Apostrophes Matter
Louis L'Amour: Guns of the Timberland

"In fact, you will not be saved."

That's a line from Stephen Vincent Benet's poem "Nightmare, With Angels." I first read it long ago, but I'm not sure when or where. I had thought it was freshman English, in the Sound and Sense textbook/anthology. But I've just looked, and it's not there. Could it have been in high school? That seems unlikely, but it's possible. Anyway, it made an impression on me, and I think of it from time to time. Here is a link to it.

It's been on my mind especially in recent weeks and months, as the American republic seems to be having some kind of breakdown. So is the Catholic Church, at least large segments of it. A few days ago, in a Facebook group devoted to the renewal of the Church, someone posted a list of proposed responses, basically theological, to a recent survey indicating a serious decline in the number of American Christians (of any and all denominations). It included things like reviving a genuinely Christian philosophy, getting rid of hyper-political partisanship within the community, and so forth. It was all perfectly sound, but very unlikely to have any discernible effect anytime soon--and by "soon" I mean within the next several decades. I guess I was feeling grumpy that day, because I responded with the Benet poem, among other helpful observations:

Fine, good things in response to bad errors. But as far as Western Formerly Christian civilization is concerned, Stephen Vincent Benet had the general idea right: "In fact you will not be saved." This train is not going to be stopped until it goes off a cliff or, best case, runs out of fuel. Either way it looks to be a long time.

Nothing would make me happier than to be proven wrong. And I'm sorry if I sounded like a jerk. But I don't see how any any theological adjustment can possibly turn things around, or even slow them down. [This program] is a good thing but a project for generations, maybe centuries.

I mean--pardon my crudeness, but: we live in a society which has decreed that as a matter of law and custom there is no ontological or teleological difference between a vagina and a rectum. How do you even converse with that? Unless we're in the final apostasy of the end times, which is certainly a possibility but not one to which I've ever committed myself, the Church will be renewed, and a new culture will arise around it. But I can't see a turnaround in our present trajectory. I think we'll have to hit a wall of some kind.

This may sound like despair, but it really isn't. The ship of the Church will eventually right itself, at least to the degree that it is ever really righted. The ship of state is a different story; perhaps it will be righted, but perhaps it will slowly turn into something else, something that may or may not preserve the form but definitely does not preserve the substance of the constitutional order.

It's a rejection of the belief, so beloved of those of us who spend a great deal of our time thinking and writing and talking, that if we can only formulate and propagate the correct set of ideas things will be put right. It's a recognition that we are riding extremely powerful waves generated by the uncontrollable movement of great masses far below the surface of the sea. It's true that ideas have consequences. But this doesn't mean, as those who traffic in ideas are tempted to think, that ideas determine events. 

I find that I've lost interest almost entirely in that kind of talk, especially talk that involves proposals for the reform of society, sometimes the construction of societies in the air, according to distributist, or Christian democrat, or Christian liberal, or integralist, or whatever, principles. It's a sort of hobby for which I've lost my taste. 


Addendum: in putting forth the Benet poem, I don't mean to be saying that we in the U.S.A. and Europe are headed for cataclysmic violence. I don't in fact think we are. The poem was written in the 1930s, when the fact that war was coming was pretty clear to perceptive people. I think we are, rather, in a decline the outcome of which I don't claim to foresee. But the first angel's lament for all the unfulfilled hopes and promises of history is poignant, and the second angel's brutal crushing of such hopes applicable enough in general.  


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"It's a sort of hobby for which I've lost my taste"

Mine's going away as well. The culture is pretty much lost, and politics can't begin to fix it. The only thing one can really do is to attempt to strengthen what remains while holding the lunacy at bay.

A time for tending one's own garden. At best political efforts can limit some of the harm. At worst they're the agents of it.

I had a dear colleague who used to say 'Voltaire must be taken literally at his word'

When he said what?

"Cultivate your Garden" - Voltaire. From Candide, plot summary conclusion below.

When they all retire together to a simple life on a small farm, they discover that the secret of happiness is "to cultivate one’s garden," a practical philosophy that excludes excessive idealism and nebulous metaphysics.

Thanks for Bennet poem link.

I'm now, maybe temporarily retired, so I'm getting more interested, again, in Saving the World. Like with the Benedict Option (& Rod Dreher).

Moralistic Therapeutic Deism is the bridging belief between Christianity and the new Social Justice beliefs.

It's a real neo-religion, and needs to be addressed more theologically.

I had no idea that that saying came from Voltaire. Or rather I'd forgotten, since I did read Candide long, long ago.

"It's a real neo-religion, and needs to be addressed more theologically."

It certainly is, and addressing it is theologically is worth doing for the sake of our own understanding, but I don't think theology can make much headway against it.

I'm just a touch miffed that in the past year or so the idea that it's a religion has become so widespread. I've been saying it for a long time and thinking it was unusually insightful on my part. :-)

Somehow your post reminds me of this:

"But you and all the kind of Christ
Are ignorant and brave,
And you have wars you hardly win
And souls you hardly save.

"I tell you naught for you comfort,
Yea, naught for your desire,
Save that the sky grows darker yet
And the sea rises higher.

"Night shall be thrice night over you
And heaven an iron cope.
Do you have joy without a cause,
Yea, faith without a hope?

The poem only makes me want to plant portulaca. I, too, have lost my taste for this hobby, and tending my own garden sounds lovely.

But only metaphorically, because I am death to flora.


Actually I don't even know what portulaca is, but I guess I get the basic idea. Anyway, I do like that poem. Or at least that part of it.

Little flowers, kind of like marigolds with blooms of several colors on the same plant. The leaves are like rosemary. They were popular in the 50s, but I haven't seen any in years.


My dad used to have some sort of verbal joke about portulaca in his repertoire but I can't remember it. I knew it was a plant but for some reason thought it was something like ivy or myrtle.

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