Kindness. Kind … ness. Kindness is described as an act of generosity, consideration, or concern for others, without having an expectation of praise or reward. Aquinas says, “The greatest kindness one can render to any man consists in leading him from error to truth.” But then, that always seems to beg the question, “What is truth?”
Just in case you are unaware, there is a pandemic circling the globe. Not the China virus, that is insignificant compared to the greater, infinitely longer lasting and far more deadly pandemic now upon us. Unlike the China Virus, which attacks mostly those who are at the highest risk, that is, the most likely to die from other causes, like from old age and those suffering from serious life-threatening health issues, this, yet, unnamed pandemic affects the whole person, young and old and every age in between, those in good physical health as well as those not so much, rich or poor, no matter their state in life. It is an equal opportunity killer; it kills the body, but most significantly, it kills the soul, the spirit, the humanity of anyone and everyone it infects. It is a slithering, sibilant slayer of souls, and sooner than later, it will come for you.
Have you ever been buttheaded by an immovable object; someone or something that brooks no dissent, allows no disagreement, permits no contravening of established opinion, no argument supporting reason or orthodoxy?
Few could or would argue that the Venerable Fulton J. Sheen was a superb communicator, both as an author and orator. His 73 books written over a span of 54 years stands as testament to his intellect and his talents. In one of his first books Old Errors and New Labels first published in 1930 he decries the decline in the art of controversy and places such decline on two underlying causes: religious and philosophical. But he begins with a rather astute observation concerning the difficult task of thinking:
A long time ago, much longer than I care to cipher, during study hall one day Sister Ann Maureen stood towering above my desk glaring with grim disapproval at the book held firmly in my fourteen years-old hands. “Does your mother know you are reading that book?” she demanded. To which, as I clearly recall, I smiled and said, “Oh yes, we are reading it together. See, this is her bookmark.” The book my mother and I were reading together was John Steinbeck’s The Winter of Our Discontent, his last novel, published in 1961, the year in which I was “caught” reading it by the good Dominican Sister.
I am reminded of Hamlet. “To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them?” It is an existential question adrift unprofitable upon the mind. A madness bellows bitter blows without surcease; where it wills there is no succor, no relief. Madness begets a madding crowd, never-ending madness ‘til all are once and truly mad. Sanity is now a fiction, reason tossed on tumbleweeds tumbling madly wherever the bitter wind would blow.
Not to beat an old plow horse to death, but what on God’s green earth is going on with these lunatics holding elected office? Heard tonight how Mayor Greg Fischer in Louisville, KY signed an Executive Order today declaring racism as a public health crisis in the city. He is not alone. Every day it seems Mad Polliwog Disease infects more politicians across this once great land. I suppose it was inevitable, given the approaching cessation of Trump Derangement Syndrome and the approaching distribution of a COVID-19 vaccine. What else is a liberal polliwog to do but go stark raving looney-toons.
Two things have come to mind over these last few days, stark reminders of how depraved and dark the human soul has become. What has long been revered has been made unholy, unclean, reviled, therefore, or so we are told to believe, all must be destroyed or revised beyond recognition; much as C.S. Lewis warned in The Abolition of Man. For the sake of progress, man must regress; the old must make way for the new and improved; the world would be a far better place if only there were no human beings to mess things up; to cure the illness, kill the patient. All are connected, each a numbered dot upon a plain sheet of paper, connect the dots to find the answer. Except … life is and never has been one-dimensional; a life is not a dot like any other, to be connected or erased, manipulated, or ignored. And yet, does it not feel strangely odd, how much we have come to accept as normal being turned into dots?
Thoroughly disagreeable people trend toward disagreement with anything and everything with which they should disagree. It is their raison d’être to take issue no matter the issue, celebrating cause célèbre without cause to celebrate. Should one remark, “The earth is a large round ball in a vast sea of nothingness,” the disagreeable will immediately quarrel, declaring they are standing despairingly in a bottomless pit. Should one mention the fallen nature and sinfulness of man, objectors will immediately object, labeling you a “&#*$!” religious bigot, your mention of their hateful rhetoric: hate speech. Should simple math prove four to forever be the sum of two and two, the misnumbered will demand diversity, equal distraction for subtraction, healing for division and mass multiplication. The only thing they find agreeable is your silence, except when silence speaks at too high a volume.
Why? It is a simple question—really it is—three letters and a squiggly line. How much simpler can it get? And yet, no matter how many times you ask, you never seem to get a direct, honest, or heaven forbid, a straightforward answer. But being the cantankerous old curmudgeon that I have grown to resemble and though you may call me crazy, I will dare ask anyway: Why? Why won’t somebody, anybody, no one in particular explain to me why we have of a sudden turned into simpering wimps, wusses, milksops, and lemmings, too afraid (or are we just too stupid?) to say what is on our minds or to behave as if we once had brains but somewhere along the way have either relocated them somewhere dark south of the bulging beltline, cluelessly lost them like sleepy Jo Peep, or have forgotten how to use such a cleverly disguised instrument?
