A Short Palm Sunday Sermon

 

Here we are on Palm Sunday, the "gateway to Holy Week," and the liturgy of the Mass seems strange or jarring. One minute we're hailing Jesus as the Messiah while singing All Glory Laud and Honour and the next shouting out Crucify Him!, as we hear the Passion. It's as though we've been catapulted, in mood, from Easter to Good Friday. But of course we understand the connection.

Christ's kingship as the anointed holy one of God rests upon the Cross, his throne from which he establishes sovereignty over sin and death. He could, in that week leading up to his death, have chosen worldly power; the temptations in the wilderness surely returned with demonic intensity.

Stones to bread? Yes indeed, literal bread for himself and the world, to say nothing of spiritual bread in the form of the righteous wisdom he could have given from the gleaming, thunderstruck fastness  of Mount Zion. 

Instead of being scourged and nailed to a cross by Roman soldiers he could have ordered the angelic host to his defense, lest he dash his foot against a stone. And the kingdoms of the world? His for the asking, with all the glories therein.

Christ says no to this and by extension to the Devil himself. He follows a different path, the way of the Cross. What qualities took him there? Humility, for sure. He emptied himself, taking the form of a servant or slave, even to an agonizing, shameful death. Likewise obedience. 

Recall the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus prays that the chalice of suffering and death would be taken from him, but he continues, "My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass away from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as Thou willest." (Matt. 26:39) This utterly faithful submission to the Father's will takes him to Golgotha, where he lays down his life in a perfect act of love for the forgiveness of our sin.

Humble, obedient, loving faith. The way of the Cross and the way to the empty tomb and everlasting life. It comes at a cost, obviously, but consider the reward, the green pastures of paradise.

I pray we're given the courage, by the grace of God, to acknowledge Christ as our King and follow him through the "grave and gate of death" to eternal life.

God Bless,

LSP

Stations of the Cross and Benediction

 

"It's almost that time of year, LSP, can you you help out?" asked the Rector of St. Matthias. I zeroed in, like a thermal on a hog, "You'd like me to give a Lent talk? Sure, count me in," and took the last Friday of the course.

My job was to drive to the Metrosprawl yesterday and comment on the last sentence of the Apostles Creed after assisting at Stations of the Cross. Which I did, contrasting the fear, uncertainty and deceit of the world with the boldly asserted truth of the Creed. 

Thurifer, get down!

Then came Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament,  Therefore we, before him bending, this great Sacrament revere; types and shadows have their ending, for the newer rite is here; faith, our outward sense befriending, makes our inward vision clear.

A blessing, and it was good to be back at St. Matthias and its people. The Metrosprawl? Fun to visit Ma LSP's HQ and have dinner with her and BW. Less fun to see all the mask zombies wandering about with their made in China talismans covering their faces, voluntarily. 

"I say, what's that?" "We call it a 'laptop' LSP."

They proudly "follow the science" even though the scientific language on the Chinese mask boxes says, quite specifically, that the facial wares enclosed don't protect the wearer from viruses. You'll remember Goebbels:

If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it. The lie can be maintained only for such time as the State can shield the people from the political, economic and/or military consequences of the lie. It thus becomes vitally important for the State to use all of its powers to repress dissent, for the truth is the mortal enemy of the lie, and thus by extension, the truth is the greatest enemy of the State.

 

He and Magda poisoned their beautiful young children, and then killed themselves as the truth caught up with their lie at the end of the war. Death and destruction, perhaps especially of children, are the hallmarks of the People of the Lie and their Father, who was a murderer from the beginning.

The Ninth Station, Jesus falls for the third time

Compare and contrast that to the God-given truth and life of the Creed.

Your Friend,

LSP

Obey Your Rulers

 

Are we a Constitutional Republic or a degenerate freakshow, a kleptocracy run by a crew of power lusting oligarchs and their bought and paid for shills inside and outside the Beltway? I present to you the new normal. This is a woman:

Yes, the first ever womyn of its kind elected by the Senate to public office, HHS Assistant Secretary, no less. And this is the most popular President in the long history of popularity. He ascended to power on the strength of not campaigning. He didn't have to, such is the natural charism of the Corpse:

Our aptly named Vice President is popular too, that's why she got so many votes in the Democrat primaries. Kamala, aka the Whore, is famous for keeping POCs in California jails, and here she is:

Scary, isn't it. And don't forget Nancy "Blow Dry" Pelosi and the Baltimore mafia. Let them eat $20 tubs of handcrafted ice cream is her motto. Which is perhaps why she feels the need to surround the Capitol with razor wire and National Guardsmen. Well, there's nothing like popularity. Have a look at this octogenarian advert for plastic surgery:

Reassuring, isn't it, that our nation's in such capable, honest, selfless Millionaire Socialist hands. But that's enough visual torture for now, what gets me is that people are still framing the debate in the language of the past.

Evil top hat, right wing capitalists v. good, for the people socialists. Republican v. Democrat, Left v. Right, Tory v. Labour, when the reality, across the board, is a Uniparty led by gang of voracious psychopaths in suits, hiding behind a thin, faked up veneer of PC driven tolerance. 

To paraphrase a famous author, Winston, I have seen the future, a rainbow colored wellington boot, stamping on a human face forever. A terrifying vision, let's hope it doesn't come to pass. In the meanwhile, obey your rulers.

Cheers,

LSP

Lightning!

 

No sooner had Stations of the Cross and the obligatory Lenten meal and class finished than it began to rain. Not heavily, but the drops were big, Texan style. Then the wind picked up and ominous rumbling filled the air. Thunder, like the sound of guns along the Oder Front, or Deep Purple.

Lightning began to arc, illuminating clouds which scudded across the firmament of heaven as night turned to electric day. It was easy, at that moment, to believe in the Electric Universe. Roll on, Nicola Tesla.

In other news, it's the Feast of the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary tomorrow. Here's the Collect:

WE beseech thee, O Lord, pour thy grace into our hearts; that, as we have known the incarnation of thy Son Jesus Christ by the message of an angel, so by his cross and passion we may be brought into the glory of his resurrection; through the same Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

 

Somehow this seems apt in the storm and my mind goes to  I beheld Satan as lightning fall from heaven.

God bless,

LSP

Well Shoot - Another Foray Into The Heart of Southern Darkness

 

Birds sang and the sun shone in the big Texan sky. Yes, it was time to head out to the countryside yet again as part of our ongoing investigation into the scourge of rural systemic racism. And before you could whistle Dixie there I was, in a ranch shop, talking guns.

You know how it is, one thing led to another, a couple of Polaris quads revved up and there we were, slinging skeet and shooting plates. Racist? Well, the guns were black and brown, the plates white and the skeet orange. The quads were green. Hmmm. 

It was hard to stop myself admiring a WWII trophy Luger as I reflected on this knotty indigenous peoples justice conundrum, to say nothing of a canned Enhanced Remington 1911. The latter shot well, scoring hits on a plate at around 75 yards, big fun.

Then it was time to visit the Confederate Air Force at an aerodrome not too far from my friend's ranch, DD has a hanger there where he builds and restores airplanes. 

There was a CAF trainer on the tarmac about to get ready for take off. Some of you'll know the make/model but I forget the details.

Regardless, DD was working on a Cessna and the wings of another plane, which he showed us after a delicious snack of poppers, smoked sausage and ice cold beer. What a gentleman, I do not say that lightly. And he still flies, though in his '80s. He'd been in the US Aerobatics team. 

Then it was time to head back to the bucolic haven that is this small farming community in North Central Texas to hear someone's confession. Was this whole experience irredeemably, incurably, insufferably racist?

I can't answer that but I do say this, it was big fun.

Your Pal,

LSP

Monday Night Juke Box

 

So here we are and let's not forget, requests are on.  Like Jules' Holiday, by the Skorps. Here it is:

Adrienne's Two-Step, or something like that:

To say nothing of GWB's white supremacy. Behold the Eurythmics. Well done, Miss Annie Borman Lennox, let's hear it for white supremacism:

Warning. White supremacy

In the meanwhile, it's thundering down with rain. Who knows, maybe this rustic, erstwhile cotton town will be washed away in the wake of the flood. Not dissimilar to our Christian culture, when you think of it.

Cheers,

LPP

Systemic Rural Racism

 

One of the many problems country people face is racism, systemic racism, that ingrained, institutional, just the way things are racism which so afflicts entities of color in America's rural landscape. 

Parks, gardens, sky, fields, starlit night sky? All crushingly racist along with their iniquitous purveyors. That's the theory, and I drove out to Uncle Gus' Marina to test it out.

Sure enough, there was a banner of good ole Nazi "Uncle Gus" welcoming visitors and guests. And guess what? Uncle so-called "Gus" was white and holding a captive Bass of Color (BOC). Here, let's zoom in.

Unsurprised but still shocked, I drove carefully down to the apartheid marina and guiltily cast my line in the waters of the oppressed deep. No luck, anarcho-marxist cardres had trained these fish to avoid the hooks, lures and bait (worms) of their white colonialist oppressors.

Huh. I gave up the fight, vowing to return, "Watch out, you piscine Reds, I'll be back, with a vengeance," and headed over to the dam spillway.

Where it was raining, this being Biden's America, but undaunted, line out. No luck. Rinse, repeat at various angles. And then? That chomp, tug that every angler loves to feel. Pull up! Hookset! and there it is, a fish at the end of your line, diving, thrashing and doing its Bolshevikk best to escape, but it doesn't. 

You reel zhir in, get the photo op, and release the unrepentant Menshivik back into the depths. Well done, fish, you live again to fight another day. Then, because the climate changed owing to Texas not paying enough tax, it started to rain and I headed for home. And now? Curry, Thai Texan style.

OK, a good morning out in the good clean air of Texas, well done. But back to the point. Was the countryside's endemic racism made better or worse by this piscatorial endeavor?

As always, you be the judge,

LSP

Is This Racist?

 

Racist, not racist, allowed, forbidden? Check out the video and decide where it falls, if you're not too busy watching GODZILLA and DON'T FEAR THE REAPER.

Me? Just biding my time 'til... DOGE$ to the MOON. OK, you think that's foolish, but where was BTC in 2010? Oh yeah, .008. Like, how stupid. I wouldn't invest in that fakery. Totally unlike USD$ it's backed by precisely nothing except debt. 

It's not much but it's a day's work

Flash forward. 1 BTC = 60k right about now. DOGE$? appx. .08. No correlation whatsoever. Is this racist? Like some kind of math thing? As in, how dare you invest in a meme coin for profit, you National Socialist? Hey, politics aren't in it.

I just like the coin.

Ad Lunam,

LSP

Sunday Sermon

ἔνθα στᾶσ᾽ ἤϋσε θεὰ λευκώλενος Ἥρη Στέντορι εἰσαμένη μεγαλήτορι χαλκεοφώνῳ, ὃς τόσον αὐδήσασχ᾽ ὅσον ἄλλοι πεντήκοντα

there the goddess, white-armed Hera, stood and shouted in the likeness of great-hearted Stentor of the brazen voice, whose voice is as the voice of fifty other men  (Homer, Iliad V. 785)

Like brazen-voiced Stentor I thundered from the pulpit this morning, "Christ has drawn us to a place of decision, to a choice. Do we follow him and live, or not?" 

Rhetoric waxed large, "We can, if we like, pour our energy into the world, the flesh and the Devil. We might even be successful beyond our wildest dreams and become the very King of the King Ranch itself. But what shall it profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his soul?"

A typical photo of white armed (sorry, racist) Hera

You get the picture and the message was clear, by the grace of God, take up your Coss and follow Christ, ultimately to the throne of glory itself. All well and good, but LL's composed a better sermon. Here's a snapshot:

John Wright wrote that we live in a posthuman age. By that, he did not mean that men could not extend life and expand consciousness by bio-nanotechnology, neural shunts or downloading self-identities into the psycho-cyberverse. He meant, nearly a third of us has sold the heritage of mankind, what it means to be human, for a mess of pottage called political correctness. And at its root, you will always find that the PC culture has at its core, a hatred of Jesus Christ.

The posthumans renounce the gift of reason, and think themselves superhuman, beyond good and evil. Neither the law of cause and effect nor the law of supply and demand has any bearing on their talking points and chanted slogans.

Again:

The Left promoted hedonism until it ran out of any pleasures to give, and championed socialism until it went broke, and preached skepticism until all men grew skeptical of it. The freethinkers entered the thought prison of political correctness, and threw the keys away, and called a halt to all thought.

So the Left are basically left with nothing. That nothing is called Nihilism. Think of Antifa. They are its poster children. Producing nothing, they live to destroy.

Producing nothing, they live to destroy. Precisely, and I'd suggest their father is the Devil, a murderer from the beginning. But take heart, evil defeats itself.

Pax et Bonum,

LSP

The Unicorn Strikes

 

The Rainbow Unicorn has struck again, viciously goring a Canadian man who dared to call his 15 year old daughter a girl, even though she thinks she's a boy. The father was arrested on March 16 after a BC judge found him guilty of refusing to use his daughter's preferred pronouns. Via the New York Post:

The man — whose identity is reportedly under a publication ban by a British Columbia Court of Appeals to protect his child — was found in contempt of court and arrested Tuesday for calling the teen his daughter and publicly referring to him with the pronouns “she” and “her,” according to The Post Millennial.

 

This, according to Canada's Rainbow Stasi, constitutes "family violence." and must be punished to "protect the child." What, protect the child? How about protecting kids from chemical and surgical sterilization and a lifetime of drug dependency. Don't say Big Pharma profit.

The child's mother, a psychologist, supports her daughter's attempt to become a blasphemous parody of a man. And here at the Compound we call it child abuse, to say nothing of demonic insanity. The future? A rainbow wellington boot stamping on a human face, forever.

Follow the Science

In related news, a judge has been arrested on 7 counts of child porn. He was the President of Cream City Foundation which was a sponsor of Milwaukee's Drag Queen Story Hour. Shocked? Neither am I.

If you meet the unicorn on the road, kill it.

That is all,

LSP

Libs Hate This

 

Why would Libs hate this so? Regardless, we love it, via Borepatch, here at the Compound.

Cheers,

LSP

Putin v. Biden Throwdown

 

By now all the world knows that Russian strongman Vladimir Putin has challenged America's President, Joe Biden, aka the Old Corpse, to a live debate throwdown, without "any delays."

Putin issued the challenge after the Corpse accused the Russian leader of having "no soul" and being a "killer." But the Russian leader wasn't slow to reply on State TV, "It takes one to know one" he quipped and, "I hope he's in good health," before issuing his famous live debate challenge:

I want to propose to President Biden to continue our discussion, but on the condition that we do it basically live, as it’s called, without any delays and directly in an open, direct discussion, it seems to me that would be interesting for the people of Russia and for the people of the United States.

Not Corrupt. No, Not For a Second

 

Joe Biden, at 78, is America's oldest ever president as well as its most popular, winning many millions more votes than any candidate in US history. Which is a remarkable achievement because he didn't campaign and barely spoke in the run up to the election. The trend's continued. Surging on his unbridled popularity the Old Corpse hardly speaks now and when he does seems bizarrely out of touch and confused.

Note adorable Shiba DOGE$

Vladimir Putin, now 68, is well known for his love of animals, marksmanship, bikers, martial arts, fishing and the Church. He frequently gives live interviews in the Russian press and media. A former KGB Colonel, Putin is famous for locking up the female punk act Pussy Riot and for standing firm against the West's ascendant new religion, the Rainbow Cult.

So who will prevail, the Corpse or the Strongman? Will the Corpse get into the debate arena, for that matter, is he even capable of doing so? Here at the Compound we doubt it, Joe's too old and demented, but will the oligarch, bankster elite behind him launch into Russia in a bid to bring the dissident power into line.

It's been tried before, several times, with resounding failure, and let's hope we don't see a rematch. In the meanwhile, we wait for the Old Corpse to rise to Putin's challenge. Do we wait in vain?

Your Pal,

LSP

And When I am Lifted up

 

"And when I am lifted up from the earth, I shall draw all men to myself," says Christ (Jn. 12:32). I found this helpful, by Fr. Garrigou-Lagrange OP:

The power upon which rests the spiritual life of all souls striving to be freed from evil and raised up to God is the redemptive action of Christ, his ever active and efficacious love directed to the Father and to us. He himself told us: As a branch cannot bear fruit all by itself, but must remain part of the vine, neither can you unless you remain in me. I am the vine, you are the branches. The branches can live only if they are united to the vine and receive the sap from it. Come to me, all of you who labor and are overburdened, and I will give you rest—that is, burdened under the weight of your faults and sufferings. And when I am lifted up from the earth, I shall draw all men to myself.

Life itself teaches us that the strength of a soul in the midst of trial and temptations comes from its practical and experiential consciousness of the infinite value of Redemption, of the omnipotent efficacy of Christ’s death on the cross...

According to the definition of the Church, the redemptive act of Christ has an infinite value and efficacy. It makes satisfaction for any guilt whatsoever, repairs fully any offense against God, even though its gravity is infinite. It satisfies for all the sins of men, and still more. It compensates for all the rebellions against God, all the apostasies, all the acts of despair and presumption, all the feelings of hatred, and all kinds of crime. It merits all graces for even the most degraded souls, provided they are not stubbornly fixed in evil. It is impossible to think of a limit to the efficacy of the redemptive act.

 

The redemptive act of Christ has an infinite value and efficacy. Amen to that.

Happy St. Pat's,

LSP

Ready To Rumble

 

Remember the Waco Biker Shootout of 2015? What happened was Cossacks and Desperadoes fought it out in a bar/restaurant turf war at a Waco strip mall. Over, as I recall, who controlled the Twin peaks franchise drinkery.

Things got outta hand, people got shot and some say undercover LE were part of the problem. Perhaps they were, but I wouldn't know. What I do know is this, that I shop at this effluence of latter day Americana, at Best Buy, World Market (they sell Brit food, like curry essentials, Digestives and Marmite) and the evil Cabelas. 

I'd never have known, as I browsed overpriced electronics, bullets and Brit biscuits, that bikers were involved in a deadly power play a mere 200 yards away, or less. But they were. Here's some dashcam:

And here's Motorhead, Hawk version, because it's Epic. RIP, Lemmy, would you have been cancelled by today's glitter pony Maoists? Doubtless, and would he have cared? No. Whatev:

Mind how you go,

LSP

Who Will Save The World?

The Mighty Groundhogs, obvs, and right on.

Love to all,

LSP

A Sunday Sermon

 

The Feeding of the Five Thousand. What's it all about? That Christ will feed his people. With what? With the Word of God, as Jesus tells us in his temptation in the wilderness "If you are the Son of God, turn these stones into bread," says Satan, and the Lord replies, "Man shall not live on bread alone but by every word which proceeds from the mouth of God."

Yes indeed, the Word of God is the food of the people of God. In Old Testament  times the Divine Word was given through the Law and the Prophets, which is signified in the elements of the miracle. 

Five loaves for the five books of the Law, the Mosaic Pentateuch. And note, the loaves are made of prophetic barley; the greatest prophet, Elisha, multiplied 20 barley loaves to feed one hundred men. So the loaves stand for the nourishment of the Word of God delivered by Law and Prophecy.

This will feed the great multitude of God's people, represented by the fish in the Gospel. Our minds go instantly to the fifth day of creation in Genesis, where God blesses the birds and the fish, "be fruitful and multiply." And to Abraham, "Your descendants shall be as many as the stars of heaven," and in Christ's words, "I will make you fishers of men."

But the fish are also food, the people of God fed by the Word of God, which is, quite literally, Christ himself. He who is the Word, the Logos, will sustain and nourish his people with himself. He says as much a little later in John's Gospel. 

"I am the bread of life," again, "Unless you eat of the flesh of the son of man and drink his blood, you have no life within you." And more, "Whoever eats My flesh and drinks My blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day..."

Let's cut to the chase. Where do we find this supernatural nourishment, this bread from heaven? In the Word, obviously. In what he said, as recorded in Scripture and the Apostolic teaching of the Church, which is Christ's teaching; in prayer and in every good thing, but most specifically? 

In the Sacrament of the Altar, in the Mass. This is my Body... this is my Blood. Flesh and Blood, loaves and fish, which we must eat to have eternal life, the divinizing life of God himself. And there you have it, manna from heaven.

Rejoice, laetare, at the saving glory of this, disregard it at your peril. Here endeth the short sermon.

In Nom.,

LSP

General Lee

 

A pal sent this in, from Georgia;

"I don't want to forget, we made a good fight for our rights, and I'm glad and proud to have been in it. But as for bearing any malice against the men who whipped us, not I. The war ended. I would just as soon have shaken hands with General Sherman (I wouldn't) as with Joe Johnston."

"Or with Grant as with Robert E. Lee ?"

"No, for I would have knelt to Lee."

Your Friend,

LSP

Shack Street

 

One of the things I like to do is walk around and explore this bucolic rural haven in North Central Texas. But, to be honest, after 12 years there's not much you haven't seen. Not so fast, so-called "LSP." And I saw something new today, a new street I hadn't walked before, a street of shacks.

The adventure began after yet another meeting with a banker, which went well. We were opening a new account with some of the Mission's newly unfrozen funds, and the First National Bank of Texas were friendly. All well and good. After the meeting, I said goodbye to our Treasurer, "Debbie, thanks for that, I will now stroll to the pawnshop."

A Shack. Note boarded up assisted living complex in background

She paused, "What? You're walking?" I thought about that for a moment and answered, "Yes, Ma'am, I am. I have a ministry to the town's Pawns. A few years ago I buried Miss Dale, who ran the Gold Nugget. She used to ask me for Holy Water and I'd deliver, by the gallon. She claimed the customers needed it and I believed her."

A few moments later I found myself walking with purpose towards the pawn and suddenly it struck me, I've never been here before. Yes, it was sinister, somehow threatenning. There was a boarded up "assisted living" complex, residents gone, not even a crack commune inhabiting the vinyl floors and broken windows. I gazed at it in wonder. Why have I never seen this? It was like the Twilight Zone.

Another Shack. Thanks, Globalists

And so was the next street, a street of shacks. All new, I'd never seen them before, but they reminded me of the year or so the SPC stayed. As I drove him to High School to make sure he went, I'd point out a random shack, "Play your cards right, fella, and you too could live in one of those." Hey, he rose to the game and, let's not be proud, there but by the grace of God.

All too soon, Shack Street ended and there was a machine shop, flying a Come And Take It flag. That filled me with hope. All hail Texas. 

That in mind, let's rebuild our towns and make them the communities they should be, as opposed to asset-stripped slums, gutted by transnational elite oligarchs who hide under a veneer of Millionaire, sorry, Billionaire Socialism.

Your Pal,

LSP

Such Utter Disaster

 

Utter disaster. Try putting your handheld computing device on the hood of the rig and cleverly driving away, forgetting about the miracle of technology resting on the bonnet. Thirty minutes later, by the Lake and Stations of the Cross, you ask yourself, where's the dam phone?

It was lying, smashed, in the middle of a crossroads near the Compound, and I picked it up after a devil in the detail drive home. There you are, fella, welcome back. But the mini computer was irretrievably busted and smashed, so I went to T Mobile for a replacement.

The TM persynn asked me what I wanted to buy, and I figured a brand new, up to the minute Samsung phone. Time to upgrade and spend some money. Salesguy sensibly said no, save your money, get the same thing without the brand at way less cost. In fact, why not buy my old phone?

What? How much? 200 bucks, same phone we're selling for 400. Yours, for cash. I couldn't say no to an obvious deal. But had to ask, "Don't you lose on commission, I mean, you just lost a sale." He replied, "We only get 5 dollars a sale, so so what. I hate corporate, in fact, I want to join the Army, get into IT." We talked about that, and phones.

Your Pal,

LSP