October 4, 2012
While our leaders in Washington play with Mideast politics like toddlers playing with a loaded gun, and search for ever more creative ways to destroy our national economy, ordinary little people in my neighborhood, and yours, are doing everything they can to bring America crashing to the ground.
Fifty years of daft social and economic policies, fifty years of public education, and 100 years of the churches butting out, have done their work. We don’t need crazy leaders anymore to wreck the country. We’re wrecking it ourselves. They may blunder into a world war or spend us into oblivion; but we are demolishing our culture. Insane leaders may speed up the process: but I dare any leader in America to try to slow it down.
Let’s take a look around a nice suburban neighborhood.
A man who calls himself a Christian sits outside, listening to music. Actually, it isn’t music at all. It’s head-banger, heavy metal, toxic noise—so-called singers roaring, screaming, bellowing, sounding like they want to kill each other; mostly incomprehensible lyrics peppered with allusions to various kinds of mayhem, and death; and alleged musical instruments making a noise like a cement-mixer full of broken glass and rusty hubcaps. I suppose “gangsta rap” is just as bad as this stuff, but it’s not possible that anything could be worse.
Next door, two young teenage boys follow their regular nightly custom of shouting curses as the top of their lungs. They’re in fine form tonight, mixing their barrage of f-bombs with what sounds like animal noises. They keep it up for hours.
Not to mention the tenants in the other building, not one of whom has ever deemed it necessary to take garbage to the curb where it can be picked up. These are not bonobos, but reasonably well-educated human beings who can afford high rents. But you should see the pile of garbage they’ve amassed.
Then there’s the twenty-something gavone whose first response to any kind of exigency is, “Can I get some help from the government for that?” He works sporadically. Because he can never be bothered to show up on time, he seldom holds a job for more than three or four days. He is tall and able-bodied, but also slothful and dishonest.
His girlfriend, who is still married to another man, has a baby by this sloth. She works full-time while Sluggo proudly describes himself as “a stay-at-home dad.” That means he plays video games all day while the baby is confined to a car seat. Now over a year old, the baby still hasn’t learned to walk or even toddle. You can’t do much walking in a car seat.
As we stroll through the parking lot, daintily stepping over the used condoms, it’s sometimes hard to remember that we are in the suburbs, not the ghetto. There is a big church across the street, and just down the road, a slightly smaller church where they hold showers for babies born out of wedlock. They have a very non-judgmental pastor.
Ah, here we are. At this apartment lives a respected bank officer. You can’t come in, though, because the place is piled with junk from the floor to the ceiling, with only a narrow, winding path to take you to the kitchen. But there’s no point in going to the kitchen because it’s completely full of junk, too. If the fire chief could see this place, he’d have conniptions. The bank’s depositors might not like it, either.
This is just a montage from a tiny section of middle-class America. Not wishing to depress my readers, I have omitted scenes of violence. The police can find their way here blindfolded.
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Has our nation’s character eroded? Is our culture turning into sludge? Have we already been “radically transformed” without our knowing it?
What would our ancestors think if they could hear our music, or watch Honey Boo-Boo on our television? Would they go for violent video games? Would they applaud us for handing out free cell phones to every welfare drone so they can sit on their butts all day and talk to all the other welfare drones? And what do you suppose they talk about? Hint: it isn’t the Beatitudes.
With fife and drum, with all flags flying, we have marched right into a tar pit, of our own free will and with our eyes wide-open. We are not going to be able to march back out again.
Yes, God can pull us out.
But first He has to be asked.
© 2012 Lee Duigon - All Rights Reserved
Lee Duigon, a contributing editor with the Chalcedon Foundation, is a former newspaper reporter and editor, small businessman, teacher, and horror novelist. He has been married to his wife, Patricia, for 34 years. See his new fantasy/adventure novels, Bell Mountain and The Cellar Beneath the Cellar, available on www.amazon.com