preface to the Lie itself:
We speak for free markets and free people, the principles, if you will, marked in the watershed year of 1776 by Thomas Jefferson's Declaration of Independence and Adam Smith's "Wealth of Nations." So over the past century and into the next, the Journal stands for free trade and sound money; against confiscatory taxation and the ukases of kings and other collectivists; and for individual autonomy against dictators, bullies and even the tempers of momentary majorities.
Manifesto of Wall Street Journal.
Conservatives saw the savagery of 9/11 in the attacks and prepared for war; liberals saw the savagery of the 9/11 attacks and wanted to prepare indictments and offer therapy and understanding for our attackers."--Karl Rove
One wonders which of those positions is closer to the view held by Jesus? It's rather amazing the ignorance which can be uncovered by a policy of lies, fear & hate. One wants it all to make sense, but the schemes force the data to be manipulated, and the money changers gossip on the temple steps--a tale a congresswoman should read as she frets about the fate of the almighty dollar, and its brief waltz upon the stage.
the larger Ideals are lost on these petty little men, ambition reduced to the angles in the next deal, firewalls, blind alleys, and connections, same as it was in Ur, it may be imagined, as thus the city grew. Upon this cusp, the forces drawing to a point, it is easy enough to deplore their selfish schemes. It could be recalled, should one wish to, Paul, how much of his time was spent in keeping them from falling away, oh, into one idolatry or another--children as we are, despite our pretensions, happy with our toys, our absent pleasures. Pleasantly unaware that bullies do not mature, they simply age. And Paul? the Wisdom he has acquired, he mostly keeps to himself, as like Simon Magus he is bent on acquiring more, though nothing, as we should have learned by now, will buy us one second more. A worrisome bit of news that, all in all. Spun in Gossamer these new little Napoleons, unwrapped;
nothing is to be found at all. Old Will, finding smoke and fading voices in the sound & fury, as he waits through the next commercial with his Ovaltine, product placement doncha know, none of us are immune, nor particularly healthy all in all. The words all run together, the elegies, the prophecies, the wills and the contracts.
The sermons all get a bit stale, at the point where one can stare through them at the lies and the hypocrisy. One notes that charismatic is costume jewelry and blinking lights. Criticism nothing more than a bath in a bloated vocabulary: "Daylight obscured in the fog of our exhalation". The testaments pile up in the sunlit dusty room, arcane, obscure--paranoid, the currents drifting in history ignored in favor of green slimes crawling on the insides of the mind, the rot produced by (insert fav adjective here) society; just another day at the beach, watching each other carefully for signs of imperfection, the undertow of communication in the isolation. Gets to the point that there should have been a spark in all the connections, something in the way the car was parked, or a wrinkle out of place in the rumpled blankets on the bed, nothing shakes loose though, nothing occurs; maybe it was just a failure in the current observation, might be good to turn Hope over and kiss her ass, or wait for a messiah to start another crusade with poppies growing over the killing fields. What then when it stares directly into the eyes? The last wall of illusion crumbling away?
Another bedlam of words, another dusty testament, fraught with error, something to be tidied up, edited and collated, and placed carefully atop the pile, storage for another bit of poison, an act of muttering. Nothing more--even the loud voices are muted in the din; those that sing of greater things beyond the rim shouted down, and beaten with sticks. Something to answer the need, the throb and rhythms of another pestilence, a palanquin from which coins may be thrown into the streets to subdue the ennui, some fair tower from which to mock the dying city, and the fools marching in tidy rows against an onrushing tide of fire, umbrellas folded beneath their arms.
These learned fellows expect recompense, for that which survival demands, failing that they steal...
In the wake of faux tea party, the principles of Mr. Goebbels applied directly to the body politic, the Lie repeated often enough, it becomes increasingly difficult to untangle the truth from the web; and few in the weariness have the energy to try.
Tomorrow it all begins anew. The sturdy peasantry whipped into new frenzies of fear by the oligarchs, the promise of the old republic kindled in their hearts, the myth of "what was" scribed upon the tablets-- the voice of opposition seems plaintive, the whine of a chained dog, that which was the Law in another time, now, a favored toady, lost somewhere in the endless words its teeth pulled. Slowly the lie pulls on the populace, the honey in its tone as sweet as the devil's own words, insidious is transformed into spontaneous, hatred becomes love--the old song sung from the temple steps, the promises dipped in a sweet wine; words woven to suit the moment. The chained dog whimpers, sniffs the stale air; content with despair, the occasional bone tossed from the banquet table.
Come now! Should we not believe these promises? The nightmare from which we have recently emerged prove their worth. Slander, innuendo, torture, the bodies stacked in the city squares, the Lady clothed in oil and tossed into the sewer.
The question hanging in the air: "Are you revenged as yet?"--the years that slip into decades, the blood carried in buckets by the children at the behest of pudgy little men issuing directives to conceal the actual aims of their schemes. The false prophets permit hate, and promise power--they know that Adam is always innocent and full of desire. The prophet that counseled love as a harder road and that the meek shall inherit the world is put on a war horse and sent to slaughter all those who will not obey. "We are a Christian Nation!" they tell you, and the boys come home in caskets swelling the coffers of the rich--in truth they war upon the wretched and the poor, and preach to you the spreading of the truth, when behind the facade there is only the lie.
Time stands still in the new gospel, we do not walk from place to place, we do not climb the hill. It is always yesterday when we were better than we are; new words are uncrated to explain that what happened didn't really; or that the founders meant to say what they didn't really, and upon that we should all agree or be cast into the outer darkness. The minions of the dark lord counsel conciliation, reconstruction, peace, choice, the progress of the soul--nay nay nay they tell you, we must beat our plowshares into swords and wage war against such infidels as though their blood will expiate our sins. Happy we are in the Lord, yet who profits from our faith? Who is it, in fine clothes, who preaches the doctrine of the righteousness of the rich: has it not always been the priests who take the finest cuts of meat from the altar? Has the king not always paid handsomely for their smooth words?
It is not God who is the disease, but his servants, and they twist the words to serve their own pursuits. God becomes their lackey, and they sell him to the king. Uriah is put in the forefront of the battle, David puts on sackcloth and bows, and Bathsheba's son inherits the throne; with God's blessing.
You have only to open the book to look upon the future of their lies:
15 For behold, I will make you small among the nations,
despised among mankind.
16 The horror you inspire has deceived you,
and the pride of your heart,
you who live in the clefts of the rock,
who hold the height of the hill.
Though you make your nest as high as the eagle’s,
I will bring you down from there,
declares the LORD.