“Go and learn what this means…”

“I desire mercy, and not sacrifice.” For I came not to call the righteous, but sinners.

That’s Jesus, quoting Hosea.

In my post on the suicide of Matthew Warren, I focused on the mercy of God, as is proper in the wake of a tragedy. There’s more that can be said about the mentally ill, suicide, the soul, and salvation, and in time I hope to say it. The piece circulated pretty widely, and some commentators expressed concern that the de-emphasis on damnation as the just punishment for self-murder might remove one of the last obstacles holding back some suicides: the fear of Hell.

I get that concern, and I realize we’re walking a fine line here. We can’t rule out the possibility of damnation, but we can certainly hope it is not the case, and hope was all I wanted to offer. Hope and mercy.

The Church is the hospital for souls, and many of those souls die in sin: sin so black that the possibility of salvation seems unthinkable, even unjust. Yet even without embracing controversial ideas about universal salvation, we may hope that the souls of those who die in sin or disbelief may still be purified in the flames of Purgatory, as if by fire. The Fatima Prayer is pretty clear on that point: “O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell, lead all souls to Heaven, especially those most in need of Thy mercy.”

Note the “all.” Note the “mercy.”

No Christian should ever hope for the damnation of anyone, or even casually suggest its likelihood  Even atheist Penn Jillette, to his eternal credit, gets that. Although he doesn’t believe in the soul or Hell, he knows this much: you must really hate someone to wish eternal suffering on them. That much hate cannot be reconciled with real faith.

Which brings me back to the internet, and the shambling souls of the living dead who mock life, death, grief, and all that anyone of any reason should approach with at least some small measure of dignity. People used to know to observe simple propriety when dealing with someone who is suffering, or someone who has died.

But given the ability to comment instantly, widely, and anonymously, a sizable portion of the population has reverted to a subhuman kind of behavior that truly does shock, and not in the ways they hope to shock. Even dingoes have been observed grieving. There is, in the face of death, a moment where your hatred gives way to your humanity.

The internet erases that through some kind of mass psychosis, leading to people to taunt parents grieving the death of their cherished son and celebrate the death of Margaret Thatcher. The vitriol boiling up from the bowels of the internet was nothing short of satanic. I don’t remember a lot of cheering when Hugo Chavez died, since those who didn’t like him tended to be a) conservative and b) Christian, and thus usually know better than to mock the dead. Most responses were, “May God have mercy on his soul.” It was certainly nothing approaching the large scale mockery and celebration that the Warrens and the Thatchers had to endure.

It’s monstrous, and I hope should the worst ever happen to us we have half the dignity and Christian charity displayed by Rick Warren:











That’s the power of grace. It doesn’t come from your brain: it comes from the Holy Spirit. It’s a gift.

The people who are displaying their hate and inhumanity are striking out from the darkness of fear and disbelief and ignorance. You cannot gleefully mock the death of a 27 year old stranger or a sick old lady and make any reasonable claim to being a happy, well-adjusted person. I don’t even do that to my enemies.

God doesn’t want your hate. He doesn’t even want your sacrifices. As Hosea–as Christ himself–said: God wants your mercy.

UPDATE: Fr. D: Anger, Hatred, and Irrational Rage

The Weird New Racism

Before we start, let’s listen to a song. It’s called “Accidental Racist” by Brad Paisley with LL Cool J:

In case the video goes away (the official video was already yanked), here are the lyrics:

To the man that waited on me at the Starbucks down on Main, I hope you understand
When I put on that t-shirt, the only thing I meant to say is I’m a Skynyrd fan
The red flag on my chest somehow is like the elephant in the corner of the south
And I just walked him right in the room
Just a proud rebel son with an ‘ol can of worms
Lookin’ like I got a lot to learn but from my point of view

I’m just a white man comin’ to you from the southland
Tryin’ to understand what it’s like not to be
I’m proud of where I’m from but not everything we’ve done
And it ain’t like you and me can re-write history
Our generation didn’t start this nation
We’re still pickin’ up the pieces, walkin’ on eggshells, fightin’ over yesterday
And caught between southern pride and southern blame

They called it Reconstruction, fixed the buildings, dried some tears
We’re still siftin’ through the rubble after a hundred-fifty years
I try to put myself in your shoes and that’s a good place to begin
But it ain’t like I can walk a mile in someone else’s skin

‘Cause I’m a white man livin’ in the southland
Just like you I’m more than what you see
I’m proud of where I’m from but not everything we’ve done
And it ain’t like you and me can re-write history
Our generation didn’t start this nation
And we’re still paying for the mistakes
That a bunch of folks made long before we came
And caught between southern pride and southern blame

Dear Mr. White Man, I wish you understood
What the world is really like when you’re livin’ in the hood
Just because my pants are saggin’ doesn’t mean I’m up to no good
You should try to get to know me, I really wish you would
Now my chains are gold but I’m still misunderstood
I wasn’t there when Sherman’s March turned the south into firewood
I want you to get paid but be a slave I never could
Feel like a new fangled Django, dodgin’ invisible white hoods
So when I see that white cowboy hat, I’m thinkin’ it’s not all good
I guess we’re both guilty of judgin’ the cover not the book
I’d love to buy you a beer, conversate and clear the air
But I see that red flag and I think you wish I wasn’t here

I’m just a white man
(If you don’t judge my do-rag)
Comin’ to you from the southland
(I won’t judge your red flag)
Tryin’ to understand what it’s like not to be
I’m proud of where I’m from
(If you don’t judge my gold chains)
But not everything we’ve done
(I’ll forget the iron chains)
It ain’t like you and me can re-write history
(Can’t re-write history baby)

Oh, Dixieland
(The relationship between the Mason-Dixon needs some fixin’)
I hope you understand what this is all about
(Quite frankly I’m a black Yankee but I’ve been thinkin’ about this lately)
I’m a son of the new south
(The past is the past, you feel me)
And I just want to make things right
(Let bygones be bygones)
Where all that’s left is southern pride
(RIP Robert E. Lee but I’ve gotta thank Abraham Lincoln for freeing me, know what I mean)
It’s real, it’s real
It’s truth

It’s not Paisley’s best stuff, but it’s okay. I have no idea how it rates with LL Cool J’s work, since the only thing I know him from is Deep Blue Sea, an enjoyable film in which Samuel L. Jackson gets bitten in half by a shark while standing in a room delivering an inspirational speech. I’m pretty sure the scene was racist. Everything is nowadays.(Yeah, like it was an accident that a white Nordic filmmaker had a Great White shark chomping down on the coolest black man in modern film. Pull the other one.)

For those who don’t pay attention to contemporary country, Paisley is the most gifted of the new generation: a songwriter, producer, singer, and one of the best guitarists out there. He moves between old-school “real” country and Top 40 with ease, and he seems to be a pretty likable, sincere guy. His work is guileless, which naturally strikes a tinny note for the irony-saturated arbiters of modern hip culture.

Now that you’ve read the lyrics. What was your first reaction? Because people are exploding: “That song is racist!” “Is this a joke?” “Wrongheaded.” “White supremacist .” “Toxic.” “Horrible.” “Clueless.” “An 11th grade AP US History Project.” And so on.

Well okay then. Isn’t that interesting.

The song is a bit plodding for Paisley, using the key and tempo he usually reserves for love songs, which he happens to write very well. I guess he didn’t think a rousing uptempo number like his optimistic paean to modern life and racial tolerance, “Welcome to the Future” (which was as much of a pro-Obama song as country music is likely to produce), fit the seriousness of the material.

The song actually tackles a couple of pretty central issues, which the smart set waves away in their contempt of all things Southern, white, and country. It begins by recognizing the problems people have with the main symbol of Southern pride: the Rebel flag. The rectangular Confederate Battle Flag wasn’t the official flag of the Confederacy, and didn’t really become adopted by racist groups until the Civil Rights struggles. Since then, it’s retained its pride of place for southerns as a benign symbol of all things Southern while also taking on, for some, a sinister meaning of oppression and intolerance.

Paisley acknowledges this, saying “I’m proud of where I’m from but not everything we’ve done” and “caught between southern pride and southern blame.” In his section, LL (Cool? LLCJ? Mr. J?)  says he feels like he’s “dodgin’ invisible white hoods” and “when I see that white cowboy hat, I’m thinkin’ it’s not all good and “I see that red flag and I think you wish I wasn’t here.”

As lyrics, they’re not great, but they’re honest: a rural white southerner and an urban black northerner explaining themselves in simple words.

But that’s not enough, you see. Every single DIALOGUE ON RACE!(TM) has to begin with the proper oblations. The self-excoriation of the white man. The umpteenth rehashing of a history we all already know. The acknowledgement of every white person’s inherent bigotry. The assertion as fact of the idea of “institutionalized racism” as though nothing has changed since Selma. All of it must be dragged out, beaten to death, hoisted up for examination, poked a bit with a pointed stick … and then we can start talking about how a rebel flag shirt makes the black man uncomfortable, and how a group of black teens in saggy pants on a dark city street makes the white man uncomfortable, and how this makes the white guy horrible.

People are particularly outraged at LL Cool J’s line “If you don’t judge my gold chains / I’ll forget the iron chains,” as though he’s drawing some kind of equivalence between the two rather than just making an awkward symmetrical rap, while pointing out that slavery was a long time ago and maybe we can stop beating each other up over it.

The vast majority of poor southern whites did not own slaves. In fact, they suffered greatly during the war, and bore the burden in blood, land, stability, and treasure for a minority of slave-holding landowners. They didn’t fight for slavery. They fought for their states and their homes.

Here’s the thing: smug white liberal northern twits like Brandon Soderberg and Nate Jones and Max Read and many others are basking in their self-satisfaction as they hurl insults at Paisley for not being properly brainwashed about current identity politics. They ape their masters (pundits, college professors, political demagogues) well, spouting trendy nonsense about race, “privilege” (for heaven’s sake check your privilege, people!), and the latest batch of BS wafting out of the academy: microaggressions  (If you don’t know what that last thing is, I beg you, please don’t Google it. You get dumber just being exposed to some ideas.)

Bad theory suits this current generation of young white writers, at uniformly white media outlets, suddenly noticing the whiteness of every institution (conservatism, corporate America, Southern culture, country music) except their own. Ace and Twitchy have been documenting this strange trend in which white people (“Persons of Pallor”) insult whites and whiteness in order to gain some weird kind of multi-culti hipster cred. It’s both infantile and frightening, because this kind of public racial demagoguery is only done as a social shorthand that says, “I notice the important things and I’m better than those other people. Also, I’m not a racist, so please like me!” In the process of burnishing their liberal credentials they’re just poisoning the well.

You know how you signal that you’re not a racist in a healthy society? You don’t be racist. But that’s boring and not proactive enough and might actually be a kind of unconscious privileged reverse microaggression, so you have to incessantly point out the racism and racial homogeneity of others.

It makes perfect sense that someone exposed to a well-intentioned, non-racist white Southern country superstar in a rebel shirt singing about race with a black man would go all explodey-head. Rich White Famous Redneck doesn’t check his privilege! He thinks his problems matter! He acts like slavery ended 150 years ago!

I’m a Yankee to the bone. I have a framed photo of Sherman on my library wall, and I think Robert E. Lee was a traitor. When the war was over, it was Sherman who immediately set about trying to help and protect the south, so much so that he was accused of being soft on them. And it was Lincoln who said “We are not enemies, but friends,” and proposed generous terms of Reconstruction: terms which were abandoned in favor of a more brutal policy by Johnson. The experience of both whites and blacks would have arguably been quite different under Lincoln’s original plan, but instead we got decades of white southern anger and black southern oppression which only began to be righted in the 1950s.

In other words, it’s complicated, just like the relationship between southern whites and blacks, who share a land and a culture and are not at all the bitter enemies of the Northern Liberal imagination. The knee-jerk assumption that whites are inherently racist and blacks are inherently oppressed is offensive to both races. Thirty years ago (!!!) Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder were able to perform the wonderfully hokey “Ebony and Ivory” without the hand-wringing and head-wagging we’re enduring from the Smart Set over “Accidental Racist.”

Forty years ago (!!!), Mel Brooks, Richard Pryor and Andrew Bergman were able to mock racists, hicks, Westerns, Jews, Hollywood, Germans, and gays in a pointed, brilliant, hilarious film that could never, ever, ever be made today under the gaze of the same people haranguing Paisley and LL Cool J. (Even Tarantino wouldn’t try it without the distraction of violence.)

The truth is, we were more honest about race in the 1960s and 1970s than we’ve been since the rise of political correctness. Django wasn’t something new: it was a throwback to a kind of entertainment we don’t make anymore: bold, racially charged, dangerous.

Everything now is wrapped in a cozy cotton batting of theory and must come with a long litany of disclaimers while also being the product of Ritually Pure Sources (elite, college educated, liberal, politically correct). A redneck singing about why he wears a rebel flag on his chest without just offering an apology and admitting his obvious and inherent racism? That just won’t do.