My Gethsemane (Except Worse)

Now it can be told!

Readers, I come to you with a heavy heart. Some of you have observed, in comments that I later removed from my website, that I spend nearly all of my time traveling far from my beautiful hometown of Beignet, Louisiana. Ten months out of the year I am either sitting at the feet of Viktor Orban, learning how to destroy my woke trans enemies with his muscular Christian conservatism, or going on culinary tours of the more atheistic European countries and bucking up the spirits of the persecuted Christians I meet there with lectures on the works of Dante, St. Benedict, and Aleksandr Dugin, in gratitude for which they lavish me with anonymous quotes.

Some of you have wondered: what does my wife think of all this? Now, in consultation with both our lawyers, I can share with you a statement which my wife has approved:

With great sorrow I must announce that my wife and I are divorcing. Please understand our need for privacy at the time, and that our divorce has nothing at all to do with any sexual behaviors that are explicitly forbidden by our religion, and take the italicization of that statement as proof of its sincerity.

I cannot stress enough that this process is an agony beyond hell, far worse than all of Dante’s circles put together. To prevent this divorce I would gladly be clawed and masticated by Satan like Judas Iscariot. It would be Paradiso compared to this Inferno! This divorce has been my Golgotha, my Gethsemane, my Appomattox. To make matters worse it has been going on for nine years, each day of which has been a nightmare beyond the capacity of the human mind to conceive, let alone describe. Owing to the terms of my agreement with my wife’s lawyer I cannot reveal why I can do nothing to relieve this horrifying continual torment, but I assure you it is really really bad, and that it has nothing to do with infidelity or anything like that (please note bold italics).

So intolerable is my constant suffering that, were I godless, I might talk to a therapist or counselor. But I know such seeming remedies are but lures and snares to trip the soul and send it hurtling into the abyss. No, the Lord is my only salvation, and I must wait patiently for a sign from Him to relieve my anguish. I tell you, readers, I would not wish this ordeal even on the disgusting liberal homosexual groomers and woketards it is my mission to destroy.

UPDATE: I must report that my uprightness in the face of this torture has been rewarded with some glimmerings of spiritual hope!

The other day while walking in a European city, noshing as I went on some of the fine sacramental meats for which it is known, I realized I was lost — not merely in the spiritual sense, but also in terms of my physical location. (I have a condition which makes it impossible for me to read maps, and this was my thinktank-appointed cicerone’s day off.)  Overcome by the situation, I knelt in the street and prayed for guidance — quite loudly, from the way passers-by were shushing me, so great was my passion.

Then an amazing thing happened: As fantastic as this will sound to unbelievers, I found myself being led, in fact carried, as if by flights of angels to a hidden door in a musty basement of what I surmised was a major cathedral that I had somehow missed. In the stygian darkness I perceived what I knew must be a brotherhood of monks because of the cowls that obscured their faces and their muscular build, for monks are God’s laborers. These monks pointed me to a symbol on the floor. I got on my hands and knees and saw that it was a picture of an anvil. I took its meaning immediately — that I was being tried and forged like a piece of raw metal so that I may be strengthened and made true. As if to drive home the message, the monks laid into my backside with their toil-hardened hands and sometimes wooden paddles, chanting as they pounded. I cannot say how long it went on, for I fell into an ecstasy; the next thing I knew I was in a cab going to my hotel. A cab! Of course — the answer to my lostness had been there all along! But it had taken this direct encounter with my brothers in Christ for me to earn the fare, literally and figuratively, to get back home. They even provided me with a little cushion.

Since this transformative experience, I have had The Anvil tattooed on my body, and experienced a great sense of calm and oneness with the eternal. Look at this picture of me. Don’t I look happy and relieved? Taste and see the goodness of the Lord!