisdom and dynamited their bridge to the past, have they not abhorred nature’s foundations to fly recklessly as demi-gods without a net? In truth, the collectivist monstrosity could never give birth to eagles – only pitiful flies of a season circling the corpse of its decaying state.
And as for Obama, the lord of those flies: We knew from the beginning that he was a Wrecker. Was he not sent out among us to tear down our Framer’s strongholds while sapping our strengths and re-casting us into some perverse and effeminate image of humanity? A friend to our enemies and an enemy to our friends, he hated what was best and unique in us and wished nothing more than to set fire to America as he danced around in her ashes. Yet mark me: His judgment is forthcoming, and his legacy will be as a burnt offering in Hell. He was never of us, for we were made for far better things than the devil can offer.
Listen. For a while it could not be heard or felt, but eventually it began singing through the wires of our shared unspoken desire – a reemergence of a mature patriotic ardor – a welling up of love for resurgent liberties. Awakened from the nightmare, we found that noble principles had not perished in our exile. A manly fire is now burning fiercely and it will soon be unstoppable. If we allow it, its spirit will cleanse the land of leaders who had broken faith, and made common cause with the lowest among us. Let their names be stricken: men tentative in their masculine virtues and unwavering in their resolve to dishonor the patrimony of America.
These years have been brutally long, but not long enough to forget the proud and singular spirit that stirs in the best of us; and if given time, will cauterize the wounds self-inflicted by the treacherous, the self-serving, and the panderer.
With the new year comes new hope. I can hear it now as it builds, and it will continue to crescendo until it sweeps down like a star and scours away the venomous rabble that truly believed they had poisoned us forever. Hear the rumble in the wire? It turns out they were wrong. It is nothing less than revolution.
Glenn Fairman returns from the wilderness and writes from Highland, Ca.
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