Francis Berger's Blog, page 132
March 4, 2020
More Than A Thousand Psychologists or Theologians Ever Could
My father's wife was diagnosed with lung cancer shortly after my wife and I moved back to Canada from New York City in 2011. My wife's pregnancy inspired the move home. Neither of us could envisage raising a child in the Big Apple, and we both wanted to be closer to family when the child was born.
My father and his wife - my parents divorced when I was eighteen and my father eventually remarried a decade later - graciously allowed us to stay with them until we found work and could establish a place of our own. Though living at home again after so many years felt somewhat strange, I must confess that it was nice to be among family after nearly a decade away. In essence, we were happy to be home, and the anticipated arrival of my son filled the summer days with sweetness and joy.
Like most diagnoses, the diagnosis my father's wife received during that summer came as a shock. Dismay and sorrow quickly tainted the sweetness and joy. My father's wife battled against the disease with all the strength and optimism she could summon. My father, for his part, channeled the bulk of his time and energy into supporting her in every way he could. Whenever the four of us were together, we all spoke encouragingly and optimistically about chances and odds, but when we retired for the night, the hushed and somber whispers of reality filled our rooms.
My son was born a few weeks before Christmas and his arrival brought some cheer to an otherwise cheerless season. The arrival of new life briefly eclipsed the shadow of gradual death. For a few short weeks we were granted a reprieve, but it didn't last. Rather than provide improvement, the treatments my father's wife endured only served to exacerbate the cancer in her lungs. Some time in the New Year it began to spread through her body like spilled black ink. Her condition worsened in the most heartbreaking and unoriginal manner possible - gradually, then suddenly.
And through it all my father was there beside her. It pains me to consider how agonizing it must have been for him to watch the person he loved fade and wither before his eyes. At how excruciating it must have been to know he could do nothing more than provide comfort. At how harrowing it must have been to feel powerlessness to the point of pain.
Not that he spoke of these things much. True, he confided in me every now and then and sometimes hinted at the torment that was silently tearing him apart, but he never showed it. He remained steadfast and indefatigable, even during her last days at home during which he had to physically carry her every time she needed to leave the bed.
On a few occasions, I wondered how I would cope under similar circumstances, but merely attempting to imagine my own wife in the same situation proved too difficult. I assured myself that I would act as solidly as my father was acting, but I timidly doubted that my well of strength ran as deep as his.
How easy it would be to succumb to weakness; to resentment; to despair. How easy it would be to reach for the bottle, or pills, or something worse. How easy it would be to lash out - to shake an impotent Learean fist of rage at the stormy skies. How easy it would be to take a bad situation and make it worse. Yes, it would be all too easy. I imagine the temptation to give in would be perpetual.
Yet my father never gave in.
My father received little in the way of formal academic education. Nonetheless, he is a clever and resourceful man. He had trained to be a chef when he was a young man, but eventually taught himself to build houses. He rarely goes to church and barely ever mentions God, yet he is firmly rooted in something that extends beyond the material. My father possesses little formal knowledge of psychology or theology, but his attitude and actions during those ten months demonstrated that he knew more about the human mind and spirit than a thousand psychologists or theologians ever could.
My father would probably have a difficult time articulating the theory of why he never gave in during those ten months, but his weakness in theory is overshadowed by his strength in practice. He just intuitively and innately understood the art of not giving in. Put another way, during those ten months, he never talked the talk. He never uttered a word about picking up suffering and bearing it. Not a breath about being a good person - one who refuses to worsen suffering. Regardless, when the time came, he proved he could walk the walk. He picked up his suffering; he bore it; he remained a good person; he did not intensify the suffering.
Not even after it was all over and he was left alone with a cruel and undeserved void that penetrated the very essence of his being.
Unlike my father, I received a formal academic education, but in those ten months following the diagnosis of his wife's cancer, my father taught me more about the human mind and spirit than a thousand psychologists or theologians ever could.
My father and his wife - my parents divorced when I was eighteen and my father eventually remarried a decade later - graciously allowed us to stay with them until we found work and could establish a place of our own. Though living at home again after so many years felt somewhat strange, I must confess that it was nice to be among family after nearly a decade away. In essence, we were happy to be home, and the anticipated arrival of my son filled the summer days with sweetness and joy.
Like most diagnoses, the diagnosis my father's wife received during that summer came as a shock. Dismay and sorrow quickly tainted the sweetness and joy. My father's wife battled against the disease with all the strength and optimism she could summon. My father, for his part, channeled the bulk of his time and energy into supporting her in every way he could. Whenever the four of us were together, we all spoke encouragingly and optimistically about chances and odds, but when we retired for the night, the hushed and somber whispers of reality filled our rooms.
My son was born a few weeks before Christmas and his arrival brought some cheer to an otherwise cheerless season. The arrival of new life briefly eclipsed the shadow of gradual death. For a few short weeks we were granted a reprieve, but it didn't last. Rather than provide improvement, the treatments my father's wife endured only served to exacerbate the cancer in her lungs. Some time in the New Year it began to spread through her body like spilled black ink. Her condition worsened in the most heartbreaking and unoriginal manner possible - gradually, then suddenly.
And through it all my father was there beside her. It pains me to consider how agonizing it must have been for him to watch the person he loved fade and wither before his eyes. At how excruciating it must have been to know he could do nothing more than provide comfort. At how harrowing it must have been to feel powerlessness to the point of pain.
Not that he spoke of these things much. True, he confided in me every now and then and sometimes hinted at the torment that was silently tearing him apart, but he never showed it. He remained steadfast and indefatigable, even during her last days at home during which he had to physically carry her every time she needed to leave the bed.
On a few occasions, I wondered how I would cope under similar circumstances, but merely attempting to imagine my own wife in the same situation proved too difficult. I assured myself that I would act as solidly as my father was acting, but I timidly doubted that my well of strength ran as deep as his.
How easy it would be to succumb to weakness; to resentment; to despair. How easy it would be to reach for the bottle, or pills, or something worse. How easy it would be to lash out - to shake an impotent Learean fist of rage at the stormy skies. How easy it would be to take a bad situation and make it worse. Yes, it would be all too easy. I imagine the temptation to give in would be perpetual.
Yet my father never gave in.
My father received little in the way of formal academic education. Nonetheless, he is a clever and resourceful man. He had trained to be a chef when he was a young man, but eventually taught himself to build houses. He rarely goes to church and barely ever mentions God, yet he is firmly rooted in something that extends beyond the material. My father possesses little formal knowledge of psychology or theology, but his attitude and actions during those ten months demonstrated that he knew more about the human mind and spirit than a thousand psychologists or theologians ever could.
My father would probably have a difficult time articulating the theory of why he never gave in during those ten months, but his weakness in theory is overshadowed by his strength in practice. He just intuitively and innately understood the art of not giving in. Put another way, during those ten months, he never talked the talk. He never uttered a word about picking up suffering and bearing it. Not a breath about being a good person - one who refuses to worsen suffering. Regardless, when the time came, he proved he could walk the walk. He picked up his suffering; he bore it; he remained a good person; he did not intensify the suffering.
Not even after it was all over and he was left alone with a cruel and undeserved void that penetrated the very essence of his being.
Unlike my father, I received a formal academic education, but in those ten months following the diagnosis of his wife's cancer, my father taught me more about the human mind and spirit than a thousand psychologists or theologians ever could.
March 3, 2020
First Day of Spring
Is officially still a little more than two weeks away, but here in Hungary the temperatures have turned mild and the trees have begun budding. These first signs of spring coaxed a musical memory from the deep recesses of my mind - a strange little tune called "First Day of Spring" by a strange little, and practically unknown, Canadian band, the Gandharvas.
I was never really obsessed with contemporary popular music, but I suppose I was somewhat lucky to have been a teenager/young adult during the late eighties/early nineties when grunge and alternative rock bands were all the rage. I say lucky because the bulk of grunge and alternative rock at least resembled music, unlike the prefabricated, cookie-cutter, synthesized pop pablum permeating the popular music scene today. Grunge and alternative bands played their own instruments and wrote their own songs, which is more than can be said for many current chart-toppers.
On top of that, much of the work produced in the grunge and alternative genre of the late-eighties and early-nineties was quite creative and, occasionally, original. Wholesome? Not always? Uplifting? Rarely. Harmful? Perhaps. But at least it was creative. Sometimes it was even sincere.
In any event, The Gandharvas were a Canadian alternative band from London, Ontario who, like most Canadian bands, did not achieve notable success or fame beyond the borders of their vast country. I don't know much about them. Nor am I particularly interested in finding out much about them. As far as I know, they disbanded in 2000 after the grunge/alternative scene began to wane. Nevertheless, they did write some interesting songs, with First Day of Spring being chief among them.
The song is essentially a soft melodic build-up ending in a crashing cacophony crescendo - sort of like a wave building up before crashing on the shore. For reasons I can't explain, I've always liked the song. I am rather fond of the video and its awakening imagery as well. Appropriately enough, the song usually bubbles to the surface of my memory toward the end of winter, when I give it a couple of plays before I allow it to recede back into my memory for another year.
I was never really obsessed with contemporary popular music, but I suppose I was somewhat lucky to have been a teenager/young adult during the late eighties/early nineties when grunge and alternative rock bands were all the rage. I say lucky because the bulk of grunge and alternative rock at least resembled music, unlike the prefabricated, cookie-cutter, synthesized pop pablum permeating the popular music scene today. Grunge and alternative bands played their own instruments and wrote their own songs, which is more than can be said for many current chart-toppers.
On top of that, much of the work produced in the grunge and alternative genre of the late-eighties and early-nineties was quite creative and, occasionally, original. Wholesome? Not always? Uplifting? Rarely. Harmful? Perhaps. But at least it was creative. Sometimes it was even sincere.
In any event, The Gandharvas were a Canadian alternative band from London, Ontario who, like most Canadian bands, did not achieve notable success or fame beyond the borders of their vast country. I don't know much about them. Nor am I particularly interested in finding out much about them. As far as I know, they disbanded in 2000 after the grunge/alternative scene began to wane. Nevertheless, they did write some interesting songs, with First Day of Spring being chief among them.
The song is essentially a soft melodic build-up ending in a crashing cacophony crescendo - sort of like a wave building up before crashing on the shore. For reasons I can't explain, I've always liked the song. I am rather fond of the video and its awakening imagery as well. Appropriately enough, the song usually bubbles to the surface of my memory toward the end of winter, when I give it a couple of plays before I allow it to recede back into my memory for another year.
March 2, 2020
A Brief Review of Remember the Creator by William Wildblood
Reviewing a book like William Wildblood's Remember The Creator is no easy task. The difficulty does not stem from any mixed feelings or perceived flaws in the book. On the contrary, Wildblood's work left nothing but positive impressions in my mind; and the clean, elegant writing style rendered even the most complex of spiritual and religious subjects comprehensible and engaging.To begin with, Wildblood possesses the exceptional ability to tackle sophisticated topics in a simple manner. And he achieves this without sacrificing profound insights. This in itself makes Remember the Creator a rare and refreshing book.
In addition, Wildblood's focus on truth is steeped in wisdom and sincerity. You will not find any convoluted logic or weak argumentation here. Nor will you encounter esoteric waffle nestled in confusing rhetorical flourishes that require a degree in theology to unravel. What you will find instead is a measured, yet earnest and astute appeal to the senses, reason, and faith. Wildblood motivates the reader to think widely and deeply about a range of religious and spiritual issues without alienating or distancing the reader in any way.
If I were forced to reduce my thoughts about Remember The Creator to a single phrase, I would, rather enthusiastically, affix the stale and unoriginal "must read" moniker to the book. Remember The Creator really is a "must read" for the simple reason that it tackles the ultimate problem of our time and place - the problem of a world that has forgotten God. Within the context of this bleak and barren landscape, Wildblood's firm, determined, and convincing reminder to remember the creator arrives like a much-needed rain blessing our scorched and parched soil.
Remember The Creator is a solid book and, as paradoxical as it sounds, it is this solidity that makes the book so difficult to review. This difficulty is due, in part, to the nature of the book itself - that is, it is a volume of essays. Each essay is a polished gem that easily stands on its own, but they are most effective when taken together and treated as a whole. As a whole, the book addresses and develops an overarching theme - one that is both crucial and pertinent to our own time and place - remembering the reality of God.
Part of the book explores the validity and claims of New Age and non-Western spiritual assumptions and approaches. Though Wildblood finds truth in many of these approaches, he respectfully and non-disparagingly concludes that they pale in comparison to the truth Christ offers. In other words, Buddhist and Advaita doctrines contain truth, but Wildblood holds the truth of Christianity as truer.
Of course, Wildblood refers here to real, essential Christianity, not the inadequate, over-wordly, spiritually-faded Christianity most traditional Christian institutions currently promulgate. Our task, Wildblood contends, is to re-establish a personal connection to this essence - the only essence that speaks to both the transcendent and the immanent aspects of our religious consciousness and, conclusively, the full potential of our spiritual development and progress.
In a recent blog post on his Meeting the Masters blog, Wildblood offers the following reflections on his book:
My second book Remember the Creator was an attempt to come to terms with these ideas and demonstrate that Christ is the foundation of truth and that what he taught takes us more deeply into the mind and heart of God than anything else. His life shows us the path to follow if we would fulfil God's will for us. This is not to escape creation for an uncreated absolute of perfect stillness and peace but to transform creation and raise it up, through the medium of our own self, into the light of God. The key to this is an understanding that suffering is not a universal evil from which we need to escape but a means of spiritual redemption through transforming it by self-sacrifice in love. Other spiritual approaches talk of love because they must but it is only through the path laid out by Christ that true spiritual love can be known. Without Christ we might have a generalised sort of compassion but we would not have love.
Several essays in Remember The Creator deal with this "generalised sort of compassion", a phrase that well reflects the confused zeitgeist of our times. In these essays, Wildblood demonstrates and elucidates a keen sensitivity to and understanding of why people choose to forget and reject God; but he minces no words about the wrongness of such attitudes.
He tackles sophistry and fallacy head-on and reveals the errors in both by astutely referring back to basic principles. These basic principles, Wildblood contends, are not only vital, but also utterly undeniable. Forgetting these basic principles or, worse, intentionally rejecting them at the individual and collective level is the root cause of so much of our current malaise - a malaise that can be only be remedied by remembering God, who is the basic principle from which all other principles stem.
What makes Remember The Creator so heartening and uplifting is Wildblood's talent for separating sense from nonsense, and separating sense from lesser sense. In the end, the arguments and explanations he provides do not simply make sense - they are sense. That is, they are firmly rooted in the reality of the Creator and in Creation, immediately accessible to all those with eyes to see and ears to hear.
Wildblood concludes his book with the following paragraph:
God the Creator is real. He dwells in the innermost depth of your heart and above the highest heaven. He is your Father and his Being itself. His name is I AM and his nature is love. He sits with you as you read these lines. Remember him.
I like this paragraph; it perfectly encapsulates the basic principle I alluded to above. This basic principle, this fundamental reality, permeates every line of the book in a manner that is both comforting and inspiring.
In reference to the author, Bruce Charlton has noted, "In a better world, William Wildblood would be recognised as a national treasure."
I couldn't agree more.
For me, reading Remember The Creator was akin to having a deep and meaningful conversation with a kindred spirit. I am convinced that other readers will feel the same after picking up this book - regardless of where they are in their spiritual and religious journeys. And for those who have yet to embark on the journey, this book offers a good place to start. Remember The Creator. It's not just a title, but an essential first step of the best journey you can hope to take in this mortal life.
Five stars. Highly recommended.
Please visit William Wildblood's blog for more information about how to acquire Remember the Creator.
March 1, 2020
My Little Bubble World
I have been living in Hungary since March 2015, but it recently occurred to me that in many fundamental ways, I am really not living in Hungary at all, but rather in a little bubble marked by the parameters of the English language.
Hungarian was the first language I learned in life, and though I have was never formally taught the mechanics of Magyar, I am fully fluent and possess an innate instinctive feel for the language, to the point that I blend in seamlessly with 'native' Hungarians.
All the same, I consider English to be my true native language, primarily because I have formally studied the language, but also because it has been the predominant language of my life, both as a child and as an adult.
English has comprised 95% of my waking life, and 100% of my dreaming life in Hungary. Oddly enough, this ratio was exactly the same when I lived in the United States, Canada, and England. In other words, I am living in more or less the same mode I was living when I resided in Anglo countries. I find this odd and amusing.
Of course, this mode I'm in can be readily and easily explained. Though I can think in Hungarian, I prefer to think in English. I have no control over my dreams, but as far as I can recollect, my dream mind prefers English. Though I am surrounded by the Hungarian language, I still complete the vast bulk of my reading and writing in English. On top of that, English forms the foundation of my work life over here in Central Europe. I teach English language classes, proofread texts written in English, and translate texts from Hungarian to English.
This English bubble doesn't trouble me in any existential sort of way. Given my current vocational circumstances, it is practically inevitable. Nevertheless, it has occurred to me that this bubble also represents a sort of unintentional barrier, one that has been effectively cutting me off from the richness and depth of the surrounding culture.
In light of this, I am going to make a concerted effort to spend more time reading Hungarian texts - especially novels - and more time listening to Hungarian language lectures, programs, and interviews. I estimate my English bubble will essentially remain intact, but it may become more porous and, with time, allow for a deeper connection with this country I call home.
Hungarian was the first language I learned in life, and though I have was never formally taught the mechanics of Magyar, I am fully fluent and possess an innate instinctive feel for the language, to the point that I blend in seamlessly with 'native' Hungarians.
All the same, I consider English to be my true native language, primarily because I have formally studied the language, but also because it has been the predominant language of my life, both as a child and as an adult.
English has comprised 95% of my waking life, and 100% of my dreaming life in Hungary. Oddly enough, this ratio was exactly the same when I lived in the United States, Canada, and England. In other words, I am living in more or less the same mode I was living when I resided in Anglo countries. I find this odd and amusing.
Of course, this mode I'm in can be readily and easily explained. Though I can think in Hungarian, I prefer to think in English. I have no control over my dreams, but as far as I can recollect, my dream mind prefers English. Though I am surrounded by the Hungarian language, I still complete the vast bulk of my reading and writing in English. On top of that, English forms the foundation of my work life over here in Central Europe. I teach English language classes, proofread texts written in English, and translate texts from Hungarian to English.
This English bubble doesn't trouble me in any existential sort of way. Given my current vocational circumstances, it is practically inevitable. Nevertheless, it has occurred to me that this bubble also represents a sort of unintentional barrier, one that has been effectively cutting me off from the richness and depth of the surrounding culture.
In light of this, I am going to make a concerted effort to spend more time reading Hungarian texts - especially novels - and more time listening to Hungarian language lectures, programs, and interviews. I estimate my English bubble will essentially remain intact, but it may become more porous and, with time, allow for a deeper connection with this country I call home.
February 27, 2020
Updating The Slogan That Sums Up Our Spiritual Malaise
A: We need to update that slogan that was part of the Atheist Bus Campaign in 2008 and 2009. Though it still concisely sums up the crux of the spiritual malaise we've created in the West, the boss thinks it needs a little refreshing. B: I couldn't agree more. After all, we've made quite a bit of progress since then. What do you suggest?
A: Well to begin with, the word probably needs to be omitted because, let's face it - we've been very successful at getting people to forget God. Most won't even briefly entertain, let alone deeply consider the probability of God. And we certainly don't want to encourage them to entertain any notions , do we?
B: Quite right! So the new, updated slogan could be - There's no God. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life.
A: Yes, yes. That's grand. But let's be honest. We can't have people not worrying. What's the use in that?
B: Yes, that's a good point. How about something like this instead? There's no God, so stop worrying about God and start worrying about other things that we manipulate you into worrying about like climate change, transgenderism, open borders, white nationalism, politics, equality, racism, diversity - and enjoy your life.
A: Not the catchiest slogan, but it addresses the issue at hand adroitly. But enjoy your life? It's too concrete. I mean, we don't really want people to enjoy their lives - we merely want to provide the illusion of enjoyment.
B: You're right. We certainly don't want to be sued for fraud, do we? Besides, people will probably start seeing through the enjoy your life spiel soon anyway. Okay then, what about this? There's no God, so stop worrying about God and start worrying about things that we manipulate into worrying about like climate change, transgenderism, open borders, white nationalism, politics, equality, racism, diversity, etc., and enjoy your life, but not through means that align with God and Reality - because we don't want you to believe that those things really exist - but exclusively through unreal progressive means like expensive, pointless yoga retreats; a variety of novel and casual sexual encounters with people you can treat like objects; working long hours in a mind-numbing, soul-crushing job where you're always in a state of anxiety about getting the sack but ultimately relieved when you survive the month so you can pay the burdensome fifty-year mortgage on your 800 square foot terraced house next to the old sludge pit . . .
A: I like the content, but it's not a slogan! It will never fit on a bus! Slogans are meant to be catchy and concise. They must strike at the essence, not blather on like some awful, racist, sexist Victorian novel. Think harder!
B: You're right of course. What do you think of this? There's no God, so worry a lot, but only enough that you surrender yourself to us, through which you can try to enjoy your life but only through the progressive means we sanction which are limited to the following: pointless casual sexual encounters where everyone involved is reduced to the level of an object of pleasure-
A: Stop! The core of the matter! We need to take this seriously!. Chisel away all that fluff and get right to the point. Make it memorable. Unforgettable. Hard-hitting.
B: There's no God. Start worrying because you probably won't enjoy your life.
A: More sincere, but far too negative to be profound. Try again.
B: There's no God. Only worry.
A: Getting closer, but not quite there yet. Still too bleak. It needs to end with something upbeat!
B: No God; no life. Enjoy!
A: Perfect! But a little too perfect, I'm afraid.
B: So should we go with it or not?
A: I think we should, but let's run it by the boss first.
February 25, 2020
Liberalism Has Prevented World War III
I consider myself somewhat of an expert in the fine art of crafting lame arguments. Sure, people trip over lines of reasoning all the time, but few do it with the same energy, verve, and gusto I tend to display when I confuse a contention, piss all over a premise, or stumble through a syllogism. Yes, when it comes to garbling argumentation, I got skills.
Yet in the vast cosmos of asinine assertions, I remain an amateur. It pains me to admit it, but its true. Despite my immense talent for confounding a claim, and despite my dogged determination to perplex a point, I must accept that when it comes to lame arguments, I will never, ever be in the same league as the pros out there. As good as I am, try as I might, I will never succeed in being as baffling, befuddling, and bewildering as those who play in the big leagues.
I simply lack the 'it' factor that would propel me to the same heights as those geniuses. Like the ones who believe liberalism is the sole reason the West has not experienced a world war since 1945. These mountains of the mind are quick to point out that nationalism caused World War One, that a combination of nationalism and fascism were to blame for World War Two, and that the blue skies since 1945 are wholly the result of liberalism - a progressive liberalism that is now being threatened by rising nationalism. A menacing nationalism that seeks to end the noble liberal project of erasing all borders and nations so that we can all finally hold hands and sing John Lennon's "Imagine" as we live as one.
You see how good that is? It's a whole other level.
As for me, I just can't shake the idea that the development of the atomic bomb, and, subsequently nuclear weapons, has probably acted as more of a deterrence than liberalism has.
But hey, what do I know?
Yet in the vast cosmos of asinine assertions, I remain an amateur. It pains me to admit it, but its true. Despite my immense talent for confounding a claim, and despite my dogged determination to perplex a point, I must accept that when it comes to lame arguments, I will never, ever be in the same league as the pros out there. As good as I am, try as I might, I will never succeed in being as baffling, befuddling, and bewildering as those who play in the big leagues.
I simply lack the 'it' factor that would propel me to the same heights as those geniuses. Like the ones who believe liberalism is the sole reason the West has not experienced a world war since 1945. These mountains of the mind are quick to point out that nationalism caused World War One, that a combination of nationalism and fascism were to blame for World War Two, and that the blue skies since 1945 are wholly the result of liberalism - a progressive liberalism that is now being threatened by rising nationalism. A menacing nationalism that seeks to end the noble liberal project of erasing all borders and nations so that we can all finally hold hands and sing John Lennon's "Imagine" as we live as one.
You see how good that is? It's a whole other level.
As for me, I just can't shake the idea that the development of the atomic bomb, and, subsequently nuclear weapons, has probably acted as more of a deterrence than liberalism has.
But hey, what do I know?
Storm at Night
Storm at Night - Károly Kisfaludy - 1820
February 23, 2020
Being Pro-Sexual Revolution and Being On The Side of Good Are Incompatible
"Attitudes are evolving. Folks are more relaxed now. Morals are going out the window. People are waking up to idea that there is no heaven up there. Heaven is down here and sex is the ticket."
These lines appear in my novel, The City of Earthly Desire. In many ways, the novel was my way of grappling with the perniciousness of the sexual revolution. I say grapple because it took me an exceptionally long time to truly grasp the harm and devastation this noxious experiment in social engineering has caused in the past sixty-to-seventy years. By truly grasp I do not mean to imply that I possessed no intuitions about the harmfulness of the sexual revolution, but rather that I tended to view the issue from the same perspective I viewed other potentially detrimental things like alcohol. Simply put, I adopted a libertarian attitude about sex under the assumption that rational adults had the right to determine the course of their own beliefs and actions. I suppose this could be classified as a "whatever floats your boat" approach to the matter; an approach I coupled with "I'll tolerate what you do, as long as you don't push it on me" line of reasoning.
I mention this because I presume this was or perhaps still is the attitude of many people regarding sex. After all, rational adults do have the right to determine their own beliefs and actions - that's the whole point of freedom and free will. And yes, this freedom extends to sex as well. When all is said and done, every individual is free to choose their assumptions, attitudes, and approaches to sex. Here's the rub, though - the rub that took me a long time to fully comprehend: freedom of choice does not entail that any and every choice that is made is a good choice. This is particularly true with sex, where, much to every hedonist's and libertine's chagrin, good choices are restricted and limited.
Sex is a strong motivating force; perhaps the strongest after religion. What the sexual revolution has accomplished is to displace religion as humanity's strongest motivating force, at least at the collective level. And this has been a catastrophe. Among its many purposes, religion served to orient sex in a manner that was aligned to Divine Law and Creation. When this framework fell away, it was akin to opening Pandora's Box - and the chaos that has poured forth from this disastrous decision shows no signs of abating.
Sex today has become a Dostoevskian nightmare world - a nightmare world in which everything is permitted under the pretext of freedom, hedonism, and ironically enough, love. And don't kid yourself, the ultimate logical outcome of the sexual revolution will lead to exactly that - a world where everything is permitted. And when I say everything, I mean everything. Only a few things are considered taboo today. How long before those things stop being taboo? Impossible, you say? I beg to differ. You see, when all notions of the Divine are removed from sex, not only do impossible things suddenly become possible, but the temptation to make those impossible things possible becomes an irresistible force.
At its most fundamental level, sex is sacred, but it is only sacred if it is supported by a belief in the Divine. Without this belief, sex is reduced to nothing more than a vulgar means of attaining physical pleasure (at the very least). This does imply that those who do not believe in the Divine automatically diminish sex. Nor does it suggest that those who believe in the Divine automatically elevate sex to its proper function and role. Nevertheless, without religion, without deep metaphysical assumptions, sex slips into the realm moral relativity, much the way it has in the past sixty or seventy years. This of course brings us right back to religion which established a clear moral framework for sex. That moral framework has been all but vaporized; however, the diminished stature of this moral framework does not mean it has become obsolete. On the contrary, it has never been needed more.
Heaven is not down here. And even if it were, sex is certainly not the ticket - not in the sexual revolution sense anyway. Contrary to popular belief, the sexual revolution has done far more harm than good. And as uncomfortable as it makes things, you simply cannot be pro-sexual revolution and on the side of good. You can't. The two are incompatible. Any attempt to make them compatible is dishonest and delusional.
These lines appear in my novel, The City of Earthly Desire. In many ways, the novel was my way of grappling with the perniciousness of the sexual revolution. I say grapple because it took me an exceptionally long time to truly grasp the harm and devastation this noxious experiment in social engineering has caused in the past sixty-to-seventy years. By truly grasp I do not mean to imply that I possessed no intuitions about the harmfulness of the sexual revolution, but rather that I tended to view the issue from the same perspective I viewed other potentially detrimental things like alcohol. Simply put, I adopted a libertarian attitude about sex under the assumption that rational adults had the right to determine the course of their own beliefs and actions. I suppose this could be classified as a "whatever floats your boat" approach to the matter; an approach I coupled with "I'll tolerate what you do, as long as you don't push it on me" line of reasoning.
I mention this because I presume this was or perhaps still is the attitude of many people regarding sex. After all, rational adults do have the right to determine their own beliefs and actions - that's the whole point of freedom and free will. And yes, this freedom extends to sex as well. When all is said and done, every individual is free to choose their assumptions, attitudes, and approaches to sex. Here's the rub, though - the rub that took me a long time to fully comprehend: freedom of choice does not entail that any and every choice that is made is a good choice. This is particularly true with sex, where, much to every hedonist's and libertine's chagrin, good choices are restricted and limited.
Sex is a strong motivating force; perhaps the strongest after religion. What the sexual revolution has accomplished is to displace religion as humanity's strongest motivating force, at least at the collective level. And this has been a catastrophe. Among its many purposes, religion served to orient sex in a manner that was aligned to Divine Law and Creation. When this framework fell away, it was akin to opening Pandora's Box - and the chaos that has poured forth from this disastrous decision shows no signs of abating.
Sex today has become a Dostoevskian nightmare world - a nightmare world in which everything is permitted under the pretext of freedom, hedonism, and ironically enough, love. And don't kid yourself, the ultimate logical outcome of the sexual revolution will lead to exactly that - a world where everything is permitted. And when I say everything, I mean everything. Only a few things are considered taboo today. How long before those things stop being taboo? Impossible, you say? I beg to differ. You see, when all notions of the Divine are removed from sex, not only do impossible things suddenly become possible, but the temptation to make those impossible things possible becomes an irresistible force.
At its most fundamental level, sex is sacred, but it is only sacred if it is supported by a belief in the Divine. Without this belief, sex is reduced to nothing more than a vulgar means of attaining physical pleasure (at the very least). This does imply that those who do not believe in the Divine automatically diminish sex. Nor does it suggest that those who believe in the Divine automatically elevate sex to its proper function and role. Nevertheless, without religion, without deep metaphysical assumptions, sex slips into the realm moral relativity, much the way it has in the past sixty or seventy years. This of course brings us right back to religion which established a clear moral framework for sex. That moral framework has been all but vaporized; however, the diminished stature of this moral framework does not mean it has become obsolete. On the contrary, it has never been needed more.
Heaven is not down here. And even if it were, sex is certainly not the ticket - not in the sexual revolution sense anyway. Contrary to popular belief, the sexual revolution has done far more harm than good. And as uncomfortable as it makes things, you simply cannot be pro-sexual revolution and on the side of good. You can't. The two are incompatible. Any attempt to make them compatible is dishonest and delusional.
Head Colds Are Not Conducive to Blogging; So Here's Some Bach
I skipped blogging yesterday due to a head cold. I feel a little better today, but I still don't feel up to writing a post. In light of this, I will leave you with an excellent collection of lute compositions by Bach.
February 21, 2020
Scaring the Pants Off Winter
Busós - Their boo-shows help scare winter away. The town of Mohács (pronounced Mo - hatch) is rather significant in Hungarian history. Most notably, it was the site of two fateful battles that basically bookend the Turkish occupation of Hungary from 1541 to 1699.In the First Battle of Mohács in 1526, Turkish forces decisively crushed the Hungarian army led by King Louis II. This effectively marked the end to the nearly two-century long struggle known as the Hungarian-Ottoman wars, which lasted from 1366 to 1526. The loss at Mohács obliterated the Kingdom of Hungary. In the aftermath, the country was partitioned into three parts, with each falling under the control of a different ruling faction: the Ottomans, the Habsburg Monarchy, and the Principality of Transylvania. Consequently, the First Battle of Mohács is considered one of the most tragic events in Hungarian history; to the point that it has become the base of the expression "More was lost at Mohács", which is commonly employed in response to misfortune. The implication is simple - regardless of the severity of any disappointment or loss one has experienced, it could never be as big a loss as the one experienced at Mohács.
With Hungary conquered after Mohács, the task of resisting the Ottoman advance fell to the Habsburgs who struggled against the Turks from 1526 to 1791. In 1687, the Habsburgs succeeded in driving the Ottomans out of Hungary at the Second Battle of Mohács. The victory marked the end of more than a century-and-a-half of Turkish rule, but also brought about the beginning of over two centuries of Habsburg rule and influence.
Battles aside, Mohács is also famous for its Busójárás (Walk of the Busós - pronounced boo-shows, which is cool because that is essentially what a busó is). This annual festival traditionally marks the end of winter in Hungary. The celebration stems from the Šokci people living in and around the town. The festivities begin at end of the Carnival season (known as Farsang in Hungary), and draw to a close on Shrove Tuesday. The celebration's most famous attraction are the busós themselves who are essentially bogeymen. The busó tradition stretches back to pre-Christian times and there are two explanations for its origins (taken from Wikipedia):
According to the most popular legend, during the Ottoman times of the territory, people from Mohács fled the town, and started living in the nearby swamps and woods to avoid Ottoman (Turkish) troops. One night, while they were sitting and talking around the fire, an old Šokac man appeared suddenly from nowhere, and said to them: "Don't be afraid, your lives will soon turn to good and you'll return to your homes. Until that time, prepare for the battle, carve various weapons and scary masks for yourselves, and wait for a stormy night when a masked knight will come to you." He disappeared as suddenly as he arrived. The refugees followed his orders, and some days later, on a stormy night, the knight arrived. He ordered them to put on their masks and go back to Mohács, making as much noise as possible. They followed his lead. The Turks were so frightened by the noise, the masks, and the storm in the night, that they thought demons were attacking them, and they ran away from the town before sunrise.
In the older, less popular story, the busós are scaring away not the Turks, but winter itself.
I have only heard the older, less popular story myself. Hence, if current weather conditions are any guide, it appears the busós' boo-shows have succeeded in scaring the pants off winter. I expect an early spring in Hungary this year.
