Malthus my boy,
I cannot blame you for this specific issue that we now face, although your periodic bungling up until this point has made this more likely. I debated as to whether this was the moment where I should finally end your career, however the situation is too delicate and we are in too far. Replacing you with someone else would do me no good at this time, and as much fun as I had the other day on the ground, I will not be blamed for this if things are not remedied. This is your bed; you have made it and now you will sleep in it, for better or for worse. The pressure is on my boy. If you right the ship, I will look like a master for mentoring you; if you fail I will ensure that The Powers that Be know exactly how much you are at fault.
The mother said a prayer with her son and daughter. Not any prayer, but that excruciating angelic salutation and petition and praise to the Fearful Incarnation. She said only one, but one is sometimes all that is needed to scuttle our plans. To be fair you did follow my orders from the last letter and kept her mind off of harmful contemplations of the Enemy, even during her most melancholic moments. And you did prepare her for an ignition of prideful resistance to any logical argument in favour of the Christian position. However, she was led by a certain instinct that we can rarely root out of a person.
The reason you could not think or act clearly as she approached her son’s room is easily explained. That blasted melody and poetic cadence that evoked a sickening gentleness is called Chant. The boy and his sister were watching a presentation of the Sacrifice on his computer, and the deafening harmony that emanated into the hallway was the music that accompanied the liturgy. I understand you have heard of this during your education, but it is so excruciating, even paralysing, that you never learn it by experience until you are in the field. Furthermore, we cannot bring ourselves to recreate it, as it is too painful and dreadful. It has a double effect; on the one hand it provides a repulsive protection against our advances, and on the other hand it hypnotizes humans for the Enemy’s purposes. It does not attract all humans I might add, for those who are deeply reprogrammed by our exquisite atonal noise, the simplicity of Chant actually hurts their heads. Alas, the mother is not one of these helpful heathens. Her internal homesickness primed her for an effortless reception, which is why even a faint flickering of that abhorrent sound was enough to redirect her on her way to her bedroom.
We have achieved great levels of success during the closures of churches sponsored by Church and State, but the transmission of services by way of electronic communication has unfortunately spread a visual representation of the most ancient liturgies. Our liturgical expert, the Son of Baal, did extraordinary work to dismantle the primary rituals of the Church some decades ago. The results have been outstanding. However, as the believers become whittled down to a more dedicated and resilient bunch, their curiosity for all but forgotten traditions has grown miserably. The altered rituals suffice during in-person services, but their aesthetic deficiencies are too obviously grotesque when placed on film. As a result, many with no previous desire for antiquated memorials have gravitated to the rites they believe are more aesthetically pleasurable. Many of the Christians have never attended an event such as these, thankfully. But, the mother was reminded of her grandmother’s funeral—which was done according to the older lamentable rubrics—when she heard that particular tone wafting out of the room.
There was, I admit, little you could do when this happened. If only the boy had turned off the video when his mother waltzed into the room, but instead he just stared at her while she gazed at the screen as if watching a resurrected ancestor.
We still cannot build anything that legitimately competes with what the humans consider true beauty. At best we can exalt distracting elements and focal points in order to have a person contemplate fleeting things. The modern liturgy still contains that detestable Sacrifice, but it is happily hidden in a noisy affair that focuses on man, with everything on a horizontal plane. The congregants may parrot a variety of pious responses to the priest in the contemporary rubrics, but when he says “lift up your hearts,” they mutter their futile jargon while staring a man straight in the face. The rites from antiquity were inspired by the Son Himself, and therefore all attention is taken off of the mundane and the believers are forced to look higher during periods of quiet reverence. Do you see how dangerous this is? Although the mother was not there in person, the experience stood in such stark contrast to the useful ugliness of her life.
It is a double-edged sword you see; on the one hand we have made the world and liturgy uglier than it has ever been, but on the other hand this means that relics of an ancient aesthetic and purity capture the attention of unprepared humans with unfortunate effectiveness. As I mentioned earlier, the mother has not been sufficiently reprogrammed in order that she may properly detest this sort of beauty. Ironically if she were a frequent church-goer at a location that utilizes ceremonial novelties, we would have had a better shot at repulsing her in this instance. I cannot tell you how exquisite it is to witness those who profess devotion to the Enemy become agitated when they attend the same liturgy that all of their saints and grandparents frequented. Some of the most fruitful episodes of uncharity have taken place on behalf of those who have grown accustomed to the new routines. It is as if they truly believe that their Church began but a few decades ago, and that anything opposed to the current manifestation—a manifestation that has splendidly increased the auto-destruction of the Church—is somehow against the Enemy’s wishes. The internal inconsistency necessary to unyieldingly defend a representation of their religion that is also the cause or symptom of the religion’s steep decline, is extraordinary. There are even believers and clerics who actively advocate against the ancient languages in their rites. They express an idea that has no basis in real facts, that apparently the pagans of the world will respond better if the faith is presented in their tongue. I adore these useful idiots, they ignore history, tradition, and even basic statistical analysis; they do our job for us.
For all the good we have done in confusing the Christians about their own worship, this generation of neo-pagans we have produced is lamentably susceptible to the old tactics that plagued our efforts during the horrible periods of mass conversion. I am afraid there may be more like the mother if this sort of thing continues, and we must act quickly within this household if we are to kibosh any further advance. Doubtless the son is over the moon that his mother has softened to his position, even to the point of saying a prayer with him and his sister. If we had control over him at this time I would encourage him to level a barrage of apologetics in her direction as a way of overwhelming her delicate state.
I will consult my old mentor straight away and come up with a plan. For the moment continue with the normal temptations in an unrelenting fashion in hopes that a fatigue of resistance will have an effect. Also, keep an extremely close eye on the son, he is no doubt scheming as to how he can trap his mother in the Enemy’s camp. Send me word immediately if anything troubling arises.
Until next time,
To be continued next week.
Editor’s note: this serialization is from the novella Lockdown with the Devil.
Kennedy Hall is a contributing editor for OnePeterFive. He is the author Terror of Demons: Reclaiming Traditional Catholic Masculinity and Lockdown with the Devil, a novel published by Our Lady of Victory Press. He is a writer at Catholic Family News, LifeSiteNews and is the host of the Conservative talk-radio show, The Kennedy Report. He is married with four children and lives in Ontario, Canada.