Trump's Tax Plan Explained In Easy-To-Understand Terms

*Fargo*--Hate Film

Fargo was named Best Film of 1996 by the New York Film Critics Circle and was also nominated for an Academy Award as Best Motion Picture. We assume the critics were either fearful of exposing the film's odious hate message (why they would be fearful is a topic better left for another day), or were blinded by the *humor* and arty cinematic techniques. Whatever the case, Fargo is the most racist film to appear since Birth of a Nation. This time, however, the cruelly ridiculed victims are white.

Fargo begins with the statement that the movie is a "True Story." While moviegoers may believe this implies there was a real-life crime which inspired the film, the truth is Fargo is the filmmakers' twisted "True Story" of the White race in the New World. Fargo is a perverted allegory meant to portray all the *crimes* of the White race in North America.

The plot of Fargo seems fairly straight forward: the tale of a car salesman named Jerry Lundegaard who desperately needs money for a parking lot business deal. Under the thumb of his rich father-in-law--who owns the car agency and shows him no respect--Jerry hires two small-time criminals named Showalter and Grimsrud to kidnap his wife. He promises to split the $80,000 ransom with them. During the course of the kidnapping, Grimsrud kills several people. The murder/kidnapping case falls into the hands of the Brainerd, MN police chief--Marge, a pregnant white woman. Marge methodically works the evidence and eventually all the evil-doers are brought to justice.

In telling their simple tale, however, the filmmakers deny White people any psychological (save sociopathy) or emotional depth, and instead delight in portraying them in a mocking, cartoonish fashion. Whites are stupid, inarticulate boobs, barely capable of grunting anything more than an Aryan "yah." Whites are depicted as having insatiable appetites--the filmmakers include several scenes of Whites gluttonously devouring vast quantities of non-kosher foods in various buffet-style restaurants. But above all, Whites are shown to be insanely greedy. The predominant motivating force in all the main characters in the film, save one, is money. Whites scheme endlessly to make (steal) money. The filmmakers depict the White race as suffering from a megalomaniacal and criminal obsession with money (hmmn, is there another *race* which has been similarly *stereotyped?*  And, uh, would the filmmakers be aware of this?). Whites will risk anything for money, including their own family members (Jerry arranges for wife to be kidnapped, wife's father haggles over daughter's ransom). Because of their greed, Whites are incapable of loyalty or honesty. Their lives are presented as a tangle of lies and betrayals (Jerry cheats his customers at the car dealership, Jerry is cheated by his father-in-law over the parking lot deal, Jerry lies about the amount of the ransom to the criminals he has hired, when one criminal discovers the true ransom amount, he in turn lies about it to his partner--while all along his partner has planned on murdering him).

According to the filmmakers, Whites are inherently unethical. Whites can only prosper by dishonest means. However, Whites have developed their own peculiar code of right and wrong. In White culture, there is a right way and a wrong way to lie, cheat and steal. The brutal violent incompetence of the kidnappers is wrong, while the elegant thievery of Jerry's father-in-law is right. Here we must pause to note that there are only two non-white characters in the film. Each has significant symbolic value. One is a Native American. He, of course, represents the exploitation of the Indian by the White man. The White man, with his mix of violence and strange ideas about land and ownership, drove the Indians into near-extinction. And after stealing North America from the Native peoples, Whites, of course, have only desecrated the landscape. According to Fargo, the crowning achievement of White culture is the parking lot.

The Native American character in Fargo is allowed a brief moment of revenge. However, his revenge only comes at the expense of a "fringe white"--one of the two kidnappers. And even among the fringe whites, the Indian scores his revenge only against the less Aryan-looking of the two. That all is hopeless for people of color in America is reinforced by the actions of Marge. Marge appears to be the one character who is not driven by greed. That is because the pregnant Marge is the symbol of the new White mother earth. She is responsible for maintaining and guarding White culture. The redskin, a parolee, is put back in his proper place by Marge when she comes to question him regarding the whereabouts of the kidnappers. At first the Indian is defiant, and he refuses to cooperate. A huge hulk of a man, he menacingly towers over the small white woman. However, a smirking Marge quickly deflates the big Indian by reminding him that there are any number of parole violations for which she can have him sent back to prison. The giant red man, facing the White power structure in the form of a woman (not unlike Chief Broom in Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckcoo's Nest), cannot even look the small white woman in the eye as she lectures him on his status under the White legal code.

Marge also emasculates the only other non-white in the film, a Japanese man. The Japanese man appears to have done everything possible to assimilate into White culture, yet Marge (in her symbolic role as protector of White culture) is so racist and intolerant, she can not even bare to have a person of color sit next to her in a restaurant booth. We later learn that the Japanese man has been driven insane by the refusals of Whites to include him in their society.

To underscore their point that this film is about White culture, the filmmakers have set Fargo in the dead of winter in North Dakota and Minnesota. Winter's white is nearly the only color used expressively. The film opens with a scene of a blinding white snowstorm. White is seen as a malevolent force, blanketing and suffocating everything. In the few scenes in which a color other than white is used expressively, the filmmakers choose red. Blood red. For example, in the film's climatic scene, one of the kidnappers, a perfect Aryan specimen, is seen stuffing a woman's body into a wood-chipper. Blood is sprayed all over the bleak white landscape. This is the White race's legacy in North America, according to the filmmakers.

In a final insult to White culture, the filmmakers wink at their own cleverness by making much *lighthearted* use of a statue of Paul Bunyan. The filmmakers, setting about to create their own myth, can't resist mocking one of White culture's myths.

My Big Brother The Unabomber

The one question I am asked over and over and over again, when anyone learns of my unusual childhood history, is:

What was it like to have Theodore Kaczynski as a 'Big Brother?'

The short answer: it was not as much fun as you would think. . .

But anyway, for those still curious, here is the tale told in full:

The year was nineteen hundred and sixty and seven. I was but a seven year old boy at the time. My family (my brother Larry and my mother) lived in the old Willow Run Trailer Park next to the Ford plant. Life was hard. The father/husband, had just succumbed to brain cancer while serving a life sentence in the Southern Michigan State Prison at Jackson (the world's largest walled penal facility) for the murder of a drunken negro in a barroom brawl.

My 28 year old mother supported us as best she could on the modest wages she earned as a check-out girl at the A & P. My mother worked the 9 am - 5:30 pm shift Monday through Saturday--as a result, my brother and I spent much of the week unsupervised. I confess we were rather wild and ill-mannered youths. Dirty-faced, snot-nosed punks--the bane of the trailer park. No other children lived in the park, which, being situated next to the Ford plant, primarily accommodated single male autoworkers. I suppose one of the few saving graces our mother must have felt as she watched her unruly cubs grow to juvenile delinquency derived from the protection her two little lads offered against the horny, beer drinking rivetheads who populated the trailer park. Early on in our tenure in that aluminum garden 2 or 3 of our more "macho" neighbors came scratching and clawing at the door to our tin house--but they all beat a rather hasty retreat to escape a sudden drenching from old Spaghetti-Os cans filled with urine which were dumped upon their heads by my brother and I from our watch guard positions atop our trailer.

With my mother engaged behind a cash register at the A & P for most of the day, it fell upon my brother, two years my elder, to keep me out of harm's way. I thank God to this day for His providence in providing me such a diligent childhood trustee. Despite our numerous pranks and roughhouse antics, the police rarely had occasion to call on lot #16 of the Willow Run Trailer Park. But unfortunately in the summer of nineteen hundred and sixty and seven my brother fell ill with a bad case of the Willow Run grippe--a strange flu-like virus of indeterminate origin. Speculation on its genesis centers around the "Extrusion Pond"--a man-made crater filled with toxic waste at the Ford plant, located just a hundred or so yards from our trailer. My brother and I spent many an afternoon fishing that queer lagoon. One hot afternoon we dragged in a 47 pound Mustang bucket seat frame. We fought that molding for the better part of two hours. I still believe that this is the largest plastic forge ever hooked in that old synthetic fishing hole. But that was in nineteen hundred and sixty and five--and I'm telling a tale from nineteen hundred and sixty and seven. And so, as my brother was bedridden most of the summer of sixty and seven, I was in need of a substitute guardian. Looking back on the course of events (and, when all was said and done, it was a course that took nearly thirty years to complete), I guess you could say that my brother's case of the grippe launched the career of one of America's most notorious criminals--Theodore Kaczynski, a.k.a. The Unabomber.

Thus, with my brother waging his desperate battle against the grippe's intermittent fever and chills, raising himself from his sweat-soaked sheets only to fight on the virus' second front--the toilet--as he crapped and vomited to the point of near-dehydration, my mother was forced to secure for me a surrogate supervisor. Given my rather raw upbringing, my mother realized it would be an exercise in futility to turn me over to the care of one of those generic, female, teenaged "sitters." A rascal such as myself would require a more mature and masculine authority figure, so my mother placed an ad in the local daily for a "Big Brother."

Of course, my mother was a woman of limited means, and could only offer the paltry remuneration of 50 cents an hour. Needless to say, there weren't many applicants. A fat man came by once, volunteering to take the position without pay. However, my mother was dissuaded from accepting the tempting offer because of the corpulent caretaker's numerous facial tics and most alarming body odor. Just as it looked as if I would be left to my own devices, one Sunday afternoon a quiet, well-mannered and clean cut young man turned up at our trailer seeking the position of Big Brother.

Theodore Kaczynski explained in a soft monotone to my mother that he had just completed his doctoral studies at the nearby University of Michigan and was now seeking a temporary summer position that would pay him enough to cover his expenses until the fall, at which time he would then move on to his new position as an assistant mathematics professor at the University of California at Berkeley. My mother was very impressed to learn of Theodore's mathematical abilities. I remember her stating "I have to be good at numbers, too, in my job. A cashier don't want to short change a customer." Ted nodded politely, and after a few more minutes of small talk he found himself gainfully employed as your narrator's Big Brother.

Of course, now everyone wants to know what it was like to have Ted as a Big Brother. What type of guidance did one of our nation's most infamous felons provide? Did I have any idea that Ted was capable of committing cold blooded murder? Did I ever feel threatened or in danger? I can honestly answer "no." Ted seemed to me just a nerdy, over-serious egghead. Truthfully, the only risk one faced with Ted was the possibility of lapsing into a catatonic trance, as he was not the most exciting companion a young fellow could have. That is, until I introduced him to the joys of explosives. But I am getting ahead of myself.

For most of the summer the daily routine was numbingly the same. Ted would arrive promptly at 8:45 am, just as my mother was departing for the A & P. After playing nursemaid to my sick brother for most of the morning, Ted and I would leave the trailer for 3 hours "recreation." It was these 3 hours that I most dreaded. At least while he was taking care of my brother I could amuse myself with TV, but the daily recreation session was monotonous beyond compare. It began with a 20 minute bus ride to the arboretum, and was then followed by a torturous 2 1/2 hour trek through the nature preserve, each excruciating minute seeming elongated by Ted's monotone discourse on the wonders of nature. Yes, most of my memories of Ted--master criminal, genius malcontent--are of him droning on about this plant or the other, about squirrels and rabbits and deer, about insects, about the fine, mathematically precise balance that exists in nature. It was like being in school, only worse because there were no other kids around to bully. Nothing to do but walk, hike, climb, sweat and listen to the world according to Kaczynski.

I don't know, perhaps a different type of youngster would have responded more favorably to Ted's instruction. And then perhaps those 3 people Ted killed might still be alive today. And those others, the maimed, why, even Ted himself--maybe none of it would have ever happened if only I would have liked trees. But I was literally a child of the industrial world. The Ford auto plant was my natural habitat. Nature to me was a rusty freight car carrying 40 tons of processed steel screeching to a halt at a 2 story receiving bay. Ted's trees and raccoons left me cold. And so one afternoon I brought along a toy on our daily excursion through that vast green wasteland that Ted called nature. A little toy to help get me through another one of Ted's private National Geographic specials. I had my toy tucked into the back of my pants, concealed under my shirt. About 30 minutes into the day's trek, as Ted was lecturing about a family of gophers, I pulled out my cap gun and snapped off 6 solid blasts. Ted ran one way and the gophers ran the other. It was the most fun I'd had all summer.

Of course, Ted was pretty upset. And the incident inspired a new monologue. But this one was more interesting than the usual ones. Ted said that any sort of violence, even an artificial form designed for children's amusement, was completely unjustifiable--and doubly so when interjected into the natural setting. Ted said man was already threatening to destroy the delicate balance of nature, and to have one of our few remaining unspoiled sanctuaries defiled. . .and then right at that point he suddenly stopped talking. A peculiar look came over his face. The type of look that crosses your face as a fantastic new idea pops into your head. Ted grabbed my cap gun and unthreaded the little paper roll of blasting caps. He examined them with great curiosity. After a minute or so he started speaking again, but for the first time I heard genuine emotion in his voice. I remember his exact words: "You triggered a small explosion! This little bit of paper and gun powder produced an explosion sufficient to frighten a grown man and a family of gophers! Imagine the power if we were to just enlarge the. . .the capsule! And we will definitely need some sort of remote detonating device! Yes. That will be the difficult part of the equation."

Well, I imagine you can see what this lead to. There were still a few weeks left to that fateful summer of sixty and seven, but Ted and I never again returned to his cherished arboretum. Instead we spent the remaining recreation periods foraging through my beloved Ford plant, looking for scraps of metal and bits of plastic with which to construct a remote detonating device. By the time Ted had to leave for California, he seemed a changed man. He appeared energized and full of enthusiasm. Of course, being a boy of only 7 years of age, I had only a very imprecise understanding of what this change in Ted meant. I recall thinking that Ted was happy now because he had discovered that scaring people could be good for gophers and trees.

And so there you have it--the true story of my Big Brother, The Unabomber. People ask how I feel about Ted, after knowing him as I did as a seven year old boy, and now as an adult fully aware of his crimes. I find the best way to answer that question is to quote King Solomon, the wisest man who ever lived:

"Every way of a man is right in his own eyes: but the Lord pondereth the hearts."

And Being In An Agony. . .

Can you see it?

Look closely.

And being in an agony He prayed more earnestly: and His sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.

Your soul hangs on a drop of blood red sweat. . .

And being in an agony. . .

Listen: He wasn’t gung-ho to get on that cross, my friend.

Let us not flatter ourselves, as the modern visible church flatters itself.

John 3:16, the most well-known verse in the Bible:

For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

Our modern visible church changes this. They pervert Christ into some lonely god-nerd, frantic to get on that cross and die for us, desperate for us to *accept* Him, to *invite Him into our heart.*

Our modern visible church would have it as this:

For Jesus so loved the world, He gave Himself, that whosoever would invite Him into their heart should not perish, but have everlasting life.

And the visible church, giving it no more thought than some punk kid accepting a Facebook friend request, says all right, Jesus, You can be my saviour.

We have no idea who we really are, we have no idea of our true station in the cosmos, if we think it is like that.

And He was withdrawn from them about a stone's cast, and kneeled down, and prayed, Saying, Father, if Thou be willing, remove this cup from Me: nevertheless not My will, but Thine, be done.

Does that sound like He was in a great big hurry to get up on that cross, and then receive our *invitation?*

Jesus is wringing His hands there in Gethsemane, fretting over who will *invite* Him into their heart? I think not.

Father, if Thou be willing, remove this cup from Me: nevertheless not My will, but Thine, be done.

A couple of days prior to this, Jesus was confronted by the priests and the elders of the temple. Jesus told them His simplest story:

But what think ye? A certain man had two sons; and he came to the first, and said, Son, go work to day in my vineyard. He answered and said, I will not: but afterward he repented, and went. And he came to the second, and said likewise. And he answered and said, I go, sir: and went not. Whether of them twain did the will of his father?

You don’t think, just a handful of days from the cross, there wasn’t a little bit of Himself in the first son?

He came to the first, and said, Son, go work to day in my vineyard. He answered and said, I will not: but afterward he repented, and went.
Father, if Thou be willing, remove this cup from Me: nevertheless not My will, but Thine, be done.

No, I don’t see Jesus running to Calvary, telling the Roman soldiers, I can’t wait, give me some wood and a hammer and some nails, and I’ll do it Myself, I can’t wait to die for the world, to get all those *invitations* into all those hearts.

I don’t see it that way.

I see it this way:

And being in an agony He prayed more earnestly: and His sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.

That ought to tell us our proper place in the cosmic order.

Stop and think. Let’s get over ourselves, for a minute, and think about the life of Christ.

There was never a more isolated being on this planet. Who was His friend? Who understood Him? He lived on earth for thirty years, and there is no evidence He had a single friend.

Then, after thirty years here, He walks alone to John the Baptist, who among them that are born of women there hath not risen a greater, who supposedly is Christ’s *cousin*. . .the Baptist does not recognize Him.

After thirty years here, He walks up alone to the Baptist, and begins His mission.

Those who were acquainted with Him, his kinsmen, thought Him mad, and His supposed *brothers,* Mary’s and Joseph’s children, taunted Him and did not believe in Him.

Even Mary, whom the catholics come so close to elevating to co-Redeemptrix, does not seem close to Christ.

While He yet talked to the people, behold, His mother and His brethren stood without, desiring to speak with Him. Then one said unto Him, Behold, Thy mother and Thy brethren stand without, desiring to speak with Thee. But He answered and said unto him that told Him, Who is My mother? and who are My brethren?

We can infer from the scant detail in the gospels Christ was an exceptionally isolated figure. Some might argue there is not enough evidence to draw this conclusion.

But stop and think. We need only imagine Christ and the world, and it becomes self-evident. How would Jesus participate in a world of sin and sinners?

The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay His head.

Was Jesus going to live for thirty years as we live? Lying, cheating, stealing, gossiping, backstabbing, jealous and envious? Was He going to engage in addiction, violence and perversion? These are the bonds that join us sinners in friendship.

Now stop and think. What would Christ have thought of the world after living in it for thirty years? After leaving the glory of Heaven, and spending thirty years in human flesh, living in a world of sin and sinners?

He was here, in the belly of the beast, for thirty years. He got a nose-full of the stink of humanity. This wasn’t the long view, from another realm, from a throne surrounded by adoring, worshipful beings. He was right in it. In the bowels of it. He heard the crying, the screaming. He saw all the depravity.

Here is what our Lord had to say when the scribes and the Pharisees criticized the disciples for not washing their hands before eating:

Not that which goeth into the mouth defileth a man; but that which cometh out of the mouth, this defileth a man. . . Do not ye yet understand, that whatsoever entereth in at the mouth goeth into the belly, and is cast out into the draught? But those things which proceed out of the mouth come forth from the heart; and they defile the man. For out of the heart proceed evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false witness, blasphemies: These are the things which defile a man. . .

This was not some academic theory proposed from the Ivory Tower of Heaven. Jesus lived in the mire of humanity for thirty years and witnessed from flesh the evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false witness and blasphemies.

His judgment is sure, because He observed for thirty years.

Well, at age, thirty, what do we think of the world? Do we have a high opinion of it? Do we have a high opinion of our neighbors? Our neighbors, who are no worse than we are, do we have a high opinion of them? Are we ready to get on that cross for them?

Father, if Thou be willing, remove this cup from Me: nevertheless not My will, but Thine, be done.

And being in an agony He prayed more earnestly: and His sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.

Sorry, He didn’t want to get on that cross for you or me. He wasn’t here to win some popularity contest. He wasn’t here putting on a show for you and me, so we would vote for Him to be our next idol.

That is what we think, if we say within ourselves, I have reviewed the gospels, He went up on that cross and died for me, I’m going to say, good job, Fella, you can come on in into my heart.

Listen: that’s not why He was here, to win our approval.

But I receive not testimony from man. . .

I receive not honour from men. . .

He wasn’t here to impress you or me.

I don’t mean to imply He was cold or indifferent to humanity.

He served with compassion. He ministered with love. He understands our failings, our weakness.

But He also understood human nature.

After He walked alone to John the Baptist and began His ministry, His isolation ended. People rushed to Him. . .crowds followed Him. . .wanting their bellies filled, as He said, but still, this is the basis of most human connection. . .we want something from the other.

There is evidence Jesus had more than a superficial connection to Lazarus, Mary and Martha. Greater still appears to be the connection to the *beloved disciple,* John. John’s gospel is much different from the synoptic gospels of Matthew, Mark and Luke. John had a much deeper understanding of the Saviour.

Jesus served with compassion. He ministered with love. He understands our failings and weakness. He forgives our sins. Yet, as John reveals, Jesus will not whitewash human nature:

Search the scriptures; for in them ye think ye have eternal life: and they are they which testify of Me. And ye will not come to Me, that ye might have life. I receive not honour from men. But I know you, that ye have not the love of God in you. I am come in My Father's name, and ye receive Me not: if another shall come in his own name, him ye will receive. How can ye believe, which receive honour one of another, and seek not the honour that cometh from God only?

The world cannot hate you; but Me it hateth, because I testify of it, that the works thereof are evil.

Ye do the deeds of your father. Then said they to Him, We be not born of fornication; we have one Father, even God. Jesus said unto them, If God were your Father, ye would love Me: for I proceeded forth and came from God; neither came I of Myself, but He sent Me. Why do ye not understand My speech? even because ye cannot hear My word. Ye are of your father the devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do.

If the world hate you, ye know that it hated Me before it hated you. If ye were of the world, the world would love his own: but because ye are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world, therefore the world hateth you.

Remember the word that I said unto you, The servant is not greater than his lord. If they have persecuted Me, they will also persecute you; if they have kept My saying, they will keep yours also. But all these things will they do unto you for My name's sake, because they know not Him that sent Me. If I had not come and spoken unto them, they had not had sin: but now they have no cloak for their sin. He that hateth Me hateth My Father also. If I had not done among them the works which none other man did, they had not had sin: but now have they both seen and hated both Me and My Father. But this cometh to pass, that the word might be fulfilled that is written in their law, They hated Me without a cause.

Jesus felt hatred from the world of sin and sinners. Where did this sense of hatred come from? The crowds had not yet completely turned against Him. He had been loved (imperfectly, yes) and celebrated for the forty-two months of His ministry.

He had the perfect understanding of us. He lived with us for thirty years and saw us as we really are. Thirty long years living in and observing the world of sin and sinners. He knew the world and the hearts of men. Before He began His ministry, He knew how it would all play out. When the adoring crowds were following Him, when the *world had gone after Him,* as the Pharisees put it, He knew how it would all end.

Knowing the hearts of men, He knew exactly the value the world would place on His kingdom, when the time came to choose. Would they give up their life in their world for His kingdom? He knew how it would all end:

His blood be on us, and on our children. . .

When it came time to choose between going with Jesus to His kindgom or staying in the world of sin and sinners, it was a *no-brainer:*

His blood be on us, and on our children. . .

From the cross, He said:

Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do. . .

He understands us and He forgives us. He has compassion toward us. To have compassion, one must understand. He understands our failings and our weakness. But He also understands our corruption. That is true compassion. That is true forgiveness. There is no need to hide our true self from the Lord Jesus Christ. He saw depraved man at his worst from the cross. He has seen us as we are. We do not need to hide.

The Father will bring some of us to Christ.

We can come as we are. No need to pretend we are better than what we are.

For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

The Father so loved the world. . .

The Father gave His only begotten Son. . .

Jesus did what He did to please the Father. . .not to please you or me.

He wasn’t on that cross wangling an invitation from you or me.

But that the world may know that I love the Father; and as the Father gave me commandment, even so I do.

He was here because the Father would give Him some of us to save:

All that the Father giveth Me shall come to Me; and him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out. For I came down from heaven, not to do Mine own will, but the will of Him that sent Me. And this is the Father's will which hath sent Me, that of all which He hath given Me I should lose nothing, but should raise it up again at the last day.

We can *accept* Him. We can *invite* Him. We can flatter ourselves that Jesus came to win a popularity contest. That He endured the world of sin and sinners to put on a show for our benefit, so that we would pick Him to be our next idol.

The truth:

No man can come to Me, except the Father which hath sent Me draw him. . .

So here is Christ in Gethsemane:

And being in an agony He prayed more earnestly: and His sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.

He knew us perfectly from having lived with us for thirty years. He knew our sins. He saw them. The full range. From the everyday hardness of our hearts to the murders and blasphemies. He had been in the world of sin and sinners for thirty years. . .and He would have to bear those sins. . .and all the sins before and after. All sin would be placed on Him, so those the Father draws to Him might be saved.

He wasn’t in agony because He was some coward terrified of death. You think some scum on death row holds up better than Christ under the pressure of impending death?

Who His own self bare our sins in His own body. . .

Christ was in agony because all sin, our sin, was about to be dropped on Him. Everything foul from the world was about to be thrown at Him. What does that mean? How was that carried out? How did Christ experience that? We don’t know the mechanics of the enforcement of Divine Judiciality. But I see Christ in agony.

Can you see it?

Look closely.

And being in an agony He prayed more earnestly: and His sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.

That is THE picture of love. . .

The love of the Father for the world. . .

The love of the Son for the Father. . .

Father, if Thou be willing, remove this cup from Me: nevertheless not My will, but Thine, be done.

Let us not flatter ourselves the cross was Jesus’ Grand Finale to win our approval in some popularity contest.

It was agony for Christ to follow His Father’s will.

Our soul hangs on a drop of blood red sweat. . .

Let us have a little humility on the next time we speak of our Savior, or the next time we warm the pews for an hour, and rush through McCommunion.

We are the ones that ought to be in agony. Have we ever agonized over our souls?  

Then saith He unto them, My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death: tarry ye here, and watch with Me. And He went a little further, and fell on His face, and prayed, saying, O My Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from Me: nevertheless not as I will, but as Thou wilt. And He cometh unto the disciples, and findeth them asleep. . .

We just sleep-walk through our existence, unconscious of the reality of the agonizing self-sacrifice Christ offered for our salvation. . .

And being in an agony He prayed more earnestly: and His sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.

Without that drop of blood red sweat, do we realize what would be just ahead?

It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God. . .

That isn’t a popular subject, anymore. Judgment is not talked about.

Nobody can be frightened into faith. I bring up judgment to point out what our station in the cosmos is, without that drop of blood red sweat.

Christ agonized in Gethsemane.

Let us try to understand who we are, and where we would be without Christ’s agony.

Father, for Jesus’ sake, have mercy on me, a sinner. Jesus knows my true self. He knows all about me. To please You, He followed Your will all the way to the cross. For His glory, let His blood cleanse me from all unrighteousness.

*The September Convergence,* 9-24, and The Walking Dead

Have you heard of *The September Convergence?*  It's all over the kOOk's internet.  Basically, all kinds of wonderful, horrible stuff could converge in late September to mark the Beginning of the End. . .or just a few rough days or weeks of general planetary unpleasantness.  If you want a detailed rundown of all the wonderful, horrible stuff, click here.  

Anyways, it's the kind of tinfoil hat prophecy that always fails (Y2K, 5-5-2000, false flag terror attack at the London Olympics, the end of the Mayan calendar, etc., etc.). . .but it's always fun imagining the worst (aren't human beings strange? No one enjoys imagining the best, there aren't ever any prophecies of world peace and pots of gold for everyone).  

Anyways, I was sitting at home, minding my own business and staring at the television like a good citizen should. . .and I was watching disc 1 of Season 5 of The Walking Dead. . .and I notice in a couple scenes there is a church hymn board loaded with Bible verses (see the picture above).  Whoa, I says to myself, there's 9-24, clear as day (9-24 is one of the *September Convergence biggies, with the Pope himself set to address Congress).

Just a coincidence, no doubt. . .

But like I said, it's fun to imagine the worst, and then after the watching the show, and looking more closely at the screen capture of the hymn board, I notice the numbers on the first two lines add up to:

33.

Of course, 9 + 24 add up to 33, also.

33 is THE Magic Number in esoterica (esoterica, as in High Weirdness, and not the face cream old bags use) (details on 33 here).

Just a coincidence, no doubt. . .

And then I wonder to myself, can the 9-24 coincidence be stretched any further?  Anymore Walking Dead stuff (since, after all, walking dead is an apt metaphor for convergence mankind)?

There it is, right there from a simple Google search.  Somebody found the following from the trailer to the spin-off show Fear The Walking Dead:

Note the gas prices, 239, 249, 259, which can be read as Euro-style dating for 9-23, 9-24, 9-25. . .all big September convergence dates.

And then from the same trailer, this shot of a license plate:

9-24! 

[the numerical value of PCI = 39.  3:39 on 9-24??] 

Now, I'm not saying if I was the Pope I'd cancel my big speech in the Capitol Building. . .but maybe just check to make sure the metal detectors are plugged in?

And I'm sure there's nothing to the rest of this *September Convergence* stuff. . .just go about your business as normal. . .do your patriotic duty, go shopping, like W. advised back in the day. . .I'm sure nothing's going to happen.  

But if it does, you were warned. . .sort of.

Tony Blair Calling The Kettle Black!!

The Guardian, 1 September 2015: A defiant Tony Blair has dramatically re-entered the debate over Labour’s future with an 11th-hour appeal to party members to come to their senses and reject the “Alice in Wonderland” politics of Jeremy Corbyn. The former prime minister and winner of three general elections says Corbyn’s supporters are operating in a “parallel reality” which rejects evidence and reason, and says their leftwing choice for leader will be an electoral disaster. With just 11 days to go before the ballot of more than 550,000 party members and affiliates closes, Blair admits that he does not fully understand the forces that are stoking what he calls “Corbynmania”. But he insists that those who dismiss his views on how Labour can win elections are making a tragic mistake and are trapped in their own “hermetically sealed bubble” in which “reason is an irritation, evidence a distraction, emotional impact is king and the only thing that counts is feeling good about it all.”

Ha ha ha ha!!

Ain't that rich!!

O man, you got to be kidding me!!

Tony Blair, one of the great frauds of the last fifty years, says voters need to come to their senses and reject the Alice in Wonderland politics of Jeremy Corbyn!

He accuses Corbyn's supporters of:

Operating in a parallel reality,

rejecting evidence and reason,

being trapped in their own hermetically sealed bubble, in which

reason is an irritation,

evidence a distraction, and

emotional impact is king!!!

Surely this is Tony Blair calling the kettle black, for here is a fine old video clip of Blair's own Alice in Wonderland politics, in which he operated in a parallel reality and rejected evidence and reason in favor of emotional impact:

Tony Blair is a God damned liar.  

In the news story above, the only honest words out of Blair's rotten-toothed mouth were that he didn't understand *Corbynmania.*  How could he?  He long ago sold his soul for a few pounds sterling and became a shoeshine boy for the war-mongering 1%.  No, of course he don't understand working class blokes sick of being fucked over by bankers and war profiteers.  He thinks workers who refuse to accept his *reality* (austerity, war, pollution, shitty infrastructure and crappy education) are unreasonable.  

Poor old Tony Blair, the God damned faker, he's been down the rabbit hole so long, he don't know up from down, nor right from wrong. . .