Beyond the Alamo: A Christian View on Immigration

Michael Colhaze 

March 9, 2010

When small men cast long shadows, the sun will settle soon.

                                           Proverb

 

And then there was that dear old lass

Who loved to shelter cats en mass.

She took in one, she took in two

And welcomed many others too.

But on the day they buried her

It was a rather sad affair

There was so little left of her.

                                        Birmingham Ribaldry 

A while ago I went to visit friends in Germany. They live in the mythical Black Forest, not far from a town where the famous author and Nobelist Hermann Hesse was born. My friends are enlightened Catholics, habitually indulging in the aesthetic glory of a well-ordered High Mass.  

Until recently. Because recently their parish priest accepted the proverbial apple, offered by a determined Eve with angelic features and lovely hips. Which led to her impregnation and his unconditional dismissal. The latter signed by the regional bishop with a few footnotes we better do not reprint here, for fear to scuttle the shop once and for all.  

In any case, my friend’s parish and its worshippers had to do without a shepherd, for the simple reason that the Holy Church is rattled by a shocking shortage of healthy young men who are prepared to perform the pastorate while forswearing God’s finest gift to man, namely a spot of glorious mating and, in consequence, a happy family. A shortage that leads also, as we are gleefully reminded every second day by the enemies of Christendom and their agitprop outlets, to the occasional employment of unhealthy ones.  

As for the missing shepherd in my friend’s parish, the big Wallah mulled the matter over in his Roman labyrinth, and one day, Hallelujah, a replacement arrived. Freshly imported from Poland, healthy for sure but somewhat rustic in appearance, with a big moustache and generally unshaven, plus a strong whiff of onion and vodka on the breath. His German was not exactly perfect, and even though my command of that language is passable, I clearly missed the point when I heard him once. His first official act during the festivities for his instalment was to squeeze the mayor’s wife’s bottom after getting drunk.  

Now the mayor is, as befits a proper mayor in modern Germany, politically correct by every definition. The same is true for his wife and her bottom, the latter particularly because it is so big. The misdemeanour elicited only a strained smile and nothing else, because anything more to the point could have been misinterpreted as racism or worse, a true receipt for political suicide if ever there was one. 

Now this piece isn’t about the insanity of modern politics, but its mirror-image in the world of Christian affairs.  

As to the new instalment, it wasn’t a success. Rather the opposite, since the bloodletting among the congregation accelerated instead of slowing down. Though mind you, nothing against Poles! I had two Polish masons rebuild my house, and they were honest, excellent craftsmen who did a marvellous job. I only needed to keep a sharp eye on the vodka bottle while they were busy. Which throws a light on the import of Polish priests and their affinity to hard booze. And which in turn throws, and not only with this particular facet, an even sharper light on the suicidal lunacy of the Roman Catholic Curia.  

My children grew up in Italy, in a tiny village in the Alpine foothills. Their kindergarten was run by Catholic nuns, generally middle-aged and more, some rather well-rounded, some thin like beanstalks, and together the happiest and gentlest lot imaginable. If ever there was someone who fully understood and lived Christ’s message of Love and Compassion without a hidden agenda or ulterior motive, it was them. The same can be said of our parish priest, a calm and friendly gentleman who did his best to introduce a bunch of unruly boys to the origins and essentials of our once great civilisation.       

These lowest echelons are, and always have been, the backbone of Christianity. It is they who have quietly renounced any ambition and serve their flock wherever some bigwig has sent them. Which can be a sleepy little village, a hideous slum in a decaying metropolis, or a stretch of bug-infested jungle in Central Africa. Unfortunately, attitudes change radically with growing responsibility and the need to maintain a status quo as perceived by the top hierarchy. The bishop of Verona, for example, only some thirty miles to the west, was one of the most despised and hated men in the region. Why? Because he owned half of the houses in that city’s beautiful historical centre, all written over to him by some old biddies and geezers who, towards the end of their lives, got worried about past sins and thus hoped to buy their ticket into Paradise. As to the bishop, he didn’t rent even one apartment to the many young people who were desperately looking for accommodation, but left them all unoccupied, simply because the laws that protected tenants were not to his taste.  

This is what I was told, and have no reason to disbelieve. And why should I? With one marvellous exception, namely the reign of John XXIII, a man great in his candour and simple in his greatness, every pope in recent times has, as far as I can see, behaved in the same way as the above-mentioned bishop of Verona. Not a hint of the Fisherman’s adage, but Machiavelli all along the line. And that to a degree which future generations might well condemn as a short-sighted, utterly egoistic, suicidal trickery which finally led to the collapse of the one great pillar that has sustained for two thousand years our incomparable European culture. Not to mention the downright genocide of those poor suckers in Africa and elsewhere who believed that condoms were counterproductive to their spiritual salvation.  

The Machiavellian angle is perhaps a logical explanation why the Curia refuses so steadfastly to loosen the stranglehold of celibacy, even though there has been a partly successful attempt to undo it during the Second Vatican Council (1962 – 1965). Initiated by the above mentioned great pope who saw clearly that the Church had a sacred responsibility to confront the profound changes of time. And undone again by his murky successor Paul VI as soon as he was safely underground. Imagine the said Curia would have to pay not only for a priest, but also his spouse and their offspring, especially if the former took Catholic doctrine serious and fathered plenty of the latter. There is little doubt that the Bank of the Holy Spirit would go bust in no time at all. If it isn’t broke already, with or without Goldman Sachs. Whereby the latter is a perfectly reasonable suspicion, since those crooks have ruined better people than the successors of Cardinal Marcinkus and his gang — including a bit of blackmail to silence those who might think of going public with a detail or two.   

Every generation has to reconsider and authenticate age-old mores, in this way adapting them to the changing times. And if these times witness, as they do now, a concerted assault on the Christian-European civilization and its legitimate heirs, strategies for a determined and morally sound defence become paramount, if not life-saving. Whereby morally sound is the crux of the matter.   

I am a cheerful grassroots believer. My faith, plucked from Christ’s teachings and buttressed by a few admirable mystics, European and Indian alike, stands firm. No matter if you are a nihilist, atheist or evolutionist, you don’t have an explanation for the Big Bang as the cause of everything that arrived in its wake. But I have! For me the only logical explanation is a benevolent God who has created this marvellous world and regaled us with a grandiose, bountiful and immensely beautiful garden. A garden that easily would sustain man and beast alike, were it not for human greed and stupidity. The latter as the result of something called Free Will, an enigma still in a state of maturation, and therefore responsible for ninety nine percent of our assorted miseries. If I listen to a nightingale’s song, taste a ripe strawberry, watch a child’s smile or caress the cheeks of my woman, I understand that Love is an essential part of God’s Creation. Consequently I believe it not only to be a gift, but also a code of comportment that will eventually enable me to reunite with my Creator and enjoy Life Eternal.  

This is where we come to the problem. A Christian one. 

Most people, namely those with peaceful intentions and the hope to be treated peacefully as well, can see that goodness is in the long run more deserving than plain evil, even if the latter might be terribly exciting for a while. This has been understood by every reasonable society during the history of man. The difficulty that needs to be plumbed by every intelligent Christian is the exact extent to which Christ took His demand for compassion. I remember how deeply impressed I was as a small boy when told, by way of example, about a man who renounced his sinful life, retreated into the desert, climbed onto a rock and sustained himself henceforth with prayers, dewdrops and the occasional mosquito that passed by under his nose. Now that champion of Christendom would have gladly held out the left cheek, provided he didn’t fall off his rock after being slapped on the right one in the first place.  

But what about myself? Like the overwhelming majority of Christians, I am not a saint. I am, just like them, a decent human being who tries to get through life while causing as little offence as possible. Especially since I know that the use of aggression, no matter if justified or not, inevitably generates a kind of negative energy which slowly poisons spirit and soul like a hidden disease. But there are times, as now, when I must give battle or perish. The question is, will I forfeit my chances for a happy Hereafter if I punch the bastard on the nose who hit me in the first place? Me, or my family, or my tribe? Does self-defence exclude my comprehension of Love as a divine principle and, consequently, its practicing?  

Whenever I meet a beggar with an open hat, usually on a Friday morning while buying fresh fish and vegetables on the market, I dig through my pockets and drop him a coin or two. This happens unthinkingly. It is a simple and insignificant deed, yet in line with my understanding of Christ’s adage. If there were three beggars, the deed would be slightly less simple and marginally more significant. If there were ten or more, I needed to curtail my compassion drastically, because my financial situation is like that. And I think Christ would agree, because I can’t be of any help for future beggars if I’d empty my pockets of everything I own and become a beggar myself. In other words, it would be counterproductive and clearly undermine the sustenance of His message.  

Which is a fairly reasonable example why I can take in a few slum dwellers from Mexico, Manila, Kurdistan, Liberia or Senegal, no matter if they are or aren’t Christians like myself, but must refuse hospitality to vast hordes of de facto Christians whose qualifications for viable citizenship are limited to the occasional unskilled work, propped up by social benefits, drug dealing, robbery and downright murder.   

Unfortunately the hordes arrive already full pelt, and what is more, they are even welcomed. Not only by politically correct liberals and their sponsors as part of an unholy strategy, but by influential churchmen as well. Small wonder therefore that a slowly growing number of decent, taxpaying citizens begin to ask themselves if ere long the Western World will degenerate into a string of Banana republics, all democratically established by the sheer power of numbers. And all run eventually by some bogey like Mugabe or Chavez who will rob the once prosperous countries of their essential elite and push everyone else over the edge into chaos and misery. Meaning everyone, also those who hoped for a change but were only fleeced by the powers that are. And when naked barbarity has replaced the last vestiges of law and order, as looms already on the horizon of Zimbabwe or South Africa, the teachings of Christ will be a first casualty. 

If one thinks along these lines, the attitude of the aforementioned churchmen is not only bewildering, but frightening — a plausible explanation, since nobody can be so naïve and expect compassionate motives. There must be a Machiavellian angle. Just as Britain’s Labourites thought the import of all the world’s bums would keep them in power eternally, so the Roman Curia and similar Christian top echelons believe that huge numbers of non-white Christians will sustain Mother Church and its various offshoots forever. But this is wishful thinking in the guise of clever scheming. Because look what happened to Tony Blair and his gang. Chased out of office, despised and hated by almost everyone, a bunch of crooks whose only historical legacy might well be a civil war.      

Given this squandering of our very life sap by unelected spiritual leaders, every responsible Christian of a First World Country is forced to balance compassion with common sense and consider matters impartially as an alternative to running like the proverbial sheep after a soft-spoken Torquemada with the mental horizon of a lemming. Or whoever pretends to be your shepherd in Christ but refuses steadfastly to see the writing on the wall, no matter if he is Protestant, Anglican, Baptist, Methodist or whatsoever.  

 

Because if we are unable to rouse you out of your lethargy, your ignorance, your irresponsibility towards your inheritance, your country and your children, it will take only a short time and Santa Ana’s trumpets, or the hubba-hubba of obscene rappers, will be blaring under the ramparts of a cultural and social Alamo where some latter-day Crockets called Buchanan, MacDonald, Taylor, Griffin, Haider, Le Pen and their band of patriots, male and female alike, prepare for a last stand against vastly superior forces.

 

And when we go down, we’ll go down with a clean conscience. And if that isn’t a ticket to Paradise, what is?

 

And when the mob climbs over your fence and moves up your well-groomed lawn towards your pretty house, watched with naked terror by your wife and your children, you will curse yourself for not having joined us or dropped us a few pennies while there was still time.

Michael Colhaze (email him) is a pen name.