The short answer is because the blood of someone else is on him

Douglas Wilson: A Planet Full of Sexual Pirates --

A commenter in the earlier post about Exodus International is checking to see if I am ashamed of Leviticus 20:13 yet, which I am not. ...

We know this, in part, because of the passage in Leviticus, and others like it. Backing away from such passages is backing away from a possibility of salvation for those trapped in same sex lust. The demand that we back away from this is a demand for us to stop loving homosexuals, and to start hating them. The homosexual movement, as it is playing out in America today, is a loud concerted demand that the church agree together that God’s revealed pattern of law and grace is not for homosexuals. Unbelievably, many quarters of the church are going along with it — withholding the gospel from homosexuals in the name of loving them.

Now what I have written above is the grand theme of the New Testament. It is all gospel, and that is what we were told to lead with. This message is what we are to use to tear down strongholds. When we do that, we may turn our attention to other lesser matters. So why needn’t the blood of a homosexual be upon him, as Leviticus says? The short answer is because the blood of someone else is on him.

... and the continuation: One of Those Circus Ponies

Finding his voice

Laura Rosen Cohen: Miracles -- I'm verklempt

God's Blessings ...

Congratulations, and God's richest blessings to Mr and Mrs Steven Crowder -- "We did it right."

The Other McCain: She Makes Him Sandwiches

You know that’s got to drive liberal nuts: Steven Crowder’s got the hawwwwt blonde wife — and she’s making him sandwiches.

Next? Have about a dozen beautiful babies.

They’ll never forgive you for that. Or the sandwiches.

Actually, "hot" is what the new Mrs Crowder is not. [edit: Though, taking into account the dress that she deliberately chose to wear as her wedding gown, one has to admit that she may well be a "hottie" wannabe ... in which case, the marriage will fail. In his article, Crowder references a prior article, in which he writes, "Yes, I admit it, I’m in a long-term relationship and I’m abstinent. Scandalous, I know. It’s an incredibly difficult thing to do (mostly for me, because she’s way out of my league)... ". Now, if Mr Crowder really does believe that his wife is "out of his league", and especially if he seduces her into beliving it, then similarly, the marriage is doomed.]

"Hotness" is about the mindset and actions of using one's sexualiy and whatever attractiveness one has as a commodity with which to purchase other tangible or intangible goods. Though, generally, these good are of a tawdry and temporary nature; it's simply the nature of the transaction. Moreover, "hotness" is a commodity with a short shelf-life. "Hotness", being a commodity, has to be used to be of any value ... and its use dramatically shortens its shelf-life.

'Hotness' is about the mindset and actions by which one makes of oneself, whether male or female, a slut.

Steven Crowder:

... Let me preface this column by saying this: my wife (I have to get used to saying that) and I not only waited sexually in every way (no, we didn’t pull the Bill Clinton and technically avoid “sex” sex,) but we didn’t shack up as live-ins and most importantly, we courted each other in a way that was consistent with our publicly professed values.

We did it right.

Feeling judged? I couldn’t care less. You know why? Because my wife and I were judged all throughout our relationship. People laughed, scoffed and poked fun at the young, celibate, naive Christian couple.

We’d certainly never make it to the wedding without schtupping, and if we did, our “wedding night would be awkward and terrible,” they said.

Turns out that people couldn’t have been more wrong. Looking back, I think that the women saying those things felt like the floozies they ultimately were, and the men, with their fickle manhood tied to their pathetic sexual conquests, felt threatened.

I think it’s important to write this column not to gloat (though I’ll be glad to), but to speak up for all of the young couples that have also done things the right way. When people do marriage right, they don’t complain so much, and so their voices are silenced by the rabble of promiscuous charlatans, peddling their pathetic world view as “progressive.”
...

I've written before about those pathetic-and-self-deceiving souls of the "Manoshpere" -- those "Gamers" -- who rail against the suicidal destruction that the variant of leftism known as feminism has unleashed and continues to rain down upon our society ... even as they whinge because they see themselves as missing out on their "fair share" of the booty while there is still booty to be got before the utter collapse.

The "Gamers" claim that they just want good women who will be their wives and rear their children. But, that's not the truth: what they want is a bevy of "hot" young women who will enslut themselves for them when they (the men) are young ... and for there still to be an ample supply of non-sluttish "hot" young women from which finally to choose one to marry when they (the men) are ready to "settle down".

The "Gamers" claim that they want what Steven Crowder reasonably believes he has. The truth is, they simply want no-strings sexual access to the beautiful woman. Which is to say, they don't want a wife, they simply want a "hot" woman to put out at their convenience.

The "Gamers" claim that they oppose feminism. The truth is: they want more of feminism and its hollow promises; the truth is that they're simply bitching because the so-called Sexual Revolution isn't delivering as was promised. And so, their "solution" to that problem is to double down, to turn sexuality into even more of a tool, and a weapon, rather than making of it the gift God intended.

This is, of course, hightly irrational: it cannot be both ways -- if you will make of all women sluts, then all woman are sluts (if only in your own eyes), and there are no "good women" stashed away on some hidden shelf just waiting to be pawed over when you are ready to be "faithful" (for now). If you are not willing to be faithful to your wife *now* -- before you have even met het -- why should anyone expect that you will be capable of being faithful to her ever? (The same goes for women, of course.)

The reason you all, men and women both, are so miserable, is because you are trying to lead your lives as though life were a never-ending singles bar ("meat market"): you make of yourselves sluts, you make of your "partners" sluts ... and then you whine in indignant shock that all you have to show for it is sluttishness, and heartbreak.

'Above My Paygrade'

Victor Reppert: "... For me, loving people like that is, as Obama would say, "above my pay grade." It's tough enough for me to maintain an appropriate loving attitude toward people who behave rudely on Dangerous Idea (of all persuasions)."

I think I know what you mean (*) ... which, by the by, may just have something to do with a mild complaint aired in the penultimate paragraph of this post.

edit:
Victor Reppert: "... And to pretend that you have actually succeeded in loving people when you really haven't is worse than just hating their guts. Falwell makes a fool of himself, of course, when he pretends that he loves gay people."

Really? And you know this, how?


(*) In case the casual reader doesn't quite follow the point: I present reasons against the judicially-invented doctrine of 'judicial review'; left-wingers are against 'judicial review' only when they fear that for once it may not break in their desired direction. Mr Reppert pretends there is a moral equivalency between the two positions. I wonder, is there a succinct term by which one might denote such a pretense?

You Can't Tell Them Apart

You can't tell them (my sisters) apart, so don't even try!


In this photo, we're in birth-order, not the "proper order" as mentioned previously, left to right: Troy, Gary, Karen, Sharon. This is at our "Uncle B's" place, he being one of our father's older brothers. It's chilly and I am not smirking (as has been suggested), I'm squinting -- bright sunlight is painful! As you can see, Karen agrees.

I have no idea what our ages are, but I'd guess 8/9, 6/7, 4/5 (my sister thinks the lower number, or younger; she's probably right).

"Uncle B" is/was L B Miller -- those are not initials, that's his name. His kids (he and Aunt Lou (Benson) had 9 kids: 3 sons and 6 daughters) always thought it was funny that we called him "Uncle B." I suppose it sounds like "Uncle Bea." Blame our mother for that. Damn Yankees!

It's rather an accident that we four even exist! Dad had come North to visit "Uncle B" (who had come North for factory work) for two weeks. For whatever reason, he got himself a short-term job while visiting, and just never returned to his "hard-scrabble" land in Missouri -- 40 acres in the Ozarks that had never been logged, except for one tree, the "tree rustler" of which was caught in the act and sent to prison, before Dad bought the land when he was 16. Then he met and married our mother, and here we are.


This is at "Dice St," showing the house. We're older here -- this is clearly after I was well into my "growth spirt" and the different parts of my body were growing at different rates. I was in constant pain for a number of years (fortunately, it was a low-grade, rather than excruciating, pain).

To tell you the truth, I'm not sure I can tell my sisters apart in this photo. And well, the quality of the photo isn't all that great. But, you can tell that Dad took it -- there is his ever-present shadow in the foreground. But, I *think* Karen is on the left and Sharon the right; meaning, they're not the in "correct" order. Those gunny-sack looking dresses they're wearing proabably are ;-). No, they're made of regular fabric. I think. Whichever, Grandma Brown (Dad's mother) made the dresses.

That is Grandma Brown (née Eunice Jay [or J. or J, I really don't know] Price) with us. She was 65 when I was born, so add maybe 10 years to that to get her age in this photo. She used to pat me on the shoulders, beaming, saying something like, "Oh, your hair is turning so dark! I hope it gets jet-black, like your Grandfather's." It never did get that dark ... and I suppose she was purposely ignoring (because my mother was one of those damned Yankees!) that my mother also had very dark hair (our mother's father was said to be 1/2 Indian, though that probably really meant that his mother was part Indian and part white by ancestry, but was born to one of the few registered "Indian" families left in Indiana).

I ask you, does she not look like a squaw? I asked her once, when I was young, whether she was part Indian; she strenuously denied it (when she was growing up, it wasn't "cool" to be Indian). Years later, at my mother's funeral, I asked my "Uncle B" whether she was part Indian and he said, "Yes, her people were Indian" (which, understanding what he said does not mean he was saying she was "full-blood" Indian). I don't know which nation her people were descended from, but I'll take a wild guess at Choctaw (based on nothing more than where in Tennessee her people lived). It's also through Grandma Brown that we have Jewish ancestry.

That grandfather with the jet-black hair was also part Indian (1/4 according to the family) ... which would be where the jet-black hair comes from. He was 50 when our father was born, and died when Dad was nine, that is, about 21 years before I was born. His name was was Joseph (1877-1936); his father (said to be 1/2 Cherokee) was James. I have no idea when or where James was born, just that he was "old" when he married my great-grandmother, Margaret Elizabeth James (I've also seen her name as "Margaret Isabella Elizabeth James"), and died either before or soon after Joseph was born. I've never seen this image before, but this photo is of great-grandmother "Maggie James" and our grandfather Joseph's youngest sister, "Aunt Zubie" (Zuba Sesile Ward). [ another photo edit: this is the only photo of her I'd seen before today]

Dad is/was Samuel Jefferson Richard Joseph. Technically, he was "Baby Boy," because our grandfather was angry that the clerk wouldn't put all that on the birth certificate, and so told the clerk to just leave it as it was. Fortunately for Dad, the county courthouse burned down and took the records with it.

Our father had an older full-brother named Jackson (I don't know the rest of it), who died as a young child; apparently killed by rats (one always thinks of rats as an urban, rather than rural, problem). As I recall it, Jackson was about two years older than Dad and died at age four.

[Sharon says Jackson lived from August 2, 1925 to September 1929. She thinks he got into some moonshine, which killed him; I don't recall anything like that. As I recall it, the family found him dead one morning; there were bite-marks on his face and it was "all black"]

Our grandparents divorced when Dad was very young (they were going to remarry, and Grandpa had the license, but then died of pheumonia contracted putting out a fire burning down his cabin; he was working as a logger at the time). Dad was aware of seeing hs father only once, when he was four, and Joseph took him to visit his grandmother, "Maggie James." Every time Dad talked about that, he'd mention how enchanted he had been by her "beautiful white hair." So, most of his life, he didn't even know what his father looked like. But, when he was in his sixties, someone who had known his father (I think it was the younger man who had shared the cabin with Joseph) sent Dad a photocopy of a photograph of him. Personally, I think my brother Gary looks a bit like him (I take more after Mom's people).

---
Edit, and shocker (in that I never expected there to be *any* relationship, as 'Ward' is so common a name):

I was Googling, to try to verify that I had the birth-name of great-grandmother "Maggie James" correct -- and also so that I could link to an photo of her I once found on the internet. Anyway, I happened to come across this page, according to which we *are* related to Nancy Ward; though, in our case the relationship is by marriage rather than direct descent. Specifically, some of our cousins are descended from Nancy Ward's Scots-Irish husband, Bryant Ward. Our grandfather's step-father, Charles Rufus Ward, was a great-grandson of that man Bryant Ward.

---
Edit2:
Sharon just sent me this photo of Grandma Brown, at about age 88 or 89, to better show her Indian-like appearance; I think I may have been there (home from college) when that picture was snapped:


---
Edit 3:
Ah! These next two are more like what I had in mind for showing off "The Twins" (that's how my brother and I referred to our sisters, but there came a time when they *insisted* we use their names).

The date on this one is July 1963 -- that's when it was developed, not necessarily when it was taken. But, as the girls were born in January 1961, this date has to be fairly close to when it was taken. That may be the only time Dad got pictures developed in a timely manner. Still, are these not some cute, and happy, kids? Near to far: Gary, Karen, Sharon, Troy.


With this first/top one, as infants, I have to admit that to me they just look like babies (and almost all babies look identical to me); if I didn't already know they were my sisters, I'd not guess it. My sisters usually wore their hair long, but one year our aunt convinced them or Mom that a "Pixie cut" would be "so cute," so that's what's with the short hair in the outside photos. Sorry about my sister's rudeness in the center photo (girls!) -- you know, that is probably the *only* photo of Sharon in which her eyes both are open (instead, Karen's are closed)! Maybe this was one of those take-one-another's-place that twins like to do.

Speaking of twins trading places, they did that once in school, I think when they were in the second grade. As I recall the story, at the first break, the one dragged the other into the rest-room to insist they trade clothes and then go to their assigned classes, because the other's teacher was a right witch.

The World Was Younger Then -- Snowforts and Mortality

My brother and sisters and I made a number of snowforts over the years (we also once made a "rabbit warren" as our fort, and once an "ice cave"; and we also once set the back lot aflame to make a "prairie"); it think the fort in the accompanying photo, its remains, at any rate, may be the first. When I saw this photo the other day, the thought that came to me was, "The world was younger then;" and hence the title of this entry.


This photo was taken at "Dice Street," as we generally called the place to distinguish it from the other places we lived (if I recall correctly, the address was 20135 W Dice St). This was a one acre property out in the suburbs that our father had bought from the first friend he'd made after moving North, and for whom I am named. We lived there in two periods; the first from "whenever" until after the birth of my sisters (we moved back into the city before or around my fourth birthday in 1961), and again from when I was 6 until 11.

I think this photo may be from February or March of 1964; if so, I'd be 6 1/2 (that 1/2 is vitally important when you're that age!), my brother soon to turn 5, and my sisters recently turned 3. Yet, do those ages look right?

On the other hand, I don't think the photo can be from the winter of 64-65, when I'd have been 7 1/2. In my memory, that winter was snowier; more importantly, that's the winter I "discovered" my own mortality (and, thus, I'd not have been out in the cold air, unless this was taken just before that). And, were the photo from 65-66, I'd have been 8 1/2 and my sisters 5, which doesn't seem at all right.

So, the photo is probably from late winter/early spring of 1964, but may be from the next year; and we are seen sitting in the sad remains of our (very modest) snowfort, perhaps on the remains of our thrones. There didn't fall much snow that winter, so this fort never amounted to much. We had pretty much stripped the yard bare (as can be seen in the background) in rolling the snowballs of which we constructed it.

This picture is no exception to the general rule for pictures of us: there exist almost no photos of all four of us which do not reflect that Karen is "Gary's Twin" and Sharon is "Troy's Twin." That is, in all but the rarest of cases, Karen will be beside or in front of Gary, and Sharon will be beside or in front of me.

Ah, but those darling little girls were also very assertive of *their* ownership rights -- to Dad. In their minds, they jointly own him, and Gary and I had no rights to him without their express permission! And, budding little private property rights advocates they were, too: for, they discovered "the tragedy of the commons" all on their own. That is, they later realized that joint ownership of Dad caused for conflict when their interests diverged; so they "divided the assets" in a mutually agreeable manner: one claimed his head and the other his feet.

===
Even though we were born and raised in South Bend (Indiana), as was our mother, we apparently had a recognizably Southern accent in those days. Courtesy of Dad. One of my sisters has told me that when they were hospitalized for a tonsillectomy (need I mention that when we visited them, my brother and I were focused on the fact that they getting as much ice cream as they wanted!; I'd don't think I'd have been up for it, but I'd not be surprised if he had been willing to get in on such a sweet deal), a nurse asked them, “So, how long have you been up North?” and she, being a child, had no idea what she was being asked.

===
When I "discovered" my own mortality --

One winter afternoon when I was 7, I saw that Dad was pulling into the drive, and so I ran out to greet him (that is, jump all over him), as little kids do. After all, I hadn't seen him *all* day! But, the thing is, I ran out in jeans and tee shirt -- I mean, not only without putting on a coat, but also without putting on shoes.

I awoke in the middle of the night -- and woke the whole family -- unable to breathe. And I *knew* that I was dying. Now, I known about death for forever, and I understood that I, too, would die. But that knowledge had been conceptual, now it became visceral. I wasn't terrified, really; I just didn't want to leave right then.

In thrashing around in my discomfort, I managed to find a position in which I could finally get some oxygen -- with my head and upper body hanging over the side of the bed. So, that's how I was taken to the hospital; half lying on the car's back seat, half lying on the car's floor.

At the hospital, I was put in an oxygen tent (for the next three or four days), and was again able to breathe without standing on my head. The hospital's patient capacity was apparently on full, at least in the "children's ward;" I was initially placed in an alcove off a main corridor devoted either to adults in general or to just women (I don't recall seeing any men as patients).

The next day, I was better and rested, and able to pay some attention to the goings-on around me. Though, when you're only 7, there is only so much entertainment value to be extracted from watching old(er) women in hospital-gowns walk back and forth past the alcove in which one has been stowed. This day was the first time I heard someone (one of the patients to another) refer to me as "pretty" -- and I was outraged: "I'm not 'pretty!' I'm a boy!" And, as Gentle Reader can see from the photo, I'm not, and wasn't, pretty (yet I have been accused of it more than once; one of those mysteries of life, I guess).

I was later moved for a couple of days to the "children's ward." That was really boring, making me long for the alcove; for, the other kids were either too sick to care about anything outside their own discomfort, or they were "babies." That ward is where I *really* learned that friendly behavior does not indicate friend; I mean, I was also learning that from neighborhood kids, but here I learned it from an adult and the lesson really sunk in.

===
Speaking of snowforts and mortality, that "ice cave" I mentioned could have been the death of any number of us! Our *dogs* were smart enough to not want to go into it. The younger, larger one really put up a fight when we dragged her in with us. This was several years after the one in the photo, after we'd moved back into town; it was one of those winters with particularly heavy snow fall. After the snowplaws had been through, there was this too, too tempting pile of snow and ice ... and we burrowed tunnels into it. And, if it had collapsed, it surely would have killed someone.

But then, we used to jump off the roof! We were some wild kids! We weren't bratty, we were generally well-behaved and polite, we were just really serious out our playing.

Who told you that you were naked?

Jonathan Acuff ('Stuff Christians Like'): Thinking you're naked

It Always Gets Me

Almost every rendition of 'The Little Drummer Boy' I've ever heard causes me to choke up -- the love and the yearning the song expresses, and the wonder of having drawn a smile from the object of one's love, just gets to me; just thinking about it (as in, at this very moment) gets to me.

I probably ought not say this -- in case some atheist/secularist stumbles upon it -- but 'The Little Drummer Boy' is a very Christian song: we all are that boy, we all are poor and have nothing at all that is fit to give to The King, the Sovereign of the Universe, except ourselves.


Oddly enough, while I really like the group White Heart, I was able to get through this recording without choking up at all.

Myrtle the Turtle

When I was five or six, in Kindergarten or first grade, there was a little girl named Myrtle. The other kids called her 'Myrtle the Turtle,' as small children are wont to do.

One fall day, walking home (*), I saw Myrtle also walking home on the opposite side of the street. Now, the thought came to me that I'd like to say "hi" to Myrtle. And what do you think came out of my mouth? Why, of course, it was, "Hi, Myrtle the Turtle!"

I saw at once that that was a serions error, but, of course, there was no unsaying it. I think Myrtle ran away; I don't know if we ever did actually talk to one another.

If it's any consolation to Myrtle, I think I never made quite that mistake again.


(*) This may come as a shock to younger folk, but in those far-off days no one thought a thing about a five-year-old twice daily walking by himself for a mile, and crossing important (though not 'major thoroughfare') streets.

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Is there a point or lesson we can learn from that little story? But, of course, and doubtless several. Here is the lesson I want to extract from the story.

To parents (and really any adults who care for and interact with children):

When a child does something wrong, even something which he *knows* to be wrong, and you follow your natural instinct, asking him, "Why did you do that?" and he answers (as they almost always do), "I don't know!" the odds are that he's telling you the truth: the child really doesn't know *why* he did the thing; he likely didn't think about it, but rather just did it, and thus there is no *reason* which he can give you for why he did it.

So, typically, what does the adult do upon receiving that answer? First, he refuses to accept it; then he starts badgering the child to get at "the real" answer. The child becomes desperate for the badgering to end, and so he latches onto any "reason" which he thinks the adult will accept as plausible. And, usually, the adult is by this time offering various potential "reasons." You've done it, you know what I'm talking about: "Was it this? Was it that?"

I have a suggestion. What not spare yourself and the child this frustrating and counter-productive little dance? Why not just skip asking in the first place the generally pointless question, "Why did you do that?"

Explain that and why it was wrong; make sure you're satisfied that the child understands the reasoning; banish the child to his room to contemplate the misdeed; do all sorts of things: but spare youself, and the child, the frustration of trying to dig for what likely doesn't exist.

What is that?

This is a five minute video (in Greek with English subtitles) which is well worth the watching: What is that?