I
assume every human being at this point has heard about how ISIS has cut the throats of 21 Coptic Christians in Libya.
What is particularly shocking is that
these poor men had nothing to do with the war.
They were in Libya strictly as laborers trying to earn something for
their families. They did nothing other
than just be Christians.
Pope
Francis had a magnificent statement in response, worthy of highlight:
“They were killed simply
for the fact they were Christians,” Pope Francis said.
“The blood of our
Christian brothers and sisters is a testimony which cries out to be heard,”
said the Pope. It makes no difference whether they be Catholics, Orthodox,
Copts or Protestants. They are Christians! Their blood is one and the same.
Their blood confesses Christ.''
This
was the Holy Father’s finest hour. It
brought me to tears today. And today
these savages have burned alive a number of recent captives. The news isn’t clear on the specifics of that
yet, but I think the numbers will be shocking.
They seem to be raising the ante, killing more and doing it by more
horrific means. If unchecked this will
surely lead to genocide. I’ve never seen
western countries, especially my own, be so impotent. Unless we take aggressive action, this is not
going to turn out well and the consequences may be of catastrophic proportions.
On
Ash Wednesday we need to pray for the lost souls, pray for peace, and pray that
western governments realize what this is leading to and change the floundering
and ineffectual course we’re on. Perhaps
I am not worthy of the Holy Father or of Christ Himself by saying this, but we
need to do more than prayer. We need to
fight these people, if you can call them people, and frankly the only way to
stop them is to kill them. Evil must be
stopped.
Two years ago I presented T. S. Eliot’s poem, “Ash Wednesday,” to commemorate this
day. Then I posted my favorite section, Part II of
the poem. This year I’ll post Part III,
a mysterious section of Eliot looking at his sinful self.
III
At the first turning of
the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on
the banister
Under the vapour in the
fetid air
Struggling with the devil
of the stairs who wears
The deceitul face of hope
and of despair.
At the second turning of
the second stair
I left them twisting,
turning below;
There were no more faces
and the stair was dark,
Damp, jaggèd, like an old
man's mouth drivelling, beyond
repair,
Or the toothed gullet of
an agèd shark.
At the first turning of
the third stair
Was a slotted window
bellied like the figs's fruit
And beyond the hawthorn
blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure
drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with
an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet,
brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the
flute, stops and steps of the mind
over the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength
beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.
Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy
The
stair case I believe is an allusion to Dante’s Purgatorio. The person the narrator is looking down is
himself!, “the same shape twisted on the banister.” That man is me today, outraged and wishing
hell for a lot of people. Lord, I am not
worthy.
Hell in a handbasket or any other conveyance seems to be where the world is heading. You are right that we should be praying our heads off. Perhaps this Lent our sacrifices can be offered for this incredible horror.
ReplyDeleteWhat Kelly said. We decided to offer our daily family lenten rosary for just that. And you're right Manny.
ReplyDeleteThank you both.
ReplyDelete