“But someone will say, “You have faith; I have deeds.” Show me your faith without deeds, and I will show you my faith by my deeds. You believe that there is one God. Good! Even the demons believe that . . . “
– James 2:18-19
The faithful “shudder” into mental gymnastics justifying their hypocrisy—the ever enduring convenience of Sola Fide.
“Well blossomed is his existence
So unwilling in their souls to see
So weak to face him from
The outcast angle of earth
So rapid do they flee
When bells of order are echoed
Nemesis for the anxious heavy spirit
Nemesis for a generation free”
– Sakis Tolis/Rotting Christ, Sanctus Diavolos
There’s an unavoidable realization faithful individuals eventually encounter, which is this reality’s innate irrelevance.
I first encountered this ultimately existential contemplation at twelve. I struggled rectifying ‘I’ll eventually die and transport elsewhere’ with ‘enjoyably participate in this material reality’. I couldn’t seem to understand why I’d materially indulge until my demise when I could simply orchestrate my demise and transport to this other reality immediately.
It started keeping me up at night and making me not want to really “do” anything . . . since, well . . . this reality was irrelevant and my participation in it was pointless.
My mom took me to talk with the Preacher at our new-age, non-denominational community-church, who reassured me that God wants us to experience this place first (although I can’t remember why) and that nihilistic feelings are natural, so “pray and worship and God will help alleviate these feelings of displeasure.” Then, he gave me a new bible—a New International Version (NIV) common among evangelicals. You just kind of accept the fairy tale at that point.
So, although an unnerving non-answer, this nevertheless proved briefly relieving and I bought an action figure afterwards that produced a smidge of dopamine.
At twelve, I’d already been working for a year and worked with perhaps the most influential individual I’d ever encounter—a young woman named Stacey (Who would move away when I was thirteen. I would never see her again). Stacey, being in her mid-to-late-twenties at the time, would pick me up and drive us to a large farm that housed and raised exotic parrots. Since she was so important to me, I was excited to communicate the “solution” I’d collected for my developing indifferent disposition toward our material existence and see what she could add to it. When I showed her the bible, she simply responded with: “I’m not religious, but it looks very nice. I’m glad you spoke with someone about how you feel.” I didn’t know up to that point that there were “non-religious” people about, and I suppose ignorantly presumed everyone around me believed whatever it actually was I imagined this “Christian” other-reality to be—even the Muslim children I played basketball with at their Mosque down the road . . . they did not, and the instantly-heavy realization that supernatural participation varied tremendously really stuck with me.
“Ah! let me blameless gaze upon
Features that seem in heart my own,
Nor fear those watchful sentinels
Which charm the more their glance forbids,
Chaste glowing underneath their lids
With fire that draws while it repels.”
– Ralph Waldo Emerson, To Eva
Now, while I certainly felt momentarily dismissed and inferior (feelings that rapidly waned in light of my fond appreciation for/of this amazing human), my mind exploded with what on earth this actually-mythology really was that I so favored and had been encouraged to take extremely seriously.
There were a handful of other “savings” in my youth where religious individuals, astonished at my never having been baptized, would do their best to collect me (they still do). I was happy to indulge them because it all felt like mere theatre, seemed to genuinely help them, and at that age wanting to belong to something seemed important—I’d later outgrow that. But it was really my crack-head indulgence into Ancient Civilizations and their Mythologies, spurred by my grandmother, that really saved me from the clutches of these absurd biblically-literal cultists and their contortion of what Jesus’ message likely truly was—a message I would come to study and appreciate more and more . . . perhaps more than many, if not any, “Christian” I know save one.
There likely isn’t another reality beyond this one, and if there is . . . nobody among us knows anything about it.
But this position of material irrelevance is weaponized and capitalized on to encourage a host of nonsensical immoralities used to exploit the ignorant, gullible, and desperate, ultimately giving rise to the “faith alone” argument (among others) for how to participate in this fleeting reality before us and make it to the other place. “Christians” hoard wealth, strip rights for others, deliberately impoverish their neighbors, adorn themselves and their homes in gaudy aesthetics, judge, hate, lie, cheat, and steal their way to social significance all at the expense of others . . . and they’ll tell you right to your face that their moral role model is Jesus Christ. This is only possible because this reality is irrelevant and so how one operates within it is equally irrelevant, thus manifestly abhorrent behavior is totally acceptable . . . well, it isn’t.
This uniquely religious hypocrisy is enough to perpetually depress anyone—it’s astonishing, confusing, horrific, and materially detrimental to those Jesus’s commanded them to protect. And, like anyone, depression periodically ensnares me beyond the hateful hypocrisy I find myself surrounded by, but I’ve some historical and bibliophilic fortitude against it; not so apathy, nihilism, or indifference, which’ve regularly re-polished my disposition since childhood, often at the emotional or psychological expense of those around me.
I’m an atheist, and so don’t believe the show goes on (beyond my atomic redistribution—a minimally participatory endeavor), but I’m also a Christian—something “religious” people either dislike or discredit (of course, you can’t be a republican and a Christian . . . but many republican voters will say they are—they’re not, so who cares what those hateful bigots think anyway.)
I mistreated a lot of people in my youth. Music, weed, and self-destructive/dangerous behavior were my self-medication, which manifested aggressively or dispassionately toward the ones I cared for. But as I was periodically losing my faith, friends, family, partners, and mind, a steadfast lantern of guidance and compassion illuminated a judgement-free carefully-secular easement of what was and is a permanently re-reinforced self-hatred long after I’d accepted my exponentially waning theism. That lantern was my Presbyterian Minister, who died from Covid during the pandemic—Reverend Hunt. Now extinguished, a void in it’s place, the lantern leads to nowhere, smothered by the supernaturally unscientific. I find myself often lost amid some contorted Dickensonian discomfort, without a lantern, looking for myself.
Reverend Hunt and his partner Keal were almost certainly homosexuals, but because they no doubt knew how hateful “Christians” really are, they could never reveal it. Even during Reverend Hunt’s funeral, with Keal in the crowd, it could not be uttered (“he married the church” they said). It’s hard to admit now that many of our neighbors, friends, and family who’ve helped usher in this kakistocratic neo-fascism are actually disgusting, hateful, immoral, and hypocritical dipshits. May we weather this storm and communicate to those immoral, false-Christian republican voters among us that they need to pray really fucking hard and apologize, or seriously piss the fuck off—I’ve got so little time for the hypocrisy, hate, and/or stupidity.
I do my best to foster an inclination for critical thinking and general worldly fascination reinforced by Stacey and my Grandma, and the compassionate empathy devoid of any supernatural necessity Revered Hunt ever carried with him. I’ve been an atheist for nearing a quarter-century but I will always be a Christian—The Reverend Hunt kind of Christian. It’s a charge I can never live up to but I do my best to pass along that light when I can in perpetual repentance for the sins of my youth.
This reality matters because it’s the only one we’ve got. Don’t let the powers that be encourage you to abandon your own well-being in the name of religion so the most selfish and hateful among us can exploit you, loot your assets, and leave you dry to amass their own material wealth in the reality they Know is absolutely Not irrelevant.
“Is this a holy thing to see,
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reduced to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hand?
Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!
And their sun does never shine.
And their fields are bleak and bare.
And their ways are fill’d with thorns.
It is eternal winter there.
For where-e’er the sun does shine,
And where-e’er the rain does fall:
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.”
I’ve a broad collection of muddled ramblings in a folder called “Sola Fide.” It’s a topic I consider often and it usually weaves my mind around a winding route to some unrelated consideration. But, if I can recall the treasured tid-bits collected along the way, there’re often the festerings of things to expand on later . . . even if seemingly unrelated.
“I talk to god by blasting music and doing yoga.”
-me
Compartmentalizing internalized chaos is a skill I’d like to have. I’ll often cut on a flick, mute it, start some music, billow the diffusor with Eucalyptus, Lavender, or Rosemary, light some incense, candles, make some tea . . . and coffee too, drum on my practice pad, periodically yoga, and go to bed without having materially accomplished anything I’d originally set out to do at all. So, it would appear as if I can multi-task rather well . . . just not focus on a singular objective to completion. I simply . . . give up.
We all know those, though, who can impressively quiet (perhaps even silence) the boisterous badgering to do this before finishing that and start something else while forgetting about whatever’s probably still boiling on the stove . . . and has been for an hour.
Eventually, periodically . . . sometimes . . . I can so exhaust the yammering of personal fault, incomplete accomplishments, evaporating relationships, and neglected yardwork, and spring cleaning, with so many frivolous momentary distractions that I find myself desperately on the floor in a deep flow, relishing in the oxygenation for which my ever-tightening anatomy has been silently begging.
Universal whisperings tip-toe much clearer upon the mind in these moments, as they might, to a lesser degree, in the shower. Whilst contorted so, I rarely move for a pen, less I risk sabotaging my prostrated desperation, and rely upon my rapidly waning recollection to collect perhaps one profound universal truth.
In those moments, the shift from overwhelm to contentment . . . to calmness . . . understanding . . . is precious . . . perhaps religious. The Universe graciously delivered upon me a dose of this concise personal awareness the other night amid a two-hour yoga session accompanied by Rosemerry, Frankincense, and Fit for an Autopsy (who I’m going to see soon . . . fuuuuck yeah). But to get there, I’ll need to preface this mind-journey to profundity with a smidge of inception.
Now, I’ve recently watched Adolescence (as I presume many of us have)—a masterpiece—and found myself spiraling down a dark YouTube rabbit hole of terrifying human disregard, objectification, and misogyny—tread cautiously (and I plan to delve deeper into this manosphere corner more in the future, or at least exploitable Jungianesque vulnerabilities). But surprisingly, or perhaps unsurprisingly, while some of this information was genuinely astonishing, much of what I discovered seemed familiar, similar, or adjacent to commentary I’ve heard from conservative thought leaders (Tucker Carlsen, Matt Walsh, Charlie Kirk). And after starting my YouTube search with “Adolescence Manosphere,” I ended up on a video titled “The Red-pill to Alt-right pipeline.”
I work elections. It’s 37-year-old me and a half-dozen 60/70 somethings who I presume are all quite “conservative,” but, as we’re not allowed to discuss politics, I can never really know for sure (and we all get on quite well) . . . but I’m in Georgia, so let’s be realistic. Counting the ballots after 2024’s Presidential Election, I felt a palpable sadness knowing what was likely to come. Later, once demographic statistical information was more available, I was astonished to learn many Millennial and Gen-Z men had voted Republican (I’d later find out much of my own social circle voted the same—many of them married men . . . but some women too). I just couldn’t understand how a generation so exposed to the destruction of Neo-Liberalism could exercise their democratic voice for hate. The content I poured through the other night unfortunately explains this statistical data too terrifyingly well.
This “Red-pill” content is clever—there’re obscure university studies, commonsensical socio-economic factors, evolutionary psychology, natural and sexual selection, and misogyny disguised as self-betterment. I wasn’t entirely ignorant to the material, having heard of Andrew Tate and seen some of the cringy takes by Matt Wash, but there’re a lot more than the ones you’ve heard of. An example argument commonly found might be: If you are attractive and wealthy, you are more likely to be pursued by potential partners . . . well no shit! This quickly descends, however, into: If you are an unattractive man with no money, your potential partners are near-zero. Any human-connectivity component to relationship-building is entirely disregarded—Men are money-makers/power-holders and women are sex-vessels/baby-makers. This sounds familiar, right? Yeah . . . The Handmaids Tale.
I can go further, but this is sufficient to understand how quickly a young, impressionable man with minimal access to positive male role-models, looking for the tools to financial and romantic success, can end up consuming enormous quantities of not only these manosphere influencers but the “traditional values” propagated by alt-right content creators like Ben Shapiro . . . or whomever.
So . . . where the fuck was I going . . .
Right, so, yeah . . . basically, I’ve lately (since the election) allowed my social circle to essentially evaporate to a small number of individuals who are simply not Nazis. One of many things I took away from Adolescence though is that abandoning those among us to Christo-Fascism because communicating with them feels nearly impossible (and I get it, it certainly is), is realistically a dangerous allowance. There is a pipeline capitalizing on deliberately orchestrated socio-economic dire straits that leads directly to oppression and violence . . . and it must be handled.
How so can one begin to undo this energized awakening of put upon youths into aggressive misogyny, xenophobia, and authoritarianism. Well, sadly (and you’re gonna hate this) the answer is to talk with these people.
While deep in yoga-induced universal conversation, a revelation about my own personal flaws epiphanized upon me—I give up on people too quickly. An important revelation for me to explain my failed past friendships and romantic engagements, but more important to this exercise (and certainly a primary message of Adolescence) is the notion that giving up on the unstable, defeated, and weak among us, turns them right over to the violent authoritarians who want to subjugate women, the poor, the sick, the frail, the different, and the powerless. They will weaponize the abandoned lost causes of our communities into militant fearmongers.
It should theoretically be quite simple—we’re all humans going through it so let’s employ the golden rule as often as possible (I won’t get into why capitalism minimizes this possibility just now).
As to those collecting these troubled young men to hopefully orchestrate a Handmaids Tale level of mass subjugation . . . well, they’re “Christians.” They operate under the guise of “Sola Fide.” It’s Latin for “Faith Alone.” These creatures employ the scape-goat component of their mythology to disregard actions of societal and planetary betterment because they can do whatever they want knowing they’re going to heaven anyway and this stage of existence isn’t really important . . . why not exploit it?
Sola Fide is an absurd notion happily employed by many religious among us who perpetually disregard or fend-off any notion of general-betterment and care for others, and who hoard whatever material treasures they can, often to the detriment of the less fortunate around them—an expendable temporary realm to amass trophies, trash with hate, and disregard whilst awaiting a presumed home of spiritual reward this world is for them . . . disgusting.
So, while we all may indeed be treading amid some central plain, should that be the case, let us at least acknowledge that we’re treading on it with everyone else and their life-experience is no less valuable because they’re not attracted to you, or their gender-identity feels uncomfortable, or their sexuality strange, or they’re a drug-addict, or homeless, or sick, or Hispanic, or whatever other nonsense we’re encouraging division for. We’re all human, so let’s be human and not give up too easily on the brainwashed, frustrated, angry, and violent among us. Quiet the boisterous internally exasperated socio-political exhaustion . . . the chaos, find your calm, and let’s save them instead.
God bless.
-Matt
Central Plain is an awesome song by Carbon Based Lifeforms . . . check it out!
