I have a theory, maybe I found it in a book somewhere, maybe I just agglomerated it from a series of books I’ve read, I certainly don’t know. So in the style of the old school writers, I will just write out the idea and not bother with citation; and if any of my readers can place the idea in its whole form, I will amend the post to give credit where it is due. Very likely this has been discussed before since there is really no such thing as a new idea. The idea is that all gods of all beliefs, other than the True belief, follow a predictable course. The gods have a birth, a life and a death, and to these events the human worshipers, the believers follow a sad and broken path, the same path every time: whether the god is Oden or whether it is a more abstract idea of social utopia in communism. The reaction of the believers is the same in each stage of the god’s ‘life’.
At birth the god is new: and the human culture that made him is vigorous and strong. They burst upon the world with power and the might of high birth rates and a society that does not question its purpose or leadership. Its sort of like the Assyrians, who as far as anyone can tell started out farmers in a mountainous region of the middle east. Then one day (from a long historical point a view –it was perhaps a generation or two.) They broke upon the world, conquering and slaughtering and ruling. Take another example: before the time of Muhammad, the Arabian peninsula and the Arabs were considered of no real threat or importance, then within a few generations, they ruled the southern half of what had been the Roman world. Or one final example: global communism. With Russia, China, Korea, Vietnam, half of Europe (with the other half nearly going as well) the ideology was young, the god was new: and its people credited their successes to their god.
And here, of course, I bring up the Ballad of the White Horse again. That poem is a fundamentally philosophical document. In the book where Alfred is singing to Gunthram, the earls of the northmen and Gunthram all sing, and they sing in the order of the cycle of life of false gods. First sings Young Harold:
‘For Rome was given to rule the world,
And gat of it little joy—
But we, but we shall enjoy the world,
The whole huge world a toy.
Great wine like blood from Burgundy,
Cloaks like the clouds from Tyre,
And marble like solid moonlight,
And gold like frozen fire.
Smells that a man might swill in a cup,
Stones that a man might eat,
And the great smooth women like ivory
That the Turks sell in the street.’
He sang the song of the thief of the world,
And the gods that love the thief;
And he yelled aloud at the cloister-yards,
Where men go gathering grief.
The next stage is perhaps ‘adulthood’ This is where none of the people in charge really believe anymore, but the system is working in their favor and they use it. They doubt their gods. This is the time I suppose I have least to say, so here is what Elf the minstrel sings about in the Ballad, singing about Baldir:
“There is always a thing forgotten
When all the world goes well;
A thing forgotten, as long ago,
When the gods forgot the mistletoe,
And soundless as an arrow of snow
The arrow of anguish fell.
“The thing on the blind side of the heart,
On the wrong side of the door,
The green plant groweth, menacing
Almighty lovers in the spring;
There is always a forgotten thing,
And love is not secure.”
And finally, the gods die. This, I think is the sign. When people actually believe their god is alive, they work hard, they conquer, they bear children. When the god dies, when the idol smashes, people become obsessed with death: they pour out the blood of human sacrifices upon the idol to try and bring their god back to life. Because anything and everything is more bearable than to be alone, to have no purpose, no god, no belief: to be nothing more than an accident. And so, children are slaughtered on alters, people do their best to kill and slaughter, because as the old earl says in the Ballad:
“There lives one moment for a man
When the door at his shoulder shakes,
When the taut rope parts under the pull,
And the barest branch is beautiful
One moment, while it breaks.
“And you that sit by the fire are young,
And true love waits for you;
But the king and I grow old, grow old,
And hate alone is true.”
God is dead: and hate and death is all that remains. This is the world around us today. Everyone has awoken and realized inside their soul that their god is dead. They currently are trying to bring their respective gods back to life with slaughter and death. Every false belief, every false god, ends in nihilism. The suicide bomber and abortion are both ultimate expressions of nihilism, both are sacrifices upon the alter of a god who has died. Abortion is nothing more than infant sacrifice to the gods of the secular west. The god is nameless and elusive, but it is a mixture of humanism, of hedonism. Perhaps it is really the worship of Ashtoreth, the goddess of sex and war. And on her alter are sacrificed millions of unborn and born children. Witness Gosnell, and read this about the birth control pill (I know I linked it before, but go read it again anyway, it is good to be reminded of these things.) I would write more about Gosnell, but his actions are so horrific I’d rather not, and the worst part is, that every single thing he did is legal (and by many evil people encouraged) as long as it is done inside a woman rather than outside. That distinction is actually meaningless of course, either abortion is evil or Gosnell should go free. This is the result of the culture of suicide and death that comes of the god dying. What happens next? Well, the people who’s God has died and then risen again answer with Arthur.
“When God put man in a garden
He girt him with a sword,
And sent him forth a free knight
That might betray his lord;
“He brake Him and betrayed Him,
And fast and far he fell,
Till you and I may stretch our necks
And burn our beards in hell.
“But though I lie on the floor of the world,
With the seven sins for rods,
I would rather fall with Adam
Than rise with all your gods.
“What have the strong gods given?
Where have the glad gods led?
When Guthrum sits on a hero’s throne
And asks if he is dead?
“That on you is fallen the shadow,
And not upon the Name;
That though we scatter and though we fly,
And you hang over us like the sky,
You are more tired of victory,
Than we are tired of shame.
“Nor shall all iron dooms make dumb
Men wondering ceaselessly,
If it be not better to fast for joy
Than feast for misery.
“For our God hath blessed creation,
Calling it good. I know
What spirit with whom you blindly band
Hath blessed destruction with his hand;
Yet by God’s death the stars shall stand
And the small apples grow.”