Sunday, 29 June 2014
|Join the Rally for Life, Belfast,|
"In a little under a week people from all over Ireland will converge on Belfast for the 8th annual Rally for Life. The rally will set-off from Custom House Square at . As always it promises to be an enjoyable event for all the family.Here are videos of the 2012 and 2013 rallies:
Comments on this blog? Email them to email@example.com
It must be hard for a person who has grown up with either strong feelings or ideologies in a family to find out, as a thinking, intellectual adult, that many things which were held sacred are absolutely, positively wrong.
When I taught history, the history of ideas, or humanities, I taught de Tocqueville. His insights have proved to be correct about the failures of democracy.
But, I am surrounded by people who refuse to look seriously at the failures of democracy, instead covering up lies and serious problems with slogans, usually using words like “true liberalism”, “patriotism” or “equality” when what is meant is always the lowest common denominator.
I was raised as an elitist, as all Catholics of a certain age were. We were taught to be leaders, to be intellectuals, to study the liberal arts, the classics, to learn how to think and not merely how to feel or have knee-jerk reactions.
In my own family, half were GOP and half Democrats. The Luxemburg half were the GOPs and the Czech half the Dems. No surprises there…For years, parents cancelled out the votes of each partner.
But, over all the political differences, until the generation before mine, stood the loyalty to the Church, to Catholicism. As I noted in a post earlier on Saturday, I was raised to be a Catholic first and an American second.
When did this view, so good, so true, change among American Catholics? One can blame the Kennedys, or go back further to the heresy of Americanism.
The photos of leading clergymen with the president and other leading Dems discouraged many Catholics in
. But, have they considered
the root of the evil of compromise? America
One reason I prefer
is that Europeans are sick of democracy. Now, this sickness could lead either
to life, or to death, as do all illnesses. Europeans no longer believe in one
man, one vote. But, they have committed themselves to be against monarchies, as
real possible governments.
What is left is the fatal decision between anarchy and tyranny.
the vast majority of Americans still believe in a government by the people for
the people. America
Without being “under God”, this ideal is merely romantic junkfood.
I cannot believe the fact that the American Catholic Church is so anti-intellectual, like the Protestants, who, from the beginning of the Revolt, were anti-intellectual (is there anything more anti-rational than sola fide, sola Scritpura).
What the nuns inculcated in us as leadership skills and the idea that as Catholics, who had been given beauty, Truth and talents, and that everyone was not equal, either in gifts or in roles.
The Catholic sense of superiority of culture and civilization is gone, gone, gone in
. Catholics seem to only
want to conform, not challenge (see my post yesterday). America
We have lost the cutting edge. Maybe, just maybe, there can be a revival of rationality, of the sense that the Catholic Church must be a leader in the public square, in the market place.
But, I know, deep down inside, the corner has been turned, and we shall be persecuted by the barbarians and by the emotional, by the leftists who only want power over the sheeple, and by the tyrants.
We shall be persecuted because Catholicism is superior, it is the only way to civilization.
And those who do not want God or the Truth hate us, as they hated Christ Himself
Without God as the acknowledge Ruler of
America, there is no , but a shadow, a false
dream. Without the recognition that Truth is only found in the Catholic Church
in its glorious fullness, America
will limp into tyranny, seeking security over honesty, and comfort over
May Our Lady have mercy on this nation and intercede for this sad place.
Labels: lost generation
A poet I knew long ago became a tee-shirt millionaire.
Some of us broke our hearts at the loss of talent and hidden art.
This old news haunts me, as if I had found a brown letter in the attic, lamenting lost love.
I wonder where he is now, wondering whether his head is still full of sublime verse.
Or, his other gifts of mathematics, new formulas, never seen before except in the Mind of God.
His people send silk-screened shirts across the world from a nation in the Southern Hemisphere; people whose ancestors drew drew dogs and symbols on sandstone and ironstone.
Now, these descendents talk of mussels and wine sauce, or salmon and dill for lunch.
Busy talk-talk, but no poetry comes out of the factory, and the wife sits with her ladies, now all wearing the animal prints, from the up-market part of the company, in red and yellows, which some think look good with Capris and stilettos.
She delights in theses lunches and dances through her dreams in her new line of muumuus, which look like ‘60s leftovers. Her old Phantom-Watts rusts in the garage, while she skips across the land in a Spider. “Our years shall be considered as the spider.” But, mom and dad have forgotten that.
Mom, too, forgets her only daughter and pretends she does not have a thirty-something child. And, dad is too busy selling tee-shirts to notice that his baby does not have a cell phone. She threw hers in the ocean.
The old tribe sighs at the loss of this star, the blood watching the end of an era. No grandchildren, not lasting heritage, no poetry.
All is dried-up like the red river bed; all perishes of success and all is blown away in a tropical wind of the material.
The young woman walks the hot trails in boots and shorts, with few resources, except for pen and notebook, moleskin, her one passion. She sits in the shade and writes poetry which will be seen by no living person.
She thinks of the veil of the spider’s web as her own interior life, a delicate thing, reminiscent of the words of a psalm—where did she hear that or read that one about man’s transitoriness, lives like grass, like a dream, like things that bloom and wither, dry up and blow away?
In the hot shade, she begins to write, and the black words flow like water in the desert, cleansing her soul, her mind, her heart. The heritage springs back to life, like a small rivulet pouring out of the hills, practically unnoticed.
The heritage is for her salvation, her eternal life, and she chooses the hard way not sought by her parents, who will never understand her. The tribe sighs again, whispering across sandy red hills, “We have found the wordsmith, but she is alone, and she is the last.”