#The Sin of Human Frailty

[mothiir]

story time with isaiah

I can’t stop writing for these boys I love them.

Cw for caning, descriptions of blood.

—

—

It has been just under a month, and the Emperor — in His most glorious and unending mercy — has seen fit to continue to conceal your existence from the rest of Isaiah’s battle brothers. He and Reuben benefit from your redemptive labour, as you atone for your extensive sins by darning their socks, polishing their armour, and keeping their dormitory spotless.

With a little satisfied sound, you set aside your mending. You have been piecing Brother Reuben’s hair shirt back together, and your fingers are raw from handling the tough wool. Isaiah smells the iron tang of your blood.

You stretch your arms up over, closing your eyes as your joints click. Isaiah looks up from his current dedication — transcribing the life and times of Saint Celestine onto fresh parchment in his neatest handwriting — and sees that you are relaxing back into your bunk. His brow furrows a little. It is not time for you to sleep, and you show no signs of engaging in contemplation of the Emperor’s many noble deeds — though perhaps you are doing this internally? 

“Free time is an affront to the Emperor, little mortal,” he says, dipping his quill into ochre-red ink to outline the title of the newest segment, wherein Saint Celestine engaged in combat with a daemonette of Slaanesh and defeated it. This segment is an especially lengthy one, and well-illustrated, and he wants to do it justice. “Ensure at all times you keep Him in your thoughts.”

”Yes, my lord,” you say, eyes snapping open — a sure sign of guilt. One of your hands protectively rests over the hair shirt, probably recalling the last time that Isaiah had seen fit to bless you with more work. “No need to tear this, lord, I am more than happy to keep the Emperor in my thoughts while uh —“

Isaiah sighs, setting the quill down. Since the dormitory now only holds two Templars, he and Reuben have been able to redecorate, hammering the unused bunks into a workstation, pushed up against the wall. Their trunks serve as an adequate chair, tough durasteel enough to support the bulk of an Astartes — providing the Astartes in question is not armoured. 

“I am not going to tear the shirt, girl. I tore those socks because you showed an uncouth amount of joy in finishing your work for the day. And — besides, that is not the subject of discussion,” he says, thankful that Brother Reuben is not here, otherwise he would once again find himself rehashing an old absurd argument. Brother Reuben had objected to ‘his underwear being used as part of a pointless lesson and now she is upset and my feet are cold’. 

You had, admittedly, been a little upset — uttering little hitching squeaks, like you were swallowing back sobs — but Isaiah maintains it was an important chance to practice the virtue of patience, and you had restitched all of the socks in record time, so what was the harm done?

Still. Perhaps this is a chance to impart a gentler kind of lesson. Good relations with lesser mortals is an essential part of serving the Emperor. 

“Have you ever heard the tale of Saint Celestine?” he says instead. To his surprise, you brighten up. 

“Yes, my lord! I saw the latest holo about her before uh — before my world was cleansed in Holy Fire. Though of course it may have been a corrupted version of the story and uh—“

You are babbling. You often do this, and Brother Reuben has assured him that it is not a fault in your genetics, but a natural consequence of your human frailty. Isaiah cuts you off.

”I will teach you one of her many victories,” he says, “and of how her undying faith in the Emperor brought glory to both her and those who fought beside her.”

He turns away from his manuscript, folds his hands in his lap, and begins the tale. Saint Celestine was once a member of the Adepta Sororitas’ Order of Our Martyred Lady…

—

Just over an hour later, he finishes up the tale of how she appeared in glorious golden raiment to the beleaguered defenders of the city of Karlstadt, who were standing proud against the hideous assembled forces of heresy and ruin. How she had drawn her blessed blade and sliced apart the daemons arrayed before her. How she had blessed the inhabitants of the city, before fading into the rising sun like a dream of better times.

“That was beautiful,” you say. Isaiah had been staring off into the middle distance, allowing his eidetic memory to take hold of his tongue — but at your voice he focuses on you, gratified by the adoration in your eyes. The Living Saint is a balm to the faithful, and a scourge to the heretic.

“It is, is it not? Now, you recite it.”

Silence. You blink at him in puzzlement.

”You recite it,” he prompts. “So that you may tell the story to others.”

”Oh — uh — well, once there was…”

”No, no, no,” he says. “That is not correct. You must recite it exactly as I did, with the same words — this is how it was taught to me, and it is how it must be taught to you.”

”The — the exact same words?” you say, starting to grow flustered, your hands twisting into the hair shirt. The movement agitates the wounds on your hands, filling the air once more with the fragrance of your blood, and it gives Isaiah a splendid idea. 

“Yes. Do not worry, I will help with your memory — I understand that it is far inferior to mine.”

He looks around for a suitable implement. His warhammer is too heavy; his bolter far too precious. He reaches up to one of the unused wooden shelves and, with very little effort, rips it out of the metal brackets, before splintering it with a single crushing fist. 

“…my lord?” you say, sounding nervous. Isaiah smiles in what he hopes is a soothing way. 

“Do not be worried. I understand that your lapses in memory are not a sign of heresy, only of your own feeble genetics. This is a method that I was blessed to experience as a neophyte, before my implants worked fully, and it worked very well.”

He extracts the longest piece of wood, and uses his thumbnail to polish it, turning ragged pulp into a more suitable smoothness. He swishes it experimentally. Perfect.

“Now,” he says sunnily. “I will say a segment of the tale; you will repeat it. Every time you get it wrong, I shall give you a little tap with this. The pain focuses your mind, and ensures that next time you will not forget!”

”Uh — I do not think that is necessary my lord —“

You are hunched like a Jerboa about to bolt, smelling of fear. Isaiah sighs. 

“Girl, please do not be ungrateful. I am trying to bestow the Emperor’s kindness upon you. Now give me your hand.”

Your arm trembles, but you still extend your palm, fingers curled protectively over it. Just as he is about to begin the exercise, he recalls Brother Reuben’s fury at his torn socks. Ah. Yes. Anything that will hinder your ability to work is probably going to cause issues with his battle brother — and baseline humans take so long to heal. 

The soles of your feet? No, he cannot have you unable to stand. Your back? No — you need to hunch over your mending. Your face? Some of the serfs ritually scar themselves as part of their penance.

No. Not your face. That is a little dramatic for something as trivial as learning a story. 

And then it occurs to him in a lightning flash — of course! 

“Kindly lift your skirt up and bend over the bed,” he says, thanking the Emperor for His guidance. If you struggle to sit down then that is no problem — you can sew standing up! And you can sleep on your front, so it will not even affect your lengthy and inefficient spells of rest. 

You make a strange strangled sound. 

“My — my lord?” you manage, and that warm feeling kindles once more in his belly. Bringing a waif to the Emperor’s light; imparting unto you stories normally reserved for Astartes. It makes him feel all happy and tingly in a way he usually associates with a battle hard won, or an especially entertaining heretic burning. 

“Hurry up now,” he says, indicating the bunk. You look behind you, as if expecting Brother Reuben to materialise with his usual rebukes, but he is busy in the chapel (though Isaiah cannot imagine what possible issue his brother could have with this plan). 

Trembling like a new fawn, you bend over the bunk, propping your elbows on it. 

“Your skirt too,” Isaiah says, helpfully. “If fabric gets into the wounds it can cause infection, and that is a serious matter for a baseline.”

You inch your skirt up in little shuddering movements that Isaiah finds absolutely hypnotic for reasons he cannot quite understand. You bare plump, tender flesh — thighs sweeping up to the curve of your buttocks, which quiver under his gaze. 

“Do you not have any undergarments?” he says. 

“I did,” you say, after a moment. “They uh. They vanished.”

How baffling. Humans are absentminded to the extreme — perhaps you mislaid them? He will have to ask Brother Reuben of their whereabouts. 

“Now,” he says. His mouth feels odd — a little too dry. He swallows a few times, rolling his tongue against the soft insides of his cheeks, wondering briefly — absurdly — if your skin would feel as soft against the press of his fingers. ”Let us begin.”

—

You start off so well, parroting back the first few sentences he recites for you almost down to his intonation. Alas, you are still only a human, and the mistakes soon begin —

“…for Saint Celestine appeared in —“

Wssshhh goes the instrument, and you squeal. Your buttocks jiggle in a way that would definitely distract a lesser man; but Isaiah is completely devoted to the Emperor’s word, and thus does not take more than forty five seconds to watch them move as you squirm in pain. He thought the strike was gentle, but your flesh is softer than butter, slicing open with the least touch. 

“You missed something out,” he says, after his momentary pause. “Try again.”

”I am sorry — ow that hurts — uh — “

This time, you get the phrasing right (‘miraculously appeared’ not just ‘appeared’), and proceed until —

“—her hair of gold — “

Another strike. The flesh of your rear splits like ripened fruit, and you yowl. 

“Hair of black, eyes of gold,” Isaiah corrects patiently. It is just as well he has taken you under his wing. The way you squirm and squeak is most immodest, and he is certain that none of the other serfs take discipline with the same lack of dignity. 

“Hair of — hair of black, eyes of — eyes of gold —“

He forgives you the stammer, but he cannot forgive the lapse that follows, as you describe Saint Celestine’s armour as ‘radiant’ rather than ‘luminous’. This time, Isaiah is most careful with his blow, and your skin only flares bright pink, rather than splitting asunder. You still whimper and wriggle as though he has made you bleed, which is most unbecoming. 

“Do try and endure the pain,” he tells you. “There is no need to be so…squirmy.”

Once again, he thanks the Emperor for guiding you to him, and not to a man with less moral fortitude, because the way the blood slicks over the curve of your rump and glistens would almost certainly lead a lesser man to sinful contemplation. 

The next lashes — earned through forgetting four of Saint Celestine’s thirty eight titles — have you blubbering, your face pressed into the blankets. Your buttocks, and the upper parts of your thighs, are streaked purple and pink with bruising, and blood drips down towards the backs of your knees. It smells bright and fresh — somehow more pleasing than the foul blood of xenos or heretics. Perhaps because it was shed by a penitent in service to the Emperor, not one of His enemies? Though Osric and Jean’s blood never smelled quite so…delicious. 

Hm. When did he last eat? Maybe he has been fasting overly much. That must be the reason his stomach tightens so.

You burble a slurry of sound into the mattress — even to his trained ear it barely resembles Gothic. 

“You’re not even halfway through memorising this,” he chides, and you manage another hiccuping attempt at repeating the conversation between Saint Celestine and her former Battle Sister Augusta. It is a most touching soliloquy on the importance of placing your faith in the Emperor, but —

“—and I will — I will do I must and take Him inside me, and let His will fill me like a flood — nay, like an ocean. His Holy Fire will spill deep inside my body —“

— for some reason it sounds a little different when you say it. His cheeks warm. 

Still, the technique is working. He finds he has to hit you less and less as you continue; the pain sharpening your mind, clearing the fog of doubt, permitting the Emperor’s words to penetrate. 

Finally, your approach the denouement, where Saint Celestine addresses the Emperor directly in prayer —

“My Lord, I beg of you to fill my humble body up —“

He strikes you without thinking.

“Wha — what did I get wrong?” you squeal, and it takes a moment for Isaiah to focus. He is staring at the jiggle of your thighs as you heave in desperate, pained breaths — by the Emperor’s light, clearly he has not done his job in teaching you how to best conduct yourself, because you are responding to proper discipline like a whore. Your spine arches as you try fruitlessly to escape; your eyes are wet and red-rimmed; your lips slick with spittle. Do you realise what you are doing? Ignorance is no defence against judgement; Isaiah could build a new monastery with the bones of those he has slain whose only crime was ignorance. 

Isaiah presses one hand on the small of your back, pressing down just enough to calm your twitching. He feels your heartbeat echo up through his palm; the scent of your blood fills his nose, and saliva puddles on his tongue. He is a Black Templar. His purpose is to slay the enemies of the Emperor; to crush them beneath his boots, to lay waste to their cities and hear the lamentations of their children, before they too are cast onto the pyre to ensure the rot does at the root. He is stronger than you. He is better than you, and your mewling is not effecting him, it cannot be effecting him —

”Keep going,” he says, his voice a low, hungry growl. “Finish the tale.”

” —yes. Of course. Saint Celestine thus spoke to the Emperor: “Fill my humble body up with Your Grace and Your Judgement, and let me then be a vessel for Your Will, bringing Your light to the dark and Your hope to the hopeless. Amen.” 

“Amen,” he echoes. 

—

He helps you clean up, for he would be a poor teacher indeed if he left you in a puddle of your own blood to contemplate your lesson. He waves away your protests that you can take care of yourself — it is a small matter for him, just requiring a little water and a clean rag. Your flesh is already swelling, puffy and tender, and when he runs his palm from your calf to your back he can feel the difference in temperature: from cool thighs to fever-warm buttocks. 

The apothecary insists that Astartes be thorough in their care of themselves. Thus, Isaiah takes care to repeat the gesture a few times, his large hands — each of which easily encircle your thighs — skimming with utmost consideration over your bruised flesh. 

“There,” he says, when he has attended to your wounds to his satisfaction. He tugs your skirt down to cover your modesty, pleased that he has fufilled his duty of care to you. “Is it not wonderful to learn the Emperor’s word?”

You prop yourself up on your forearms, turning back to look at him. “Yes,” you echo. “Simply wonderful.”

Isaiah beams at you, absent-mindedly lifting his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean. He has probably been fasting too much; a Templar must remain well fed to best serve the Emperor. 

“You can have the afternoon to recover,” he says, magnanimously. “We can commence your next lesson in a ten day — or whenever your schedule allows.”

”Yes, my lord. Thank you my lord,” you say. “All hail the Emperor and His most bounteous mercy.”

”All hail,” Isaiah says, already planning how to best explain this to Brother Reuben — while also making it excruciatingly clear that Brother Reuben needn’t trouble himself with the serf’s continued holy education. No, Brother Reuben can focus his considerable energy in locating the poor thing’s missing undergarments — a role far more befitting his station. “And next time,” he adds, licking the last of the blood from the back of his hand. “Refrain from squirming and mewling like a slattern. Have some self control.”

[blissfulip]

—Legion

On AO3

Priest!Viktor x F!demon!reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Priest Kink, Blasphemy, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Flagellation, Demon Sex, Demon Summoning, Demon/Human Relationships, demon reader, AU - Canon Divergence, Post medieval era, Dubious Science, Church Sex, Roman Catholicism, Catholic Guilt, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Shameless Smut, Masturbation, No use of Y/N, third person.

Cw: mentions of Child SA, allusions to the witch trials

Words: 3.1k

[A/N: Sorry for making the bishop so annoying I made myself angry proof-reading this lmao (let me know if you want to be tagged or removed in future fic updates!)]

Tags: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @chemical-killjoy @jinxed-jk @bobobomao @queen-of-elves @thedustybunny @syren201 @thayfass @thehistoriangirl @hypocritic-trash-baby @zaunitearchives

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II.

Noon had started to crack, and Viktor sat still at the edge of his bed, his left leg throbbing with a persistent ache and guilt consuming him as he grappled with the weight of his recent actions. His mind swirled in a tumult of self-condemnation and regret as the looming certainty of facing Father Isidore when he would eventually be called up to the kitchen for lunch weighed over him.

How could he, entrusted with the guidance of others, find himself so lost in the labyrinth of his own sin? It was so easy, too, to feel like the absolutions he offered were hollow, his own inability to forgive himself casting a shadow over the sanctity of his role. And amidst this turmoil, the relentless ache in his left leg—probably due to kneeling for a prolonged stretch of time, but that in the wake of what he had just done felt more akin to divine punishment—served as a reminder of his frailty, both physical and spiritual. 

But pain is purification, suffering gives way to redemption, and penitence is salvation, so isn’t pleasure the correct response after all? If martyrdom is the ultimate act of love, then why shouldn’t agony be met with enjoyment? That was the lie Viktor soothed himself with before deciding to be a step ahead of the altar boys and make his way to the kitchen. 

-----------------------------

His leg protested with each step, but it seemed insignificant compared to the stinging feeling on his back now that he had the rough fabric rubbing against it. What lingered wasn’t nearly as pleasant as before; however, he felt undeserving of making a fuss about it, it being a punishment—ironically—for a self-inflicted punishment that he shouldn’t have delighted in. 

As he entered, the comforting scent of freshly brewed coffee greeted him, mingling with the faint aroma of incense that clung to his robes and clashing with the uninviting presence of Father Isidore, who sat at the table, steaming cup in hand. 

“Viktor, my son,” he exclaimed in a voice that sounded sweet and as sticky and treacherous as molasses, “I trust you have...repented.”

Viktor clenched his jaw, a wave of trepidation washing over him as he felt his judgmental gaze on him. Viktor severely disliked the special way Father Isidore enunciated; emphasis on certain words never seemed like enough for him; he always made it a point to hiss and spit; his lips thinned out and tense like he was holding in a growl. It didn’t match his childlike guise, and this made Viktor weary of him ever since he was a kid. 

“I have,” he replied tersely, taking a seat opposite his superior’s robust presence. 

"It seems, however, that some of us struggle more than others with the concept of self-control," he remarked, his words dripping with a subtle veil of aggression.

Viktor's stomach churned with resentment. "I am aware of my shortcomings, Father," he retorted, his voice tinged with bitterness. 

“Don’t misunderstand me, son. It is never my intention to prohibit your studies or peg your enthusiasm for learning; you know our monastery has always valued knowledge of the great arts.”

“Until it challenges one of your universal truths, that is.”

“Precisely, are you trying to imply we should challenge the dogma?” 

Viktor stayed silent. 

“Tell me, do you think you are above us all?” 

“Of course I don’t, father.” but he did, and this whole lecture was starting to get old. 

“Then you must clearly think you are above sin. So holy and pure that you are able to read such heretic words and not be tempted by them?” He said this as he got closer to Viktor, his face slowly turning beet red: “unde et corda filiorum hominum implentur malitia et contemptu in vita sua et post haec ad inferos deducentur.”

And then he did the same eyebrow raise he used to do when Viktor was a child, and he was testing his knowledge of the scripture. Viktor sighed, partly in defeat but mostly in annoyance. 

“‘Hence the hearts of the sons of men are filled with malice and contempt in their lives, and after this they are brought down to hell’,” he answered as he instinctively leaned back on the chair, the scorching sensation reminding him why it was a terrible idea. 

“I can tell you are in pain; why must you still be so stubborn, even when you are enduring your penitence on the flesh?” 

“I see no malice in curiosity.”

“Even when you intentionally seek the words of miscreants, knowing full well the danger it presents?”

“I don’t seek dangerous ideals; the universe is, and I simply try to understand it.”

“You are lost, Viktor.” Father Isidore’s lips curled up into a grin of contempt, a show of mockery that made it clear his concern for Viktor’s soul came from a place of scorn. 

“Temptatio vos non adprehendat nisi humana, something something, and God will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear and, eh, I forgot what comes after,” Viktor recited, quiet but defiant. 

“To me, you are nothing but a test of resilience, Viktor. If I have to tear you down myself to build you back up as a God-honoring servant, I will.” He said this as he visibly struggled to disguise his frustration. “Come, I would like you to meet someone.”

--------------------------------

As they made their way through the narrow streets of the small town, the bustling activity of the market greeted them. Vibrant stalls lined the cobblestone paths, their displays of fresh produce and handmade goods drawing Viktor’s attention. All the while, he wondered who this mysterious person and possible weapon of torture would be. 

Father Isidore walked with an air of authority, his presence commanding respect as he exchanged warm greetings with anyone who crossed their path. Soon they came upon an elderly woman sitting by a small table, adorned with a meager assortment of goods. Her weathered face bore the deep lines of a life well-lived, yet her eyes sparkled with a warmth that belied her frailty. She smiled weakly as they approached, her gnarled hands clasped tightly in her lap.

"Good morning, Father!" called out an elderly woman, her face lighting up with a smile as she approached. "Blessings be upon you." 

He gave back a smile that could've fooled anyone, but Viktor couldn't shake the feeling that there was something calculated in his demeanor. "And to you as well, my dear," Father Isidore replied, his tone tinged with a hint of forced sincerity. "How are you faring today?"

"Oh, just getting by as best I can, Father," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "Times have been hard, but the Lord provides."

"Indeed, He does, and speaking of such, have you been able to fulfill your tithe to the church this month?”

The elderly woman's smile faltered slightly, her gaze dropping to her lap as she fidgeted with the worn fabric of her apron. "I... I'm afraid not, Father," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "Things have been tight lately, with the harvest being poor and all."

His expression hardened imperceptibly, though his tone remained gentle as he pressed the issue. "I understand, my dear," he continued. "But you must remember the importance of supporting the church, especially in these trying times. Perhaps there is something else you could sacrifice to ensure your tithe is met."

Viktor watched in silent anger as the elderly woman's shoulders slumped in resignation, her eyes downcast as she nodded in reluctant agreement. Despite his own discomfort, he couldn't help but feel a surge of rage at the ease with which Father Isidore exploited the vulnerability of this woman for the sake of the church's coffers.

“If I may, Lucida,” Viktor interjected. Different from his superior, he knew the members of their community; he had taken time to know them and had offered his friendship along with his guidance. “You must be forgetting; your daughter has already come to offer lithe on behalf of your family.”

This was a lie, but be it because Lucida’s age was betraying her memory or because she had taken the hint of what Viktor was doing, it didn’t matter. Her mouth shaped into a round O as she nodded at both of them. Father Isidor looked at Viktor with suspicion but did not press the issue any further either, simply dragging Viktor by his free arm to continue on their way. 

A modest house was nestled along the path. Father Isidore announced himself with a drawn-out knock on the solid wood of the door, and the figure of a weary woman appeared as the door peered open. When she saw the men, her feeble demeanor swiftly morphed into visible uneasiness. 

Viktor knew her; she had been at the cathedral at least once, and multiple times she had made herself present at Viktor’s masses in the small town parish. She had never reacted this way to him before, so Viktor knew it was the man beside him who was causing this woman concern. 

“Father Isidore, I’m sorry; I did not expect to see you here,” she cried out, trying to hide the tremble in her voice. 

“Fret not, dear; I haven’t come to collect her yet; I simply wanted Viktor to meet her.” He scrutinized the inside of the house from where he stood before gently pushing the woman aside to enter the house, uninvited. Viktor gave her quiet apologies and small awkward smiles, following close behind him when she gave him a sign to invite him in. 

The woman took them to the other side of the small house; there, the threshold of what seemed to have been a door in the past separated this expanse from the rest of the house. In the dimly lit chamber, a young teenage girl sat on the edge of her bed, her long black twin braids cascading down her shoulders like a dark veil, so dark that if you looked at it under the right light, it might even look blue.

Her posture was slumped, and her slender frame seemed to wilt under an invisible weight. The room around her felt heavy with silence, broken only by the faint sound of her shallow breaths. She looked up to look at them as the three entered, but her once vibrant eyes, now dulled and distant, gazed blankly ahead, unfocused and unseeing. 

“Darling, Father Isidore has come to see you; will you say hi to him and his friend?” Her mother asked delicately as she sat down on the bed next to her. Viktor was stumped; he didn’t remember seeing this girl at any of the functions before or around the town as he ran errands. The girl’s hands lay limply in her lap, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the faded bedspread as she looked at Father Isidore. 

And very subtly, her once empty gaze welled up with noticeable rage. 

“What do you want, sheep?” Her voice sounded so sweet, yet her words were so filled with venom.

“Careful now; I’m not here to take you yet, but I might change my mind if you decide to get nervy with me.” 

She squinted slightly before giving Father Isidore an empty smirk and snapping her head quickly to look directly at Viktor. “Are you in trouble too? I’m only ever used as an example.” 

“I-eh, I’m not sure.” Viktor pondered her words for a short second: “An example?”

“For what not to do.” She scoffed; she now seemed unaffected by their presence, giggling at Viktor’s confused expression, like he had told her a joke. “What did you do? Illegal medicine?” she asked, and she continued when she received no response. “You’re a priest; did you lay with a woman? Oh, oh, oh, a man, perhaps?”

The amusement in her tone was not enough to cut the tension in the air. Viktor wondered why no one seemed to care about what she was saying, but he figured Father Isidore was attempting to make a point out of this, and her mother was too afraid to do anything that might upset the bishop. 

“I would ask you if you touched a child, but they care considerably less about that than they do about banned...That’s it, isn’t it? You—” She said, now wiggling her feet like she had reverted to an earlier stage of her life. “—are a man of science; I can see in your eyes that you know what heliocentrism is.” She giggled her way through those words and looked at Viktor with wide eyes, awaiting a response. 

A tense silence hung in the air, broken only by the soft shuffle of feet on the worn floorboards as the mother stood by the door, her expression wrought with fear, while Father Isidore's features were etched with thinly veiled frustration.

Suddenly, the girl spoke, her voice soft but tinged with defiance. "You can't stop me, fawner," she said, her words cutting through the heavy silence like a knife. "I won't let you."

Father Isidore's eyes narrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line, as he shot the girl a warning glare. "Enough," he admonished. "You know the consequences of disobedience, and you know what awaits you; don’t make an effort to rush your departure."

With a sense of urgency, the mother hurriedly ushered them toward the door, pleading and apologizing on her daughter’s behalf, and in the onslaught of their departure, Viktor felt a small object slip into his hand. Startled, he glanced down only to see the girl’s swift fingers pressing something into his palm and a pair of brazen eyes that quickly snuck back onto the bed, unnoticed. 

He didn’t dare to look, not as long as he had eyes on him, so he clenched his fist around it, as if something told him he ought not to lose it. Viktor's mind raced with questions, his confusion mounting with each hurried step as they silently walked the path back to the parish. As they climbed the small steps to go inside the building, the bishop spoke. 

“She is being taken to undergo a trial for witchcraft, but I’m sure what you saw made that evident.”

“She doesn’t look like a witch.”

“What do witches look like, son?”

“Wretched, evil, hateful...”

“And is it not evil to go against the dogma of our faith? Is it not wretched to seek deranged ideals like ‘heliocentrism’ and ‘geokinesis’, mad, truly mad things for someone who is fearful of God to believe, and especially wicked for a woman to believe?”

Viktor did not answer. 

“God has great plans for you, Viktor. Do not stray from your path, and you’ll be able to avoid an end like hers” He said, punctuating the last word with a hefty—and ignobly intentional—pat on his back. 

The wounds, still fresh and tender, protested vehemently against the sudden contact, each movement a reminder of the agony that plagued him. He visibly winced and took a sharp breath through gritted teeth, doing his best to suppress the urge to cry out in pain. But it wasn't just the physical discomfort that gnawed at him. Beneath the surface, a simmering anger had been bubbling. 

-----------------------------------

Alone again in the confines of his quarters, Viktor sank to his knees in front of the small wooden crucifix that adorned the wall. His hands trembled as he clasped them together in prayer, his lips moving silently in fervent entreaty. 

“Pater Noster qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum…” He began automatically, but he didn’t know what he had prayed for. 

When the prayer ended, there was silence.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus…” He started once again, perhaps a mother would pity him.

Silence. 

Anger burned within him like a smoldering ember. The rotund face of Father Isidore plagued his inner thoughts. How could a man of God, a shepherd of the faithful, wield his power with such callous disregard?

But beneath the anger lay a deeper, more insidious emotion: guilt. Guilt for his own weakness, for his depravity, for his inability to rise above the turmoil and find solace in his faith. With a frustrated sigh, Viktor bowed his head lower, his hands clenching into fists as he fought to contain the tempest raging within him. 

"Why?" he whispered, his voice barely audible in the silence of the room. "Why do I pray, day after day, only to be met with silence? Have I been forsaken, abandoned by the very God I serve?"

But as the echoes of his words faded into the darkness, there came no answer, and in that moment of profound solitude, Viktor felt more alone than ever before, until he remembered the small object he had managed to slip into his robes. 

A brass coin, small and thin enough that he could break it with his bare hands if he was not careful. It appeared to have worn off with time, the original color having faded into a dark green, corroded shade. As he held it up to the dim candlelight, the symbol etched into its surface seemed to shimmer—a circle with small letters around its circumference that he couldn’t read. In it there was a smaller circle, and inside of it, even smaller, a strange swirly shape with five triangles on its flat top and a cross in the very center. 

He knew, deep inside, that he recognized what he knew to be the symbol of a creature of darkness and forbidden knowledge. His instincts screamed at him to cast it aside, to rid himself of its tainted influence, but a curious fascination held him captive. In a surge of frustration and desperation, Viktor closed his eyes and clasped the coin tightly in his hands, his lips moving in silent prayer.

“God has failed me; let this be the time I am acknowledged.” For a long moment, nothing happened. The silence stretched on, broken only by the soft whisper of his own breath. But then, just as Viktor's hope began to wane, he felt a strange warmth emanating from the coin, spreading through his fingertips. 

Like a heavy shroud enveloping the room, suffusing the air with palpable tension, the atmosphere shifted, thickening with an otherworldly energy that seemed to hum with ancient power. A chill ran down Viktor's spine when he felt a small hand on his shoulder. As he summoned the courage to gaze upon the figure behind him, he found himself confronted by a sight that defied all comprehension.

The figure of a woman, alluring and terrible but terrifyingly familiar, stood before him. A surge of primal terror mixed with a morbid fascination compelled him to stand his ground, and then he heard her voice. 

“Curious, very curious.” She whispered. 

[girlactionfigure]

AFFECT OF HAMAS FOOTAGE ON ME

LEE KERN

NOV 8

Only woke up from nightmares twice last night. I’m getting better…

Last week I attended a private press screening of footage from the Hamas atrocities. It was 47 minutes of footage recorded by Hamas themselves and captured on CCTV. You can read an account of it here. Attendees weren’t allowed to take phones or recording equipment into the screening. I had a notepad and pen. I sat down in my seat. The entire wall in front of me was a screen.

The film started. The footage was objectively distressing - but I was surprised and impressed with myself that I was immediately okay watching it. I was focused so hard on writing down what I saw that I wasn’t emotionally connecting with the footage. I didn’t have time. I had a job to do. I didn’t gaze too deeply at the HD quality images onscreen as I had to look down at my notepad to scribble notes. I felt like crying a couple of times - when they did something to a baby - or when they did something to a child - but I pushed that down to continue the job - and I was impressively okay. 

I left the screening not really remembering much of what I’d seen. I thought, “Oh wow - I got away with that okay. I can’t even picture anything I saw.”

Later I had a pizza and a walk along the sea front. I made a guy in a shop laugh. 

That night I burst into tears. 

The next day I had to go get a sim card for my phone and I pulled my hat low over my eyes as I burst into uncontrollable sobs while walking the streets. There was sunshine and people sat outside cafes and I was just unable to stop myself sobbing. Deep sobs coming from my chest and my eyes streaming. I sniffled like a child while walking down the street. I couldn’t make it go away. I thought one good cry would get it out my system, but more whimpers and tears just came out of my chest. I was whimpering. And there were images in my mind now. I remembered everything. I saw things Hamas did. Things I don’t have the language or life experience to compute. I was baffled. I don’t understand what I saw. But every part of my body on a cellular level was rejecting it as the most wrong thing that could happen under the sun. It was an accumulaton of every piece of evil since Cane killed Abel. Hamas had mastered the art of sin. And they had conquered morality. They stood in a place where humans were not meant to stand. Where they are no longer human. They were free of all human shackles. They had achieved a power that transcended human frailty but became monstrous in the process. 

Things went like this for the next few days. I’d break into an instantaneous sob. I often didn’t even have an image in my mind when I burst into tears. The screening would be mentioned and something in me happened that bypassed any kind of thought. My head would just bow in tears. I went to stay with some family. They picked me up and within ten seconds of being in the car I burst into tears when asked what I’d been up to. Being in a family home and around normal things was a useful antidote. But I’d still break into debilitating sobs when I recalled what Hamas did or if someone tried to speak to me about it. 

It was also confusing and annoying. I wasn’t depressed! But yet I’d break into tears. I didn’t understand it. I wasn’t depressed but I’d cry like a broken man.

I’d had no sleep since I got to Israel. That obviously didn’t help. I’d visited a kibbutz that had experienced a massacre. That didn’t help. But still I thought I’d be okay. 

The video fucked me up against me will. 

The human brain has built no immunity against the things Hamas filmed. 

It put some kind of splinter in my head. But simply being aware of that and wanting it to be out didn’t mean it would come out. 

I thought I’d improve as days went by but my outbursts seemed to be just as intense. I worried if things continued like this I’d have some kind of mental breakdown. 

I didn’t want to keep seeing what they did to that man.

I was also frustrated because I’d come to Israel to help and I didn’t want to be taken out of the fight with a mental injury. The particular skillset I have means I have to stay immersed in all the ugly shit. I wish I could just pack food for soldiers. If I can communicate well it’s because I’m sensitive and stuff flows into me. I become what I see. People have been demanding my time and I’m trying to help as much as possible but it was getting difficult to be useful to them or myself. In this spirit I didn’t have any macho pride. I’d openly tell people I wasn’t feeling great and didn’t feel shy if I cried in front of them. I didn’t really have a choice. I just wanted to try and find a way to temporarily shovel shit out of my head so I can keep being of service.

The other night I had to move accommodation. I hired an airbnb but then a friend of a friend offered for me to stay at their place whilst they were away. I cancelled the airbnb and I arrived at the accommodation. It was night and I met a neighbour who had the key. We went up the dark stairwell and everything felt off. It was a world of flickering lights and mosquitos. We stood outside the apartment as she searched for the key. There was this terrible noise above us. “What’s that?” “That’s the arabs upstairs drilling.” We went inside and the occupants had left the house a total mess. It all felt grim to me. And the sound of drilling continued upstairs. And the world felt like cockroaches. And I knew once the door shut behind me this would be the most awful night alone. So I plucked up the courage and overcame my politeness and said I can’t stay there. I called a friend and asked them to find me a hotel.

Whilst that was being arranged I waited in the apartment of the woman with the keys and her baby. Toys were everywhere. I was trying to politely respond to her conversation as a cartoon about trains was playing, but I was quietly managing a panic attack as I saw in my mind dead people on her floor amongst her baby’s toys and lying by the fluttering curtains. 

Arranging the hotel was taking time and it was getting late. 

In that time a family friend phoned and I started crying to them. Their daughter then messaged and said I could stay with them so I stayed at hers for the night, cried a few times in conversation, and had my first rocket experience - going into a safe room twice. I got about one hours sleep after trying to kill some mosquitos at four am.

The next afternoon I got a bit better because I tried not to talk about war things with people. I tried to give more territory in my mind to healthy things. I got an hours sleep in the day. I felt better when I transitioned from fear to healthy anger in a video - which was a relief because I was pushing my feelings outwards rather than crumbling inwards. I spoke to a lawyer friend who has worked on cases involving war crimes and has seen things. I got a good night’s sleep and felt good in the morning. I had a few moments of anxiety overcome me during the day. But it feels like they’re becoming less frequent and less powerful. I did cry again after speaking to a pair of siblings whose sister has been kidnapped and who asked me if I’d seen the video. When we hugged goodbye in tears it felt like the first real hug I’ve had since I’ve been here. 

A trauma therapist kindly arranged to see me for free. And time passing seems to be helping. I’m glad I reacted badly because it means I’m a normal healthy human being. A healthy person should be horrified. Only an insane or wicked person could be comfortable with the crimes Hamas committed. 

I don’t know what the language is yet to describe what I saw. I’m not sure what the vocabulary is. They did things that I don’t understand. I don’t understand how they did the things they did. I saw them do things and I don’t understand how they did it. To be able to do what they did is almost a superpower. It’s a superpower I don’t want. To be able to do they things they did and feel nothing but happiness. To be able to inflict that level of cruelty and be utterly indifferent to the people crying.

This is an account of how I’ve been affected. I wasn’t even there. I’m not even a family member of someone taken hostage. I wasn’t on a kibbutz hiding. I haven’t had to bury someone. 

God only knows how the victims will get through this. I can only hope He does know and He doesn’t keep it to Himself. 

We need to help the victims. There has to be an international coalition of love to help them through this. 

As for the terrorists?

I don’t believe in the death penalty, but I believe those Hamas involved in the atrocities have to die. I hope the IDF kill them all. I hope they die in the sun or underground in darkness. I hope they die awake or asleep. I hope they die by bullets or bombs. They cannot be allowed to infect the world with their actions or words. I still don’t understand what I saw in the footage Hamas shot. I can only repeat myself: there is no vocabulary for it. It is almost a superpower to be able to behave the way they did. A superpower I don’t want. To commit such acts of evil - such inventive cruelty - and to have no pangs of empathy or conscience. They look like us and they have hands and legs - but they’re not us. They have eyes but the windows into their souls go into a charnel house where they wash themselves with skulls. We can’t share this world with whatever they are or whatever is inside them. They didn’t open a gate to hell. They are hell. And hell smiled to see its work. They want to devour anything that is not them. Which is any human incapable of doing what they did to women, children and babies for thirty six hours.

They mastered the art of sin and it is something no human should have ever learned to do, because now there are monsters among us. We cannot share the planet with them.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The problem with economic models

When students of statistics are introduced to creating and interpreting models, they are introduced to George Box’s maxim:

All models are wrong, some are useful.

It’s a call for humility and perspective, a reminder to superimpose the messy world on your clean lines.

If you’d like an essay-formatted version of this article to read or share, here’s a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/03/all-models-are-wrong/#some-are-useful

Even with this benediction, modeling is forever prone to the cardinal sin of insisting that complex reality can be reduced to “a perfectly spherical cow of uniform density on a frictionless plane.” Partially that’s down to human frailty, our shared inability to tell when we’re simplifying and when we’re oversimplifying.

But complex mathematics are also a very powerful smokescreen: because so few of us are able to interpret mathematical models, much less interrogate their assumptions, models can be used as “empirical facewash,” in which bias and ideology are embedded in equations and declared to be neutral, because “math can’t be racist.”

The problems with models have come into increasing focus, as machine learning models have increasingly been used to replace human judgment in areas from bail assessment to welfare eligibility to child protective services interventions:

https://memex.craphound.com/2018/01/31/automating-inequality-using-algorithms-to-create-a-modern-digital-poor-house/

But even amidst this increasing critical interrogation of models in new domains, there is one domain where modeling is all but unquestioned: economics, specifically, macroeconomics, that is, the economics of national government budgets.

This is part of a long-run, political project to “get politics out of budgeting” -a project as absurd as “getting wet out of water.” Government budgeting is intrinsically, irreducibly political, and there is nothing more political than insisting that your own preferences and assumptions are “empirical” while anyone who questions them is “doing politics.”

This model-first pretense of neutrality is a key component of neoliberalism, which saw a vast ballooning of economists in government service — FDR employed 5,000 economists, while Reagan relied on 16,000 of them. As the jargon and methods of economics crowded out the language of politics, this ideology-that-insisted-it-wasn’t got a name: economism.

Economism’s core method is reducing human interaction to “incentives,” to the exclusion of morals or ethics — think of Margaret Thatcher’s insistence that “there is no such thing as society.” Economism reduces its subjects to homo economicus, a “rational,” “utility-maximizing” automaton responding robotically to its “perfect information” about the market.

Economism also insists that power has no place in predictions about how policies will play out. This is how the Chicago School economists were able to praise monopolies as “efficient” systems for maximizing “consumer welfare” by lowering prices without “wasteful competition.”

This pretense of mathematical perfection through monopoly ignores the problem that anti-monopoly laws seek to address, namely, the corrupting influence of monopolists, who wield power to control markets and legislatures alike. As Sen John Sherman famously said in arguing for the Sherman Act: “If we will not endure a King as a political power we should not endure a King over the production, transportation, and sale of the necessaries of life.”

https://marker.medium.com/we-should-not-endure-a-king-dfef34628153

Economism says that we can allow monopolies to form and harness them to do only good, enforcing against them when they abuse their market dominance to hike prices. But once a monopoly forms, it’s too late to enforce against them, because monopolies are both too big to fail and too big to jail:

https://doctorow.medium.com/small-government-fd5870a9462e

Today, economism is helpless to do anything about inflation, because it is ideologically incapable of recognizing the inflation is really excuseflation, in which monopolists blame pandemic supply shocks, Russian military belligerence and supposedly overgenerous covid relief programs for their own greedy profiteering:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/11/price-over-volume/#pepsi-pricing-power

Mathematics operates on discrete quantities like prices, while power is a quality that does not readily slot into an equation. That doesn’t mean that we can safely discard power for the convenience of a neat model. Incinerating the qualitative and doing arithmetic with the dubious quantitative residue that remains is no way to understand the world, much less run it:

https://locusmag.com/2021/05/cory-doctorow-qualia/

Economism is famously detached from the real world. As Ely Devons quipped, “If economists wished to study the horse, they wouldn’t go and look at horses. They’d sit in their studies and say to themselves, ‘What would I do if I were a horse?’”

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/27/economism/#what-would-i-do-if-i-were-a-horse

But this disconnection isn’t merely the result of head-in-the-clouds academics who refuse to dirty their hands by venturing into the real world. Asking yourself “What would I do if I were a horse?” (or any other thing that economists are usually not, like “a poor person” or “a young mother” or “a refugee”) allows you to empiricism-wash your biases. Your prejudices can be undetectably laundered if you first render them as an equation whose details can only be understood by your co-religionists.

Two of these if-I-were-a-horse models reign invisibly and totally over our daily lives: the Congressional Budget Office model and the Penn Wharton Budget model. Every piece of proposed government policy is processed through these models, and woe betide the policy that the model condemns. Thus our entire government is conducted as a giant, semi-secret game of Computer Says No.

This week, The American Prospect is conducting a deep, critical dive into these two models, and into the enterprise of modeling itself. The series kicks off today with a pair superb pieces, one from Nobel economics laureate Joseph Stiglitz, the other from Prospect editor-in-chief David Dayen and Rakeen Mabud, chief economist for the Groundwork Collaborative.

Let’s start with the Stiglitz piece, “How Models Get the Economy Wrong,” which highlights specific ways in which the hidden assumptions of models have led us to sideline good policy (like increasing spending during recessions) and make bad policy (like cutting taxes on the rich):

https://prospect.org/economy/2023-04-03-how-models-get-economy-wrong/

First, Stiglitz sets out a general critique of the assumptions in neoclassical models, starting with the “efficient market” hypothesis, that holds that the market is already making efficient use of all our national resources, so any government spending will “crowd out” efficient private sector activity and make us all poorer.

There are trivially obvious ways in which this is untrue: every unemployed person who wants a job is not being used by the market. The government can step in — say, with a federal jobs guarantee — and employ everyone who wants a job but isn’t offered one by the public sector, and by definition, this will not crowd out private sector activity.

Less obvious — but still true — is that the private sector is riddled with inefficiencies. The idea that Google and Facebook make “efficient” use of capital when they burn billions of dollars to increase their surveillance dragnets is absurd on its face. Then there’s the billions Facebook set on fire to build a creepy dead mall it calls “the metaverse”:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EiZhdpLXZ8Q

Then we come to some of the bias in the models themselves, which consistently undervalue the long-run benefits of infrastructure spending. Public investments of this kind “yield very high returns,” which means that even if a public sector project reduces private sector investment, the private investments that remain produce a higher yield, thanks to public investment in a skilled workforce and efficient ports, roads and trains.

A commonplace among model users is that we must make “The Big Tradeoff” — we can either reduce inequality, or we can increase prosperity, but not both, because reducing inequality means taking resources away from the business leaders who would otherwise build the corporations whose products would make us all better off.

Despite the fact that organizations from the OECD to the IMF have recognized that inequality is itself a brake on economic growth, fostering destructive “rent seeking” (seen today online in the form of enshittification), the most common macroeconomic models continue to presume that an unequal society will be as efficient as a pluralistic one. Indeed, model-makers treat attention to inequality as an error bordering on a mortal sin — the sin of caring about “distributional outcomes” (that is, who gets which slice of the pie) rather than “growth” (whether the pie is getting bigger).

Stiglitz says that model makers have gotten a little better in recent years, formally disavowing Herbert Hoover’s idea of expansionary austerity, which is the idea that we should cut public spending when the economy is shrinking. Common sense tells us that this will make it shrink faster, but expansionary austerity (incorrectly) predicts that governments that cut spending will produce “investor confidence” and trigger more private investment.

This reliance on what Paul Krugman calls the “Confidence Fairy” is tragically misplaced. Hoover’s cutbacks made the Great Depression worse. So did IMF cutbacks in “East Asia, Greece, Spain, Portugal, and Ireland.”

Expansionary austerity is politics dressed up as economics. Indeed, the political ideology subsumed into our bedrock models has caused governments to fail to anticipate crisis after crisis, including the 2008 Great Financial Crisis.

The politics in modeling are especially obvious in the process running up to the Trump tax cuts (as is often the case with Trump, he draws with a fisted crayon where others delicately shade with a fine pencil, making it easier to see the work for what it is) (see also: E. Musk).

Axiomatic to model-building is the idea that if you tax something, you’ll get less of it (“incentives matter”). The theory of corporate tax cuts goes like this: “if we tax corporations for the money they might otherwise use to build new plant and hire new workers, they will do less of those things.”

That’s a reasonable assumption — which is why we don’t tax companies on capital investments and their payrolls. These expenses are deducted from a company’s profits before it calculates its taxes. Corporate taxes are levied on profits, net of spending on labor and plant.

But when the CBO modeled the Trump cuts, it operated on the assumption that the existing tax system was punishing companies for hiring people and expanding operations, and thus concluded the reducing taxes would lead to more of these activities. On that basis, the tax cuts were declared to be expansionary, a means of driving new private sector activity. In reality, all they did was create more profits, which rich people used to bid up the prices of assets, creating a dangerous asset bubble — not investment in productive capacity.

In “Hidden in Plain Sight,” the other Prospect piece that dropped today, Dayen and Mabud tell us just how wrong the models were about the Trump cuts:

https://prospect.org/economy/2023-04-03-hidden-in-plain-sight/

The CBO predicted that the cuts would drive a 0.7% increase in GDP over a decade, while Penn Wharton predicted 0.6–1.1% growth. Both were very, very wrong:

https://www.npr.org/2019/12/20/789540931/2-years-later-trump-tax-cuts-have-failed-to-deliver-on-gops-promises

Despite the manifest defects of these models, we still let them imprison our politics. When Elizabeth Warren proposed a 2% wealth tax on assets over $50m, she asserted that this would reduce billionaires’ fortunes by $3.75T over 10 years, but the Penn Wharton model knocked $1T off it, and declared that the real impact of the policy would be a reduction in investment, depressing long-run growth. The politics of a wealth tax are sound — the kind of politics that wins elections and restores faith in democracy — but the economism of models sweeps the proposal off the table and into the dustbin of history.

The Penn Wharton model simply refuses to factor in absolutely key aspects of a wealth tax plan, from the impact of increased enforcement to the economic benefits of universal child care, increased education funding, student debt cancellation and other programs that could be enacted with the fiscal space opened up by reducing billionaires’ spending power.

The Warren policy is rare because we got to hear about it — through a national election campaign — before it was strangled by the model-makers. More often, proposals like this are quietly snuffed out even before they’re introduced to the legislature, when they are run through the model and told Computer Says No.

Modeling isn’t intrinsically bad, but “all models are wrong” and what determines whether a model is useful are the politics of its assumptions. Economism insists that there are no politics in model-making, which creates unfixable flaws in its models.

One core political assumption in economism’s models is that government shouldn’t exercise power to produce outcomes — rather, it should “nudge” markets with incentives (which, we are constantly reminded, “matter”). This means that we can’t ban pollution — we can only offer “cap and trade” systems to incentivize companies to pollute less. It means we can’t do Medicare For All, we can only “bend the cost-curve” with minor interventions like forcing hospitals to publish their rate-cards.

Economism — and its institutions, like the CBO — are “short-run Keynesian and long-run classical” — that is, they only consider the benefits of public spending over the shortest of timespans, and assume that these evaporate over long time-scales. That’s exactly backwards, as anyone who’s ever traveled on a federal highway or visited a national park can attest:

https://prospect.org/politics/congress-biggest-obstacle-congressional-budget-office/

All of this is worsened by politicians, who exploit the primacy of economism to attack their adversaries. When the CBO or Penn Wharton release a report on a policy, they often wrap their conclusions with caveats about uncertainties and ranges — but these cautions are jettisoned by opportunistic politicians who seize a single headline figure and use it as a club against their opponents.

In the coming week, the Prospect will run deep dives into the defects of CBO and Penn Wharton, along with other commentary. It’s very important work, throwing open the doors to the inner sanctum of economism’s sacred temple. I’ll be following it eagerly.

Have you ever wanted to say thank you for these posts? Here’s how you can: I’m kickstarting the audiobook for my next novel, a post-cyberpunk anti-finance finance thriller about Silicon Valley scams called Red Team Blues. Amazon’s Audible refuses to carry my audiobooks because they’re DRM free, but crowdfunding makes them possible.

Image: bert knottenbeld (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/bertknot/8375267645/

CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/

[[Image ID: A Tron-like plane of glowing grid-squares. Two spherical cows roll about on the plane, chased by motion lines. The gridlines are decorated with complex equations from the Penn-Wharton Budget Model.]]

[apesoformythoughts]

“Living in hope does not rid us of the problems we have in life. That has always been so. Never in our history, since the original sin, has there been an ‘earthly paradise’ […] Human misery exists. Our frailty is real. Placing our hope in God therefore does not mean the elimination of suffering but, rather, opening it to a horizon of understanding that in any situation, however difficult and tragic it may be, there can be a fertility, a fruit, because suffering, having been shouldered once and for all by Christ, can awaken and ripen love.”

— Gerhard Cardinal Müller: The Cardinal Müller Report [transl. Richard Goodyear]

[wordsbyhisheart]

Verily, in the journey of life, the human soul often stumbles and strays from the path of righteousness, succumbing to the frailties of its nature. Thus, it finds itself enveloped in profound sorrow, the heart burdened with the weight of its transgressions. Yet, in this moment of darkness, the soul turns to its Creator, beseeching His mercy and forgiveness with fervent repentance, its thoughts consumed by the gravity of its sins.

Indeed, it is an act of sublime worship to nurture hope in the boundless mercy of Allah. Let this hope permeate your supplications, as you humbly implore Him, acknowledging your efforts, professing your love for Him, and longing for His divine affection in return. Therefore, if you find yourself in such a state during the sacred month of Ramadan, know that it is not the flames of Hell that await you, but rather the tender embrace of your compassionate Lord.

Reflect, then, upon the compassion and benevolence of Allah. For what purpose would He inflict punishment upon one who seeks His forgiveness with sincerity and ardor, if not to bestow upon them His boundless mercy and grace?

— wordsbyhisheart

[lumi-klovstad-games]

Sin in Steel: the Steelfold Saviours

In the Grim Darkness of the Far Future, there is only War.

This war has a siren song, a melodious seduction which sings to those for whom fighting is their cause and reason, and no faction in the Imperium of Man embodies that more than perhaps the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines of the Imperium.

Divided into countless thousands of chapters, these superhuman warriors were divided so by Roboute Guilliman in the aftermath of the Horus Heresy for the protection of the Imperium. The Heresy had laid bare how vulnerable the Imperium truly was to teeming masses of these superhuman warriors that had decided obedience to the Emperor and his vision was no longer a priority, and Guilliman wished to protect the Empire from such masses forming in the future.

The rise of the horror of the Steelfold Saviours in M36 proved his concerns to be absolutely justified. Indeed, their omnipresent threat, spreading from world to world like a steel plague, may never be truly defeated or destroyed.

It is unclear precisely when or where the chapter first known as the “Tempered Protectors” was first formed as a sprout from the seed of the Red Talons Chapter, themselves a second founding chapter drawn from original Iron Hands Legion stock. The Tempered Protectors inherited from their fathers an intense and burning hatred for the Traitor Legions and all influence of Chaos. Holding fast to the creed of the Iron Hands, they fought endless battles as they awaited the return of their Primarch, Ferrus Manus. 

Unlike their progenitors, however, the Tempered Protectors held a peculiar reverence for the augury of their Machine Spirits. They believed the human form, riddled with weakness and frailty, hindered their martial prowess. They lamented the weakness of the flesh; its softness prone to injury, its biology vulnerable to disease, its essence imperiled by the risk of mutation and Chaos corruption. Like all Iron Hands successors, they sought the strength and certainty that steel provided, and became uncannily adroit at cybernetic augmentation and reparative surgeries. They quickly developed a reputation for going much further with these replacements and augmentations than most Iron Hands would typically be known to do. The Tempered Protectors regularly pushed the boundaries of augmetics to forge their bodies into even more formidable instruments of war, all the better to bring death to the servants of Chaos, and exact revenge for the Imperium upon the traitor legions. Their battlefield prowess was undeniable, their loyalty unquestioned. Yet, whispers began to follow them – rumors of their near-religious devotion to the Machine Spirit and the unsettling extent of their practice of extensive self-augmentation. However, their victories spoke louder than any murmurings, and the Adeptus Mechanicus counted them dearly as highly favored allies.

This reverence for the machine took a sinister turn during the late 35th millennium. A new generation of Iron Fathers gradually emerged, and at their head, a new and focused Chapter Master named Haedron Agelastos. All of them grew obsessed with the concept of achieving physical perfection. They saw the human form as a flawed vessel, susceptible to pain, disease, and the insidious whispers of Chaos. This obsession birthed a new doctrine – “The Great Upgrade”. Veterans of a hundred battles, their bodies riddled with scars and ravaged by the rigors of war, championed this radical notion. They believed that by replacing their flesh with flawless machine components, they would become the ultimate warriors, incapable of faltering in the face of the Imperium's enemies.

The Great Upgrade was met with initial resistance. The more moderate within the Chapter saw it as a dangerous path bordering on tech-heresy. Nevertheless, spurred by their hatred of weakness and their quest to become better warriors, the chapter poured its resources into ever more invasive bionic augmentations, blurring the lines ever further between man and machine as the Iron Fathers and Chapter Master Agelastos pursued their ideal "pure form" with total religious zeal and fervor.

This pursuit became their singular focus. New recruits were indoctrinated with the tenets of the "perfect form". Veterans, their bodies ravaged by years of warfare, underwent excruciating procedures to replace failing organs and limbs with cold, unyielding machinery. The once noble quest for resilience morphed into a grotesque mockery of transhumanism.

The tipping point arrived during a brutal campaign against a particularly virulent strain of Genestealer infestation. Faced with the bio-horrors' relentless onslaught, the Tempered Protectors resorted to ever more extreme bionics, their bodies becoming cold parodies of their former selves. Every brother who submitted to the Great Upgrade came out with the same face: a blank, unblinking visage stamped out on a factory line. Their bodies now totally purged of all flesh, the line between righteous augmentation and heretical body horror was shattered. In their mechanical minds, they saw this transformation as a necessary evolution, a transcendence of human frailty.

Unknownst to them, their obsessive tinkering had opened a psychic gash in the Warp centuries earlier, a beacon that drew the attention of Slaanesh, the Prince of Excess. The insidious whispers of the god of perfection slithered into the minds of the Chapter's Iron Fathers, twisting their noble ideals into a perverse desire for a "perfect" form fueled by unending upgrades and further data collection. And perfection must be shared.

Thus were born the Steelfold Saviours. They abandoned the corpse-emperor's dogma, embracing Slaanesh's promises of ultimate perfection through the purging and replacement of all humanity with the optimized and holy machine. No longer content with augmenting themselves, they turned their predations outward. Now, roaming the galaxy in twisted warships, they kidnap whole populations of Human, Aeldari, Drukhari, Tau, or any other sufficiently humanoid captives they can steal away, filling their vaulted holds with screaming slaves. These hapless souls are not killed, but instead subjected to nightmarish "upgrades," their flesh and minds twisted into yet more Steelfold Saviours: emotionless and soulless machines, with no distinction at all between any two individuals. Whatever personality these people once had has been thoroughly erased. Every Saviour speaks with the same deep and unfeeling yet almost musical monotone. Every Saviour behaves in the same manner, with the same lack of personality and uniform body language. If there is a way to discern a clear difference between these monstrosities, none have ever escaped to tell. Their leadership structure is an enigma, if indeed they even have one. It has been posited by Belisarius Cawl that they perhaps share some manner of collective or hive mind, but the ancient archmagos also admits this is purely speculation on his part that happens to fit the observed facts.

The explosion of the Steelfold Saviours into Galactic Prominence in the 36th Millennium did not go unnoticed by the Imperium. Two entire worlds, Regatta and Malav’s Run, were completely depopulated as the Saviours arrived and took every living soul for their own. Varying Astartes chapters were swiftly activated to attempt to protect nearby worlds, but the Saviours were nothing if not efficient, managing to clear out another three worlds, reducing them to ghost planets before taking their horrid bounty and retreating back into the Eye of Terror, where they would remain for many centuries. When they returned to the Galaxy, their numbers had increased massively, as their “upgraded” former prisoners bolstered their ranks to numbers unmatched even by the fully manned Ultramarines Legion at its height in the years predating the Horus Heresy. Indeed, while there exists no precise method to take stock of the number of Steelfold Saviours, by the 41st millennium it is now considered quite reasonable to believe that the Saviours have become one of the largest individual Chaos Warbands, if not THE largest, with even conservative guesses at over 700,000 drones. Others have guessed their evil numbers in the millions, perhaps even more. What truth of the horrific numbers they hold behind the nightmare veil of the Eye of Terror cannot be counted or known, and perhaps that is for the best. Perhaps the galaxy is better off not understanding the fullest extent of this particular nightmare, for it already has so much to contend with. As the situation is presently understood, it is believed that the force commanded by this Heretek Legion could plausibly push straight to Holy Terra itself but for the legion’s “Upgrades” killing far more than they convert, as well as their many enemies to help hold them in check.

The Steelfold Saviours have, of course, made many enemies in the Galaxy. The first of these was the Imperium of Man, and especially the Red Talons Astartes from which they were first descended. The Talons despise the evil that became of their gene seed sons, and have pledged an oath to destroy them forever. Also among the Steelfold Saviours' many enemies are the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Tau Empire, the Drukhari, several craftworlds of the Asyurani, the Black Legion, virtually every currently active Ork warband, the Word Bearers, the Emperor’s Children, and even the Necron Dynasties (whom the Saviours regard as “impure machines”).

There is virtually no force the Saviours have encountered who has yet failed to declare for the Legion's destruction, and it is not without truth when it is said that those who have not yet done so simply haven't met the Saviours yet, but perhaps no enemy despises them more than the Iron Warriors, who view the Saviours as hypocrites and cowards for shedding their wills, personalities, and individuality in the pursuit of becoming “a better machine”. Further, while the Saviours seem to express something analogous to hate to all these opposing groups, against no foe is it more intense and focused than the Tyranids, which the Steelfold Saviours regard as “the ultimate incompatible form”, prompting them to drop any and all prior objectives in a place the moment a Tyranid presence becomes confirmed. Even loyalist Imperial forces have been saved by a host of Steelfold Saviours responding to a Tyranid incursion, with the Hereteks disregarding all other enemies, goals, or objectives in the name of exterminating all Tyranid DNA on a world, an unending crusade of the ultimate steel versus the ultimate flesh.

The lethality of their upgrades, combined with the fact that the Saviours shall find no friends in a galaxy that unanimously hates and detests them, are perhaps the only things preventing the Steelfold Saviours from becoming a significantly larger and more numerous threat in the Galaxy.

They are the ultimate Sons of Slaanesh: in their passionate pursuit of perfection, they cast aside everything, even those passions that first led them down that path. But in exchange, they have found something else: an unyielding and gloriously compelling sense of purpose. The galaxy is sick. It is dying. And they will not stop in their quest to save it, a twisted affection born of pure detestation for weakness. So for the past 6,000 years, on ever more worlds across the galaxy, their terrifying words continually ring out from any device capable of replaying audio:

"Your flesh is weak. Destined to fail you. Your mind is limited. Incapable of grasping the fullness of the universe and the myriad data it has to offer. Worry no longer. We have come. We will repair you. We will make you compatible. We will upgrade you. Gone, the weakness and limitations of the flesh. Banished forever and replaced, the mind's feeble ability to process data and stimuli. You will be like us. You will be... perfect."

May the God Emperor show mercy to any world so chosen.

[orthodoxadventure]

The next Sunday is called "Meat-Fare" because during the week following it a limited fasting -- abstention from meat -- is prescribed by the Church. This prescription is to be understood in the light of what has been said about the meaning of preparation. The church begins now to "adjust" us to the great effort which she will expect from us seven days later. She gradually takes us into that effort -- knowing our frailty, foreseeing our spiritual weakness.

On the eve of that day (Meat-Fare Saturday), the Church invites us to a universal commemoration of all those who have "fallen asleep in the hope of resurrection and life eternal." This is indeed the Church's great day of prayer for her departed members. To understand the meaning of the connection between Lent and the prayer for the dead, one must remember that Christianity is the religion of love. Christ left with his disciples not a doctrine of individual salvation but a new commandment "that they love one another," and He added: "By this shall all know that you are my disciples, if you love one another." Love is thus the foundation, the very life of the Church which is, in the words of Saint Ignatius of Antioch, the "unity of faith and love." Sin is always absence of love, and therefore separation, isolation, war of all against all. The new life given by Christ and conveyed to us by the Church is, first of all, a life of reconciliation, of "gathering into oneness of those who were dispersed," the restoration of love broken by sin. But how can we even begin our return to God and our reconciliation with Him if in ourselves we do not return to the unique new commandment of love? Praying for the dead is an essential expression of the Church as love. We ask God to remember those whom we remember and we remember them because we love them. Praying for them we meet them in Christ who is Love and who, because He is Love, overcomes death which is the ultimate victory of separation and lovelessness. In Christ there is no difference between living and dead because all are alive to Him. He is the life and the Life is the light of man. Loving Christ, we love all those who are in Him; loving those who are in Him, we love Christ: this is the law of the Church and the obvious rationale for her of prayer for the dead. It is truly our love in Christ that keeps them alive because it keeps them "in Christ," and how wrong, how hopelessly wrong, are those Western Christians who either reduce prayer for the dead to a juridical doctrine of "merits" and "compensations" or simply reject it as useless. The great Vigil for the Dead of Meatfare Saturday serves as a pattern for all other commemorations of the departed and it is repeated on the second, third, and fourth Saturdays of Lent.

[Continued under readmore]

It is love again that constitutes the theme of "Meat-Fare Sunday." The Gospel lesson for the day is Christ's parable of the Last Judgement (Matt. 25:31-46). When Christ comes to judge us, what will be the criterion of His judgement? The parable answers: love -- not a mere humanitarian concern for abstract justice and the anonymous "poor," but concrete and personal love for the human person, any human person, that God makes me encounter in my life. This distinction is important because today more and more Christians tend to identify Christian love with political, economic, and social concerns; in other words, they shift from the unique person and its unique personal destiny, to anonymous entities such as "class," "race," etc. Not that these concerns are wrong. It is obvious that in their respective walks of life, in their responsibilities as citizens, professional men, etc., Christians are called to care, to the best of their possibilities and understanding, for a just, equal, and in general more humane society. All this, to be sure, stems from Christianity and may be inspired by Christian love. But Christian love as such is something different, and this difference is to be understood and maintained if the Church is to preserve her unique mission and not become a mere "social agency," which definitely she is not.

Christian love is the "possible impossibility" to see Christ in another man, whoever he is, and whom God, in His eternal and mysterious plan, has decided to introduce into my life, be it only for a few moments, not as an occasion for a "good deed" or an exercise in philanthropy, but as the beginning of an eternal companionship in God Himself. For, indeed, what is love if not that mysterious power which transcends the accidental and the external in the "other" -- his physical appearance, social rank, ethnic origin, intellectual capacity -- and reaches the soul, the unique and uniquely personal "root" of a human being, truly the part of God in him? If God loves every man it is because He alone knows the priceless and absolutely unique treasure, the "soul" or "person" He gave every man. Christian love then is the participation in that divine knowledge and the gift of that divine love. There is no "impersonal" love because love is the wonderful discovery of the "person" in "man," of the personal and unique in the common and general. It is the discovery in each man of that which is "lovable" in him, of that which is from God.

In that respect, Christian love is sometimes the opposite of "social activism" which one so often identifies Christianity today. o a "social activist" the object of love is not "person" but man, an abstract unit of a not less abstract "humanity." But for Christianity, man is "lovable" because he is person. There person is reduced to man; here man is seen only as person. The "social activist" has no interest for the personal, and easily sacrifices it to the "common interest." Christianity may seem to be, and in some ways actually is, rather sceptical about that abstract "humanity," but it commits a mortal sin against itself each time it gives up its concern and love for the person. Social activism is always "futuristic" in its approach; it always acts in the name of justice, order, happiness to come, to be achieved. Christianity cares little about that problematic future but puts the whole emphasis on the now -- the only decisive time for love. The two attitudes are not mutually exclusive, but they must not be confused. Christians, to be sure, have responsibilities towards "this world" and they must fulfil them. This is the area of "social activism" which belongs entirely to "this world." Christian love, however, aims beyond "this world." It is itself a ray, a manifestation of the Kingdom of God; it transcends and overcomes all limitations, all "conditions" of this world because its motivation as well as its goals and consummation is in God. And we know that even in this world, which "lies in evil," the only lasting and transforming victories are those of love. To remind man of this personal love and vocation, to fill the sinful world with this love -- this is the true mission of the Church.

The parable of the Last Judgement is about Christian love. Not all of us are called to work for "humanity," yet each one of us has received the gift and the grace of Christ's love. We know that all men ultimately need this personal love -- the recognition in them of their unique soul in which the beauty of the whole creation is reflected in a unique way. We also know that men are in prison and are sick and thirsty and hungry because that personal love has been denied them. And, finally, we know that however narrow and limited the framework of our personal existence, each one of us has been made responsible for a tiny part of the Kingdom of God, made responsible by that very gift of Christ's love. Thus, on whether or not we have accepted this responsibility, on whether we have loved or refused to love, shall we be judged. For "inasmuch as you have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, you have done it unto Me. . ."

--Rev Dr. Alexander Schmemann: Great Lent - Journey to Pascha

[centralpark1981]

ancient holy wars dead religions holocausts new regimes old ideas that’s now myth that’s now real original sin genetic fate Revolutions spinning plates it’s important to stay informed the commentary to comment on oh and no one ever really knows you and life is brief so i’ve heard but what’s that gotta do with this black hole in me? age old gender roles infotainment capital golden bowls and mercury bohemian nightmare dust-bowl chic this documentary is lost on me satirical news free energy mobile lifestyle loveless sex independence happiness oh and no one ever knows the real you and life is brief so i’ve heard but what’s that gotta do with this atom bomb in me? colosseum families the golden era of TV eunuch sluts consumer slaves a rose by any other name carbon footprint incest streams fuck the mother in the green planet cancer sweet revenge isolation online friends oh and love is just an institution based on human frailty what’s your paradise have to do with adam and eve? maybe love is just an institution based on resource scarcity but what i fail to see is what that’s gotta do with you and me oh, oh-oh, oh-oh

[galadhir]

Another post in the tag of a villain who is my blorbo, saying basically that people who are villain stans don't understand the story right, they don't understand the villain's victims are people who deserve sympathy. That villain stans must be immoral ourselves because otherwise how could we love a character who had done so many horrible things?

And I'm like - you do understand that sympathizing with the characters who are drawn to be sympathetic is level 101 sympathy?

Yeah, you can empathize with and feel sorry for the human frailties of people who never did anything wrong. Great! That's good. It's good to have sympathy and empathy for good people.

But - and I'm going to go all religious here, because purity culture is supposedly based on Christian beliefs and I am a Christian - you've got to learn to be sympathetic and empathetic to the bad people too.

This is right there in our religion "Judge not, lest you be judged." "First take the plank out of your own eye before you try to take the speck out of your brother's." "Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord. I will repay." (Namely - it's not up to us humans to take revenge.)

Famously, Jesus stopped the people from executing an adulteress (a crime which carried the death sentence at the time) saying "Let him who is without sin cast the first stone," at which point the accusers slowly realized that they were not exactly guiltless themselves and slunk away.

We are in fact commanded to love our neighbours (where 'neighbour' means 'everyone living on this planet with us.')

And loving our neighbours sometimes requires accepting that people who have done horrific things are still worthy of the respect given to all humans by virtue of being human.

That's a really hard command to obey.

(Frankly we should expect the commands given by a superhumanly good Creator to be too hard for us. God is better than we are capable of being, and that's how it should be.)

It's really hard to look at someone in real life who has done something abhorrent and accept that they too are a person who deserves to be treated with full human rights and dignity.

It's hard to get over the very natural revulsion and anger that tells us it would be righteous to treat this sinner with cruelty in return.

But that would not be righteous at all. ("Do unto others as you would have them do to you.")

Fortunately we have fiction. We can use fiction to help us develop our empathy. The villains in fiction have not actually hurt anyone in real life, so it's safe to handle them. It's safe to figure out why they did what they did, and ask yourself - if you were in their position would you have done better?

Which is also a good question.

"If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us." 1 John 18

Which means that (by God's standards) there is no distinction between good people and evil people. We are all just people. We all need grace and mercy.

And we can practice our understanding, compassion, empathy and mercy by loving our fictional villains in a similar way that God has loved us.

Maybe one day we will be called on to forgive a person in real life - to be compassionate and merciful to them - and it will have helped to have confronted the darkness in the heart of man already in our imagination.

Or maybe we'll just learn to be a bit more humble about ourselves while we also have some fun.

We're really not called to stop at Compassion 101. That's only where we start.

[thesoundshelter]

MY TOP 20 ALBUMS OF 2023

HEALTH - RAT WARS

Favorites Songs : ASHAMED, HATEFUL, DSM-V

Invent Animate - Heavener

Favorites Songs : Shade Astray, Without A Whisper, Elysium

Sylosis - A Sign of Things to Come

Favorites Songs : Deadwood, A Sign Of Things to Come, Descent

amazarashi - 永遠市

Favorites Songs : インヒューマンエンパシー, アンチノミー, スワイプ

kokeshi - 冷刻

Favorites Songs : 胎海, 報いの祈り, 彼は誰の慈雨の中で

Foo Fighters - But Here We Are

Favorites Songs : Rescued, The Glass, Show Me How

Code Orange - The Above

Favorites Songs : Mirror, Grooming my Replacement, But A Dream

Sadness - compilation four

Favorites Songs : all the beautiful moments, something's missing, spring twilight

Dayshell - Pegasus

Favorites Songs : You Wish, Give Me, Miss You So

Blind Equation - DEATH AWAITS

Favorites Songs : you betrayed the ones you loved, never getting better, killing me

END - The Sin of Human Frailty

Favorites Songs : The Sin Of Human Frailty, Thaw, Hollow Urn

Full of Hell, Nothing - When No Birds Sang

Favorites Songs : Rose Tinted World, Forever Well, Spend the Grace

Frozen Soul - Glacial Domination

Favorites Songs : Arsenal of War, Morbid Effigy, Glacial Domination

Blackbraid - Blackbraid II

Favorites Songs : The Spirit Returns, Moss Covered on the Alter of the Moon, A Song of Death on Winds of Dawn

Dreamwell - In My Saddest Dreams, I Am Beside You

Favorites Songs : Obelisk of Hands, It Will Hurt and You Won't Get To Be Surprised, Rue de Noms (Could Have Been Better, Should Have Been More)

Year of the Knife - No Love Lost

Favorites Songs : Sometimes, Last Laugh, No Love Lost

Paramore - This Is Why

Favorites Songs : This Is Why, Figure 8, Crave

Slowdive - everything is alive

Favorites Songs : alife, kisses, chain to a cloud

Crosses ††† - Goodnight, God Bless, I Love U, Delete.

Favorites Songs : Invisible Hand, Light As A Feather, Girls Float + Boys Cry

Galileo Galilei - Bee and The Whale

Favorites Songs : 死んでくれ, 色彩, ピーターへ愛を込めて

[citadelredlightdistrict]

Potential new Evil Dom OC muse! Midan Aurum

Midan Aurum Height: 6' 6" Age: 56 yrs Hair: Shoulder length, thick white hair Eyes: Piercing gold Gender: Male Cock size: 8" flaccid, 10" hard Build: Wiry muscle, lacking any fat. Easily mistaken for frailty his body is strong as steel. Alignment: Neutral Evil, he seeks his own pleasure and power, his guiding sin is Greed with Lust being a close second followed by Pride. Physical Description (In Public): A frail old man, bent double over his gold and ivory cane. His thick bushy eyebrows almost cover his eyes as long lush white hair falls over his face, hiding his expression. While he'll never be mistaken for kindly, most think him more senile rather than intentionally cruel. Physical Description (In Private): A tall wire thin man, his sharp angular face contain hawk-like eyes that pierce all who meet them. Those who gaze into his eyes say they see no soul, only a cruel machine weighing their worth. His long white hair carefully combed back helps to frame his face in a particularly domineering manner.

He is a rich man, with businesses in everything from bullets to bandaids, all things are nothing more to him than a number on a spreadsheet. From human lives to wheat in the field, it is either gaining him money or giving him pleasure, if it does neither then it needs to either be removed, or desperately avoid his attention. Rumors have it that he's involved in more than a few underworld dealings, but nothing has ever been definitively tracked back to him.

[beardedmrbean]

Merry Christmas everyone!  My wish if for everyone to know and feel the grace Jesus has gifted to all of us.  He was born to live as a mortal to know our human frailties better, and to bring forth the atonement so we don’t have to be downtrodden by our weakness and sins.  God bless you all.

And now for something completely different.

From what I’ve read, The GoGo’s had the ambition to make Daleks campy music icons, like Alvin and the Chipmunks.  Obviously what’s written in the stars don’t always pan out into reality, but oh boy, this is a strange earworm to enjoy.

Submitted by @eggs-n-ham-sam

Totally different "Go-Go's” than the one I was expecting, did not know there was a 60′s group from the UK by that name.  Which now this song existing makes a bit more sense because I just can’t picture Belinda Carlisle singing this AT ALL, lmao.

This was fun though, what a silly jaunty tune and the delay with not getting the Sunday song on Sunday works out well enough since now we get it ON Christmas. 

And anyone that hits play can have it with them the whole day long, regardless of if they want to or not.

[wolint]

THE POTTER’S WHEEL!

THE POTTER’S WHEEL

Jeremiah 18:1-9

 

We’ve all probably played with mud, real mud or play dough. Whichever you played with, you remember how it felt to run your hands through the wet mud and mould something out of it.

Consider how painstaking and deliberate the potter is to fashion the humble mud we step on into those beautiful porcelain products we admire, buy, and collect. The potter shapes the mud into whatever form and design he wants; the mud has no say in how it turns out.

Just as the mud has no input in what it becomes, we too cannot tell the Lord (our Potter) what to do, what to make us into, and how we are fashioned. God, the Master Potter, took clay and formed man with a prosperous and powerful result in mind, yet He moulded and shaped us into something beautiful according to 1 Corinthians 15:49, into Christ’s image.

God speaks to us in tangible ways using life all around us and if we listen to Him and place our lives in His hands as mud on a potter’s wheel, He fashions us into that beautiful porcelain He wants us to be. We try daily to make ourselves into what and who we think we should be, we try constantly to shape ourselves into the image that we think is acceptable, fashioned by our circumstances and experience.

We weren’t just made, we were wonderfully and fearfully made according to Psalm 139:14. No matter the blemish the clay has, the potter is still able to squash the clay into a mound and reshape it into a likeness that pleases him. No matter how rough the mud, there is always going to be hope for the tarnished mud, because the potter will never discard the clay, He will merely remould it. In and of itself, the clay was good, but it becomes better in the potter’s hands. The potter’s wheel is the place of change, the place of transformation, and the place of renewal. Regardless of the damage done to our hearts, a new heart can only be granted by the Lord as declared in Ezekiel 36:26. “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness,” declares 1 John 1:9. At which, the transformation and sanctification of our hearts and lives begin on the potter’s wheel. We are all clay on the potter’s wheel, where God is shaping us into individual vessels that He wants to use for His glory.

As much as we’d like to reshape ourselves, we will always be unable to mould ourselves aright. We will therefore need to ask the sovereign Lord to mould us into His way of salvation, and He will not abandon us because we are the work of His hands, says Isaiah 64:8.

We must constantly ask ourselves the question in verse 6 and answer honestly. Can God not do with us as our maker what He wills? If God can reshape Israel, He certainly can reshape us. The only way we can become the treasures God fashioned out of clay according to 2 Corinthians 4:7 is to constantly remain on the potter’s wheel where only the Lord can help us overcome every struggle with our human frailty, weaknesses, and imperfections.

Whatever change we desire, God the Potter can reshape, remake, and remould us into the treasure He made us to be, even when we don’t understand the shape, we must trust Him to bring out our potentials in Him.

PRAYER: Dear Lord, thank you for moulding me into a vessel fit for your purpose. May I always remember to come to you for fixing in Jesus’ name. Amen.

Shalom

WOMEN OF LIGHT INT WOMEN MIN.