An Unmarked Anniversary

Fr. Hunwicke, a former Anglican priest who is now in the Anglican Ordinariate, reminds us that Monday in Holy Week, 1937, is the day when the Gestapo ransacked Catholic diocesan offices and presbyteries all over Germany. Why? Because Passion Sunday was the day when, the churches being packed, priests all over Germany read publicly the Encyclical of Pope Pius XI, Mit Brennender Sorge,the only encyclical ever written in German. (An English translation is here.)

"It had been smuggled into Germany in the Nuncio's Diplomatic Bag and secretly printed; secretly distributed by special couriers and proclaimed in every pulpit. And nobody leaked it; at least, not in time for the government to intervene. It burst upon the Fuehrer and his admirers as the most wonderful surprise. Not many people in the state apparatus will have had much sabbath rest that Sunday, as arrangements were frantically made to secure all copies for destruction. Rumour has it that in some places a copy was hidden in the Tabernacle...

According to some reports, it had been drafted by Cardinal Faulhaber, Fr Ratzinger's ordaining bishop, no 'leftie' but an old-style conservative German nationalist; and toughened up a little by Cardinal Pacelli. Sadly, since I am not a Germanist, I am reduced to reading it in an English translation. But it still strikes me as immensely moving: to hear the authentic voice of the Vicar of Christ roundly condemning the Zeitgeist in such ringing and unmistakable tones brings tears to my eyes. Those were the days! I commend it to you, if you have not read it recently, or at all. I wonder how we shall celebrate its 80th Anniversary next year?

It condemns the ideology of Race and of Blood, and of a Superman who mystically incarnates in his own person those dangerous myths. But in its essence, it condemns something that is still very much with us today despite any legislative proscriptions of Nazism: the attempt, any and every attempt, to set up a rival to Christ the King."

 Good thing we don't have that problem any more.  No one setting himself up as Dear Leader anymore. No one stirring up the masses against the outsiders. No one attacking the Church.

Reaping Whirlwinds

TOF understands that the fascist tactic of mobbing a speaker and shutting him or her down has traditionally been understood as a victory of free speech on college campuses, but the tactic has now seemed to have spilled over to the real world. There, some have discovered to their utter horror, that folks Out There, unlike their fellow collegians, will sometime fight back. Ironically, these blue collar workers, whose fathers and grandfathers fought the Battle of the Overpass in Detroit so long ago, would have been members of the very political party from whose ruins the protesters of today have emerged to cavort amidst the ruins of the other political party. But they had been driven hence by the mockery and sneers of their Besserwissers.

Naturally, the media spin is that the silenced speaker has brought this on himself. (Nor can this be entirely denied. There are two kinds of politicians: the kind whose every transgression will be downplayed and pooh-poohed and the kind whose every misstep and gaffe will be repeated and magnified.*) This spin will persist until a similar band of rowdies shut down a speech by someone of whom they approve, much as Occupy X was approved of (despite various crimes committed in their encampments) until some folks occupied a bird sanctuary in Oregon. In the off season. Then it will be the protesters at fault. Well we can't have the Wrong People doing the protesting, can we?

Of one thing the media has not reminded the public: this tactic of mobbing disapproved speaker venues is not new for the folks involved in the Chicago incident. (Nor is the rationale that freedom of speech applies only to the right sort of speech.) Instead, they will (in today's terms) Blame the Victim -- though they will not of course use that phrase for the candidate silenced. Good heavens.

When will people learn not to whittle the club with which others will eventually clobber them?

But if the Late Modern memory were not so dang-blasted short-term, one might recall with some unease another decadent era when political rallies were busted up by jeering opponents: the Weimar Republic in the 1920s when NSDAP would disrupt SOPADE rallies, and vice versa.

Postscript. It has become fashionable to compare Mr. Trump to a certain Adolph Hitler. The comparison is unfair. Trump does not rock a toothbrush mustache. Nor does he have those beady snake eyes. But he does bear a fascinating resemblance to Sgr. Mussolini. Watch the way he juts out his chin when he tilts his head back.

However, the closest match to Mussolini's Syndicates in recent years was Mrs. Clinton's "Health Care Alliances" proposed by her secret task force back during her husband's term in office. It's the thought that counts, not the fortuitous physical resemblances.

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(*) It need not even be a gaffe. Recently, a political enemy of Mr. Trump, took him to task for asking his supporters to raise their right hands and promise to vote for him, much as witnesses in court raise their right hands to take an oath. The person contended with a straight face that this reminded him of a Hitler salute. This was treated as if it were news, rather than political propaganda! The show's hosts then asked Mr. Trump if he would cease doing it, and of course he said no, "because people like it." Even though it reminds some people of the Nazi salute? Goodness get the smelling salts. The show moved on the next story and the videotape showed Bernie Sander finishing a speech, which he ended with a flourish, right arm fully extended from the shoulder, straight as a rod, slightly elevated. It was far more the image of the fascist salute than Trump's weenie court oath gesture; but no one will ever point it out or ask Bernie to explain. There's nothing to explain -- in either case. Get a grip, people. I mean, really.

Among the Great States

TOF has begun on a whim a story entitled "The Journeyman: Among the Great States." Its opening scene runs as follows.

“Done hung around and sung around
This old town too long.”
– ancient proverb

#
A bird in the hand
Teodorq sunna Nagarajan the Ironhand always woke quickly. It was what the men of the Great Grass called a “survival skill,” since those who did not often did not. In this case he awoke on satin pillows (which was unusual) even before the woman began to shake him (which was not).

“My husband!” she whispered. “He is home!”

“Will you introduce us?” Teodorq asked, for he had not yet mastered the differences in etiquette between the Great States and the lands in which he had hitherto journeyed.

“You fool!” she scolded him. “He is a master duelist! He has slain seven lovers of mine!”

Teo was a quick study and from this he gathered that a dalliance with the Lay Lisspeh dee Oundahfarm was not one with long-term prospects.

“I have some skills at dueling, too,” he promised, and showed her his rapier. She swatted his arm and said she was serious.

Lay Lisspeh, like all the folk of the Great States was green-skinned and smelled faintly of grass. This pleased Teo, who had grown up on the rolling prairies of the western continent and the scent of grass was perfume to his nostrils. She also possessed a frill or ruff around her neck which when aroused rose out like an parasol. He understood from the Wisdoms of this land that their ancient ancestors had in some unknown way “spliced” the power of plants into their bloodlines so they could supplement their diets by “drinking” sunlight.

Teodorq himself was a noble bronze and supplemented his diet by eating cows and drinking beer.

It was the work of a moment to don his kilts and boots and throw his cloak across his shoulders. It was not as though he had had no practice at swift departures.

But when he reached the doorway of the bedroom, a broad shouldered, elegantly-dressed man with a pointed beard stood there with an equally pointed rapier held at ground guard. Teo supposed this to be Lar Oundafarm. He smiled and raised his hand, palm out.

“Hi,” he said in the Plains style.

The man flourished his sword to sky guard. “You have to go through me to get out.”

“Sure,” said Teo, and decked him.

Perhaps the Lar had been expecting a more protracted conversation over the matter, but Teo saw no reason to stretch things out. He hated long good-byes.



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More Politics!

How Deeply Does a Dhimmi Bow?

Eva Brunne, the Bishop of Stockholm for the government-controlled Church of Sweden, has called for the removal of the crosses from the cupolas of the Seamen's Church in Stockholm and the addition of markers to show the direction of Mecca in order to make the Church more attractive for muslims.

It does not seem to have occurred to the Bischöfin that muslims might find a lesbian bishop rather less attractive than a cross, so she stops short of calling for her own removal. There are some things that even in the Twilight of the Modern Age are still held more sacred than the desire to abase oneself.

The Director of the Seemen's Church is disinclined to comply on the wacky grounds that he is running a Christian church.

Notes from the Untergang

Last September, TOF reprinted the following observation by Dr. Boli:

In debating his opponents, Mr. Trump uses a particular style of argument that is enormously effective on the third-grade demographic:

OPPONENT. I believe you are mistaken in your inference.
TRUMP. You’re ugly.
OPPONENT. What I mean is that there is overwhelming scientific evidence to support my assertion that vaccines do not cause autism.
TRUMP. I mean, seriously, who puts a face like that on network TV?

Because it is not usually encountered outside the playground, this rhetorical figure does not have a common name. Dr. Boli will therefore give it one, and call it the argumentum ad vultum, the argument against the face or countenance. 

And added a reminiscence of the Marge:

Some years ago, when the Incomparable Marge took our daughter to see The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center, she found herself two rows behind the Donald and his then-wife. They spent the performance necking and smooching and engaging in serious PDsA, pretty much ignoring the dancing on-stage until his daughter came out with the other children. 

You know what that means?

That's right, sports fans, it's Political Season once again! For those who supposed it had always been political season, 24/7/365, well, now it's Prime Time. OK, Primary Time. TOF will now share some random thoughts of golden wisdom, some of them his own, and some of which (not necessarily his own) he may agree with.

Happy Birthday to Her

The Incomparable Marge at her most incomparable

Yesterday was the birthday of the Incomparable Marge.

The Marge was born an undisclosed number of years ago in Tulsa OK, the descendant of ancestors older than the country. If TOF's family tree reflects the industrial immigrants on the railroads and in factories, Margie's tree bears the pioneer farmers with their covered wagons and muskets.

On her mother's side, the Hammontrees were in colonial Virginia, served in Washington's army (one died at Valley Forge), moved to the East Tennessee frontier with the Overmountain Men. An ancestor fought with Andy Jackson at Horseshoe Bend, another joined the Union Army and fought at Cumberland Gap, Chattanooga, Stone's River, Chickamauga, Nashville, and Resaca and after the war emigrated to Arkansas. His son lit out for the Territories. The Harrises, meanwhile, had started in Harlan Co KY the next farm over from Thomas Lincoln and his son Abraham. Greenberry Harris emigrated with them to Spencer Co IN, then proceeded to Polk Co MO when the Lincolns moved to Illinois. The Harrises later moved to Choctaw Nation, then moved up to Quinton in Cherokee Nation where they encountered the Hammontrees. Then the government built Oklahoma around them while they weren't looking. 

Still incomparable after all these years

On her father's side, Ransom White had also come out of Tennessee and George Washington White wound up in Bonham TX on the Red River across from Choctaw Nation. He and his family lived and farmed among the Choctaws on both sides of the river. When they sued for enrollment in the tribe, the tribal courts allowed it, but the white courts overturned the ruling. GW's son Jasper Moses White married Maggie Jam, who was half-Choctaw, and lived around Ft. Towson. The Incomparable Marge was named after her. 

So while TOF's ancestors were here before Ellis Island was built, Margie's were here before the country was built and in this case before the glaciers had fully melted.Be careful talking about immigrants around her.

When she was a child, the Incomparable Marge was literally rolling in money. The way this happened was this. Her father drove an armored car and the woman who owned the company allowed him to bring Little Margie with him. (Margie's mother had died and he was raising her alone.) She would sit in the back of the truck on the money bags, literally rolling in money. Try doing that today. 

Later, her dad taught her how to gut a fish and fire a rifle and they would go hunting and fishing together. On one occasion, she had a narrow escape from a rattlesnake that had taken up residence in the fishing boat. 

Forget the fine-tuning constants. Every single one of us is the result of a string of improbable coincidences. If a bullet at Resaca had been an inch the other way, or if Joel Harris had decided to go to Illinois instead of Mizzou, or if the snake had struck more quickly, the universe would have been deprived of something incomparable. We are all very lucky to have one another.