by Warrior Priest
Standing at the intersection of conflict and belief to better understand the human condition.
Language
🇺🇲
Publishing Since
6/12/2019
Email Addresses
1 available
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April 25, 2025
<p>In the modern West, the hearth has gone cold. The fires that once knit family and village together have been replaced with a different flame—the flickering blue light of the screen. John Michell warned of this in his strange, luminous writings. He saw how the displacement of the hearth led to the displacement of meaning. No longer do we gather around a living fire, telling the old stories, hearing the wisdom passed down in hushed voices. No—we huddle instead around the electric glow of mass-produced stories, sold to us by the same companies who profit from our outrage, our fear, our endless hunger for novelty.</p><p>Michell said it plainly: once the hearth was the link between heaven and earth. Now, that chain has rusted. The fire we stare into now is cold, sterile, dead.</p><p>The folk tales are gone. The folk songs are gone. Replaced by noise.</p><p>And it matters. God help us, it matters. Because without the old songs, without the old myths, without the fire that once drew our gazes upward and outward toward wonder, we become small. Smaller than we were meant to be. Easily led. Easily frightened. Easily bought. It is a short step from forgetting your own songs to singing the songs of your conquerors.</p><p>And so here we are: divided, outraged, distracted. The paradise of the rich, Victor Hugo said, is built out of the hell of the poor. And our masters know it. They fuel it. They love it. They need it.</p><p>And we go on, applauding them, fighting each other, shouting ourselves hoarse over scraps.</p><p>We have forgotten who we are. Forgotten the hearth. Forgotten the brotherhood. Forgotten the great chain that links heaven to earth, earth to hearth, hearth to heart.</p><p>And unless we remember, unless we kneel, as T.S. Eliot said—not kneel before flags or corporations or the endless cult of Self, but kneel before the living God—unless we kneel, we will continue to slouch. To spectate. To slip away into silence...</p>
April 18, 2025
<p>But the truth is quieter than that. It moves without slogans. It walks without a flag.</p><p>It looks like this: a deaf and blind man named Tim, finding his way onto a flight in Boston, one hand stretched out into the dark. And a stranger gives up his seat, and flight attendants allow their faces to be touched so he can know they are there, so he can feel the kindness in the lines of their cheeks. It looks like a fifteen-year-old girl named Clara, spelling words into the palm of a man she’s just met—letter by letter, patience and grace made flesh.</p><p>This is the revolution the world forgets. The kind that takes no pictures. The kind that doesn’t tweet. The kind that doesn’t need a camera crew to know it mattered.</p>
April 11, 2025
<p>...when we say, “I am depressed,” we start to believe the sorrow is the whole of us. That it's etched into the skin, like a birthmark. That it's our name now. But when we say, “The sorrow is on me,” we leave room. Room for the truth that this thing might lift. That it might pass. That we are more than what presses us down.</p><p>There’s a similar pattern in Scots Gaelic, in older English, in Hiberno-English still found in country places. You’ll hear it in the way people used to talk:<br>“The fear came over me.”<br>“A sadness was upon her.”<br>Those turns of phrase weren’t just poetic, they reflected a whole way of understanding the soul. That feelings are visitations. Weather fronts. Shadows that fall, and then pass. Spirits, maybe, fleeting, but strong.</p><p>In that old world, the self was not an island but a wide field, open to the wind and the Word. And so, what came upon a person—sorrow, joy, fear—was not owned, but witnessed. Not claimed, but endured.</p>
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