In the culture I grew up in, children were seen as blessings, not burdens. My grandmother would often remark that a full house—however chaotic—was a happy house. It’s a mindset that feels increasingly foreign in today’s world, where we trade the fullness of life for the sterile comforts of control. Among the social circles in which I find myself, a new fad has caught on with surprising fervour — the DINK lifestyle. Dual Income, No Kids. The acronym alone carries an air of smugness, a badge of honour that suggests its practitioners have outwitted the drudgery of parenthood. These are typically people employed in white collar professions that, while demanding are not unreasonably so, granting them both a respectable income and a lifestyle of conspicuous ease within India's most developed and cosmopolitan enclaves. In an era that genuflects at the altar of self-fulfillment, this trend is seen by its acolytes as a mark of contemporary enlightenment and a rebellion against the tyranny of tradition and biology. Two incomes, unfettered by the grubby demands of infants, represent freedom, self-actualization, and an unencumbered pursuit of personal pleasure. To me, however, it represents a hollow triumph, a short-sighted pursuit of comfort at the expense of meaning and legacy.  Of course, the appeal of the DINK arrangement is obvious. The modern DINK couple, unburdened by the inconvenient cries of an infant or the looming spectre of college tuition fees, can indulge in what marketers euphemistically call “experiences.” They can tour the vineyards of Bordeaux or lounge on the beaches of Bali — all without interruption from a toddler tugging at their sleeves. But at what cost does this freedom come? To dismiss children as mere impediments to personal pleasure is to misunderstand the very nature of fulfillment. True satisfaction does not lie in the accumulation of experiences or possessions; it lies in the assumption of responsibility, and in the knowledge that one’s life contributes to something greater than oneself.  DINK adherents often frame their choice as a rational decision, the product of self-awareness and a refusal to conform to outdated societal expectations. But beneath this veneer of sophistication lies a deeper malaise—one that reflects not just a rejection of parenthood but a rejection of responsibility itself. The modern ethos insists that individuals owe nothing to anyone beyond themselves. At its core, the DINK philosophy sees life not as a duty but as a buffet, from which one is entitled to take only the choicest morsels. In this worldview, children are not a continuation of the human story, nor a source of joy, growth, and meaning, but rather obstacles to a lifestyle of comfort. This hedonistic calculus — where the value of an action is determined solely by the inconvenience it might impose — betrays an impoverished understanding of what it means to live a fulfilling life. The Infantilization of Adulthood Among the more disquieting consequences of the DINK lifestyle is its perpetuation of what might be called the infantilization of adulthood. In eschewing parenthood, many DINKs remain arrested in adolescence, their lives revolving around self-indulgence and immediate gratification. Parenthood, whatever its tribulations, compels one to reckon with the unrelenting reality of sacrifice.  In avoiding parenthood, the DINK couple often avoids the moral and emotional growth that comes with it. They may delight in their freedom to flit between exotic locales or attend late-night concerts, but this freedom comes at the cost of an engagement with life’s most pressing questions: What do we owe to the future? How do we find meaning in the face of inevitable mortality? In renouncing parenthood, DINK followers leave behind not just the cries of infants but the echoes of posterity. As someone raised in the frugality of a middle-class household, the DINK philosophy appears to me not only shallow, but impoverished in its understanding of fulfillment. I think of my father, who wore shoes so worn that their soles were patched with glue, yet ensured that I had the indulgence of choosing footwear to match my outfits. My mother would recount the 'hard years' with a mixture of nostalgia and pride, describing how they saved up to acquire one luxury at a time: first a refrigerator, then a washing machine, then a television, piece by piece transforming their modest house into a home. I remember my father’s old scooter, its rattling engine carrying him to work through the sweltering summers and biting winters. On Saturdays, he would stop by a kebab shop near his office, the aroma of grilled meat marking his early return home to share lunch with us. Yes, for all their sacrifices, my parents’ lives were  well-lived and my childhood, happy. A False Sense of Virtue What makes the DINK phenomenon particularly galling is the self-righteousness with which it is often promoted. Its adherents frame their choice not merely as a personal preference but as an ethical stance. They claim, for example, that forgoing children is an altruistic act, reducing their carbon footprint in an overpopulated world. This argument, while superficially appealing, collapses under scrutiny. First, it assumes that the world is better off without their hypothetical offspring, a curiously self-loathing position. Second, it ignores the reality that the most sustainable societies are often those with stable populations, not declining ones. A world filled with DINKs would soon face the grim consequences of demographic collapse: aging populations, economic stagnation, and a cultural void where once there was vitality. Moreover, the notion that one’s contribution to humanity ends with paying taxes and living a "low-impact" life is a starkly reductive view of human potential. Human beings are not merely economic units or environmental burdens; they are creators, thinkers, and contributors to a collective legacy. The childless DINK may plant a tree or adopt a dog, but these acts, however admirable, cannot replace the immense, intangible contribution of raising a child who might grow to cure diseases, compose symphonies, or simply bring joy to others. In rejecting parenthood, the DINK couple unwittingly undermines the very social structures that allow their own lifestyle to exist. Who will care for them in their old age if not the children of others? Who will sustain the institutions, economies, and communities they now take for granted? The irony is stark: DINKs depend on the sacrifices of parents who choose to raise the next generation even as they disavow the necessity of such sacrifices themselves. The Meaning of Life A few months ago, I attended a wedding where many of the guests were DINKs. The event was luxurious—an open bar, gourmet food, a live band. But what struck me was the absence of the familiar chaos that comes with bringing children to Indian weddings: no running around, no whiny voices, no spilled juice.  In criticizing the DINK phenomenon, I do not mean to suggest that all couples must have children or that parenthood is the only path to a meaningful life.  There are, of course, many ways to contribute to the human story. Yet the celebration of the DINK lifestyle as an aspirational ideal reveals a troubling impoverishment of our collective imagination. It reveals a society that has lost sight of what it means to live well, mistaking convenience for contentment and individualism for fulfillment. The issue is not simply one of demographics or economics but of existential significance. To live for oneself alone is to live a diminished existence, one that denies the richness and complexity of the human experience. Parenthood, for all its challenges, offers a glimpse of transcendence—a chance to participate in something greater than oneself, to leave a legacy that endures beyond one’s brief time on Earth. A society of DINKs may be rich in comfort and leisure, but it will be poor in purpose, and eventually, it will be poor in people. Image source: Gilmore Girls (2000-2007)

The question might seem, at first glance, to be a simple one. But the devil— or perhaps, in this case, the God— is buried deep in the details. It would be tempting to answer in haste, to offer platitudes about humanity rising above such quarrels, but that would be a lie. Up until now, I have sat quietly with my thoughts on the Israel-Palestine conflict. I have my own views, of course, but they mean little, for I have no personal stake in it. But now, something has stirred in me, something that compels me to write. I cannot help but see echoes of something similar in the ground I call my own and in the stories that shape my people’s lives. Of course, there is more than one reason why several Western nations choose to support Israel, but I’ll focus on just one in this piece — the religious and cultural one. Why the West Should Support Israel Returning to the question — is a fight over land justified? To answer that, one must first reckon with the land in question, for it is not just any plot of earth. This is a land that has woven itself into the fabric of a people’s identity, a land that has, through centuries of bloodshed, faith, and longing, become a symbol, a dream, a promise. To speak of this land is not just to speak of ownership, but of heritage.  When you consider the unbroken thread of the Judeo-Christian tradition, it becomes clear why the West stands with Israel. It’s not just a political alliance, but a continuation of an ancient bond—a shared history of faith that runs through the veins of Western civilization. Israel’s fight, in a sense, is their fight too. Israel represents more than just a nation-state. It is the physical manifestation of the promise etched in sacred texts—one that echoes through the halls of cathedrals, the pages of the Bible, and the ideals upon which the West built its foundations.  The land of Israel is the birthplace of a faith that gave rise to the moral compass by which many of the Western nations today measure their lives. It is the cradle of the very traditions that have defined their understanding of justice, sacrifice, and redemption. So when Israel fights, it is not just a struggle for its own survival—it is a battle to protect a shared legacy, a legacy that the West sees as part of its own soul. Why It Matters to the Rest of the World Of course, I have little stake in this matter, given that I do not belong to the Judeo-Christian faith, nor to a nation that is part of the Western civilization. Yet, I cannot casually disregard the values that this civilization has bestowed upon the world. Not forgetting the colonial history of how these values came to be spread, still, it would be dishonest not to acknowledge that the principles of freedom, equality, and individual dignity, values upon which the Western world is founded, are those that we, in the rest of the world, look to the West to safeguard. Even with their imperfections and contradictions, these ideals have become the yardstick by which many other nations measure progress. I do not want to imagine what would happen if the West were to fall—if the moral compass that has steered so much of the modern world were to lose its bearings.  Readers in India might interpret this to mean that I dismiss the values of Indian culture or the rich traditions of the wider Asian world. But nothing could be farther from the truth. I have deep respect for my own culture, for the wisdom and values it has contributed to the ever-expanding repository of human thought and achievement. India’s spiritual depth, its values of balance, duty, discipline, non-violence, pursuit of knowledge and the individual spiritual journey remain invaluable to the human story and will continue to enrich the human experience. But when it comes to the principles of freedom, equality, and justice — those ideals that have shaped the trajectory of modern governance, law, and social equality — it is the West that has gifted them to us. Those in my country familiar with the history of our nation’s constitution will know where the influence of a good part of the legal framework we now live under, can be found. Why it Matters to Me Recently, the government of India completed the construction of the Ram Mandir in the city of Ayodhya. For many Hindus, it was a celebration as full of joy as the festival Diwali. The significance of this event goes beyond the physical walls of the temple; it is rooted in the land itself, for the site where this temple now stands is considered to be Ram Janmabhoomi—the birthplace of Lord Rama, the hero of the epic Ramayana. For those who hold this belief, it is not merely a plot of land but a sacred place where the divine first touched the earth. Lord Rama, the ideal of dharma, virtue and righteousness, is a figure whose stature in Hinduism is no less than Jesus in the Christian faith.  The site of the temple has long been a point of communal tensions in India. A slogan that echoed across decades, "Mandir wahin banayenge"—"We will build the temple there (at Rama’s birthplace)"—became a rallying cry for many Hindus. This ground, however, was also the site of the Babri Masjid, a mosque constructed by Mir Baqi, a commander of the emperor Babur, who invaded India in the 16th century and established the Mughal empire. In 1992, this mosque was torn down by activists affiliated with a Hindu nationalist group, who claimed that Babur had built the mosque atop the ruins of a Rama temple, which he had ordered destroyed. The demolition triggered widespread unrest and riots in the country. An excavation conducted by the Archaeological Survey of India unearthed evidence of a massive, non-Islamic structure beneath the remains of the mosque. (Interesting fact: the said excavation was headed by a Muslim, KK Muhammed.) After years of legal battles, the Supreme Court ruled in favour of the Hindu claim. It directed the disputed land to be handed over to a trust for the construction of a temple dedicated to Lord Rama. To address the communal balance, the court also allotted a larger plot of land, some distance from Ayodhya, for the construction of a mosque. The story of this temple resonates deeply with the tale of Rama himself. In the Ramayana, Rama, the prince of Ayodhya, was unjustly banished from his kingdom and endured years of exile, only to return triumphantly with his wife, Sita, and his brother, Lakshmana, after vanquishing the demon king, Ravana. That homecoming was celebrated with the lighting of lamps, a tradition that gave birth to the festival of Diwali. In many ways, the completion of the temple and the installation of Lord Rama’s idol felt like another kind of homecoming—a symbolic restoration of a divine figure to the place where, as believers hold, his mortal journey began. For countless Hindus, it was a moment of fulfillment, a belief realized after centuries of waiting and decades of strife. It felt as though the lord himself had come home once again. Critics may call such devotion misplaced. They argue that land, in the grand scheme of things, should not hold such significance. Why should religion take precedence over the broader ideals of humanity? They question the need to cling to temples and mosques when the same land could serve a more pragmatic purpose—why not build a school or a hospital that would provide tangible benefits to people? These voices also took issue with the Prime Minister’s personal involvement in the rituals of the temple’s inauguration, pointing out that such overt religious participation by the leader of a nation undermines the secular fabric of a society where the separation of church and state is meant to be sacrosanct. There were also accusations of political opportunism. Some claimed that the government’s active role in the temple’s construction was a calculated move to secure the loyalty of millions of Hindu voters, which it may well have been. Others contended that it was not just about faith or history, but also a strategic ploy to boost pilgrimage tourism, turning the sacred into a lucrative enterprise. Again, there is no denying that the temple will boost tourism revenue. Still, such critiques failed to grasp the depth of what this temple signifies to those who revere it. To dismiss it as merely land, or to reduce it to an economic strategy, risks overlooking the emotional and cultural resonance it holds for millions. For millions of Hindus, Ayodhya is not just a city; it is the birthplace of a god who embodies the ideals of dharma and virtue. To stand in that place is to feel the weight of centuries, the echo of voices that have never stopped calling it sacred. So even for those of us who stand outside the complexities of the Israel-Palestine conflict, Israel’s fight for its land, for its faith and its legacy is understandable. Just as millions of Hindus see the Ram Mandir as more than a temple, as the reclamation of something intrinsic to their identity, so too does the West see Israel as a kind of affirmation that all that they stand for, has not been extinguished. When these narratives are under siege, the response is often one of solidarity—not merely political, but deeply personal and ideological, rooted in the belief that some stories are worth protecting because they define who we are. We fight not over land. We fight so as not to be erased.

There is something deeply comforting, one might almost say delicious, in despising the rich. They make, after all, the perfect villains in so many narratives: the champagne-swillers, art-collectors, the degenerates whose very existence serves as an affront to our collective sense of virtue. The stage for this indignation is not some bleak Dickensian street corner, but the gaping maw of social media. This is where hatred finds its fullest expression.  A casual scroll through the comments on social media posts of celebrities, public figures, or otherwise rich people in our own lives reveals a great deal of outrage. This contempt, however, is rarely self-reflective. People in my own circle, most of whom would be in the top 5% in the country — a fact they often overlook — are the loudest in condemning those richer than themselves. Indeed, to judge the rich, one need not be poor; one need only be sufficiently hypocritical. This is quite funny to someone who periodically zones out of such situations: the affluent decrying the affluent, the middle class deriding the upper class, and so on down the socio-economic ladder, until one reaches the poorest of the poor—who, perhaps mercifully, are too busy surviving to engage in such petty jealousies.  A big, fat wedding (which is quite common in India) invites comments like “Why waste so much money? Give it to charity.” The venom reserved for the rich has undertones of socialist righteousness — an unspoken belief that wealth, any wealth, is inherently ill-gotten, and thereby immoral, while poverty is a badge of honour and moral purity. It is almost as if we long for a world in which we were all equally miserable, huddled together in the egalitarian squalor of scarcity. The irony of the fact that such anti-capitalist posturing is greatest in societies that have benefitted the most from capitalism, is glaring. But I ask a simple question: If wealth is so contemptible, why do we all pursue it? Why do we rise early, endure the tedium of work, and strive for promotions? Why do we invest, save, and dream of a better tomorrow? What is the plan when we, someday, become what we now scorn? Are we going to suddenly find ourselves loathing the trajectory we’ve worked for all these years? The answer, of course, is that we do not truly despise wealth; we despise its absence. The world has managed the remarkable feat of elevating one of the basest human emotions—envy—into a virtue. The hatred of the rich is often nothing more than the envy of the not-yet-rich. It is easy to scorn the destination when one has not yet arrived.  This hypocrisy manifests in the smallest of interactions. Not long ago, I was rebuked by an acquaintance for being "too invested in first-world problems." This from someone who spends his days debating gender-neutral washrooms in the workplace and agonizing over the carbon footprint of his coffee. The truth is, if you’re in the upper middle class, if work at a corporate office and/ or live in a metropolitan city in India, chances are you live in the so-called first world for most of your day. You’re surrounded by calls for political correctness in your workplace, debates over pronouns among your colleagues, and climate-change pressures from your circle of friends. It is fashionable, of course, to profess concern for the downtrodden—the villager in Bihar who cannot feed his children, the labourer in Delhi who toils in the shadow of prosperity. Yet this concern is, more often than not, a way to signal virtue while living comfortably insulated from the realities one claims to lament. I grew up in a middle-class household in which people worried about fuel prices, the spike in onion costs after a bad crop season, or how to stretch a bar of soap just a little longer. Today, my conversations are different. Now, I talk about the rising cost of airfare, the impossibility of affording a home, or the political correctness in my office. Am I to feel guilty that I no longer have to worry about onions or soap? Should I pretend I can’t afford these things to placate the morally indignant ones? Should I apologise for the world I inhabit? Another experience comes to mind, one that fits perfectly into this theme of moral guilt-tripping. Just last week, a woman appeared at my door with a clipboard, demanding a donation for her NGO that, supposedly, feeds poor children. The month before, it was someone else, pushing for donations to save koala bears. And before that, it was a man insisting I contribute to a fund for autistic children. It seems that every few weeks, a new cause materialises at my doorstep, clipboard and all, demanding my charity.  Now, don’t get me wrong—asking for donations isn’t what I have a problem with. It’s the manner in which they do it. These people weren’t remotely polite. From the moment they knocked, they were rude, as if my refusal to donate was some kind of personal affront. The moment I said "no," they attempted to guilt me. One lady even pointed to my apartment and sneered, "You live in such a nice neighbourhood, can’t you spare something for hungry children?" As if the price of my rent made me morally obligated to hand over my wallet on command to whoever asked. And when I did agree to donate? That wasn’t enough either. They’d then shame me for the amount, pointing to other names on their clipboard with larger contributions, implying that my donation wasn’t worthy unless it matched the most generous. I once offered to donate clothes and rice, instead of cash for the homeless—something tangible, something I could be sure would go to those in need. But that, too, was beneath them. They turned up their noses as if I’d insulted them by suggesting an alternative. And when I asked how I could even be certain that my donation was reaching the intended cause, they didn’t even bother with an answer. Instead, they shrugged and said, "You’re rich enough to not worry about a few thousand rupees." It’s astonishing, really—the audacity to not only demand my money but also to judge my level of compassion based on the square footage of my home, by the visible trappings of ‘privilege’. And the worst part is, that while I am disagreeable enough to refuse, I know there are many people who are agreeable and shame-sensitive who would relent unwillingly. But what, one might ask, is the purpose of this relentless guilt-mongering? It is not to alleviate poverty or to redress injustice; rather, it is to enforce a new form of social control. The wealthy must not only give but also grovel, not only donate but also atone. They must apologise for their air conditioning, their vacations, their apartment, their car, their soap and onions.  And so, the wheel turns. The man who walks dreams of a bicycle, the man on a bicycle dreams of a car, and the man in a car dreams of a chauffeur-driven ride. But let a man reach his destination, and suddenly, the road itself is suspect—crooked, unfair, paved at the expense of those who still walk. It is not equality that people long for, but mobility. Equality is not the natural state of things; it never has been. It is a wish, a longing, a dream. But mobility is real. It exists in the sweat of the worker, in the gamble of the merchant, in the silent, desperate prayers of those who wish their children to have more than they did. And if there is resentment, it is for the unbearable knowledge that the ladder exists and must be climbed. There is nothing more bitter than the sight of another man ascending. Image source: Gossip Girl (2007-2012)

The Crisis of Modern Secularism One of the primary reasons modern society has dismissed the Christian worldview is the perceived disconnect between what it teaches and the realities of contemporary life. The Church’s assertion of offering a transcendent, universal truth often seems irreconcilable with the secular narratives ingrained through personal experience, societal norms, and the pervasive influence of modern media. In previous generations, much of what an individual knew and understood was shaped by their local community and the shared religious framework that, in the West, was predominantly Christianity. This close-knit environment provided a sense of stability and assurance, as people’s beliefs and values were largely aligned with those of their neighbors. However, advancements in technology — especially in communication, travel, and information — have fundamentally reshaped this dynamic. The modern individual is now inundated with an overwhelming influx of ideas and perspectives from across the globe, creating a kind of information overload. This unprecedented exposure has profoundly challenged the shared certainties of the past. As modern individuals encounter competing ideologies and gain direct knowledge of people once considered enemies, they discover that these individuals, their beliefs, and their practices are not as foreign or unreasonable as previous generations may have assumed. Confronted with this complexity, a modern person often feels compelled to choose between two equally troubling paths: either accept all perspectives as equally valid, leading to relativism and a rejection of absolute truth, or dismiss all perspectives entirely, turning instead to secularism and scientific materialism. The latter path is particularly alluring in an age where scientific advancements offer tangible and consistent results, making them appear as the only stable and reliable source of truth. In contrast, religious practices — once central to human life — are increasingly viewed as psychological crutches for those unable to adapt to modernity. With no immediate or measurable outcomes, these spiritual acts are often dismissed as relics of a superstitious past, tools designed to comfort the fearful and uncertain rather than genuine connections to a transcendent reality. The Church is frequently regarded as an archaic institution, steadfastly adhering to rituals and doctrines that many deem irrelevant in an age of rapid progress and innovation. Whether immersed in material abundance — manicured lawns, pristine homes, technological conveniences, and curated lifestyles — or striving for the perceived attainability of these comforts, which are presented as normative in modern culture, people often question the Church’s focus on sin, grace, and redemption. The false promise of stability and fulfillment offered by modern life obscures the deeper existential struggles that Christian teachings aim to address, leading many to dismiss the Church as a relic of an unenlightened past, incapable of addressing the complexities of a progressive, globalized society.Desensitized and Disoriented In contemporary society, media plays a paradoxical role in shaping our perceptions of suffering, negativity, and normalcy. Its relentless portrayals of violence and tragedy desensitize us, leaving many emotionally unmoved by real suffering. At the same time, it inundates us with advertisements and entertainment programs that depict idyllic lifestyles and curated images of happiness, fostering false expectations of what is normal and achievable. Together, these extremes distort our understanding of life’s true nature, numbing us to its harsher realities and trivializing genuine struggles. These programs and cultural influences not only normalize destructive behaviors but also perpetuate the illusion that individuals are inherently entitled to material prosperity and unassailable self-esteem, irrespective of moral conduct. Additionally, they promulgate the erroneous belief that negative outcomes are aberrations and fictions rather than inherent aspects of the human condition. For decades, this distorted paradigm has led many to misdiagnose the root of their struggles, attributing them to flaws in their mindset rather than deficiencies in their actions. Society repeatedly advances the narrative that the remedy lies in cultivating greater self-love, heightened self-esteem, and unconditional self-forgiveness. In pursuit of such ideals, countless individuals have turned to modern self-help philosophies, aspiring to attain personal enlightenment and alleviate the existential dread that permeates their inner lives. Yet, no amount of positive affirmation or meditative practice can fully dispel the profound guilt, shame, and existential darkness that reside in the depths of the human soul. Upon deeper introspection, many individuals recognize that feelings of inadequacy and despair are not as unfounded as modern thought leaders often claim. Life’s inherent fragility reveals itself in the stark reality that failure and collapse often come far more easily than success. Countless variables beyond our control can unravel, leaving us powerless to alter their course, while moments of serendipity remain exceedingly rare. Achieving anything truly meaningful requires focus, determination, and a considerable amount of hard work. Failure, on the other hand, takes no effort — it happens simply by letting things fall apart. This dynamic extends to the moral and spiritual realm. Moral compromise often presents itself as the path of least resistance, offering immediate gratification, while sacrifice and the pursuit of holiness demand discipline and fortitude that can feel nearly impossible to sustain. Modern society has exacerbated this tension by promoting the belief that success is an entitlement, irrespective of one’s efforts. This entitlement mindset has led many to harbor resentment — toward life, toward others, and even toward whatever they perceive as their creator. For those who still cling to false hopes, this resentment often feeds into a cycle of compromise that unknowingly breeds greater failure, anxiety, and despair. Even for individuals striving to lead virtuous lives, small moral compromises or missteps often masquerade as moments of respite, offering temporary relief from the unrelenting struggles of life, both internal and external. Yet this reprieve is fleeting, ultimately compounding the weight of the burdens they seek to escape.The Gnostic and Modern Understanding of Suffering This dual crisis — of relativism on one hand and secular reductionism on the other — has parallels to challenges faced in early Christianity. Gnosticism arose among certain early Christians who, while acknowledging the divinity of Christ, struggled to reconcile His teachings with their understanding of the God of the Old Testament. Confronted with the undeniable suffering and brutality present in the world, Gnosticism proposed an alternative theological framework: the material world was intrinsically evil, the creation of a lesser or malevolent deity, and salvation could only be attained through esoteric, hidden knowledge accessible to a select few. For the Gnostics, the stark realities of the natural world — cycles of predation, decay, and suffering — were evidence of its inherent evil. A striking example can be found on Fernandina Island, part of the Galápagos archipelago, where thousands of racer snakes lie in wait each year to ambush newly hatched marine iguanas. The hatchlings, guided by instinct, attempt to make their way to the safety of the shore, but many do not survive the journey, relentlessly pursued by waves of snakes in a grim display of predatory efficiency. Such brutal scenes seem to reflect the disorder and cruelty Gnosticism associated with the material world. In contrast, Modern secularist’s tendency to romanticize creation often leads to a selective focus on its beauty and a purposeful ignorance of its brutality. This sentimentality obscures the harsher realities of nature’s unforgiving side, such as the raw spectacle on Fernandina Island, which disrupts idyllic views of the natural world. Yet this evasion of reality extends beyond how we perceive nature. Just as the modernist glosses over the violence of the wild, so too do they seek to deny or escape their own suffering. Pain, loss, and existential uncertainty are anesthetized through layers of distractions — endless entertainment, consumer comforts, and, most prominently, medications and therapies that promise relief. These means, while often necessary and beneficial, can also serve to mask the deeper, unavoidable struggles of human existence.The Christian Understanding of Suffering The Christian worldview, in contrast to both, provides a profound and cohesive understanding of creation’s suffering. While it acknowledges the fallenness of the world, it also proclaims that creation retains its inherent goodness and purpose. The suffering inherent in creation is not evidence of its inherent evil but a reflection of humanity’s sin and its far-reaching consequences. As stewards of creation, humanity’s rebellion against God introduced disorder into both the moral and natural orders, leading to the predation, decay, and death we observe today. Far from being a sign of divine cruelty, such suffering underscores the interconnectedness of humanity and creation. St. Paul speaks to this in his letter to the Romans: “For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God… in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay” (Romans 8:19–21). The suffering of the Cross stands at the heart of Christ’s redemptive work, revealing the depth of God’s love for a broken world. On the Cross, the full weight of cosmic disorder and estrangement from God was borne by Christ, embracing pain and rejection to bring about reconciliation and renewal. Far from being merely a symbol of human suffering, the Cross is the ultimate expression of divine love, where God confronted the brokenness of creation. Through this redemptive moment, suffering itself is can be transformed into a pathway for renewal.A Groaning Creation and the Hope of the Christian Worldview While Gnosticism saw creation as irredeemable and modern secularism often ignores or trivializes its harsher realities, the Christian worldview offers a more integrated and redemptive vision. Rather than retreating into sentimentality or denial, Christianity confronts creation’s suffering with honesty, affirming both its disorder through sin and its enduring goodness as God’s handiwork. The Christian worldview, when properly understood, addresses both the complexities of human experience and the profound truths of divine revelation — a reality that even many Christians struggle to fully comprehend. Within this framework, God’s omniscience encompasses the unfolding of events within His providential plan, yet humanity’s sinful nature profoundly shapes the outcomes of our reality. Sin’s effects extend beyond personal or societal consequences, reverberating throughout creation and introducing cosmic disorder. These outcomes are not arbitrary decrees of a wrathful Creator but the inevitable consequences of humanity’s departure from divine harmony. Modern cultural forces, however, obscure this truth. By minimizing the reality of sin and suffering or distorting them through narratives of self-sufficiency and superficial solutions, society prevents individuals from confronting their need for divine grace. This misunderstanding often leads to a view of God as either wrathful or irrelevant, driven by a lack of theological depth and engagement with tradition, Scripture, and Christological catechesis. Yet, the Christian worldview reveals a God who is neither indifferent nor cruel but profoundly merciful, actively guiding humanity and all creation toward ultimate redemption. Central to this redemptive vision is the Incarnation, where God, in His infinite love, entered the very fabric of the created reality. God, in a profound paradox, both offered His Son for our sake and simultaneously entered fully into human suffering, bearing the weight of sin and disorder not only for humanity but for all creation. Through His Passion, death, and resurrection, Christ affirmed the inherent goodness of the created world, transforming suffering into a means of redemption and renewal. This act of self-giving love reveals a divine mercy and compassion that transcend human understanding, offering hope and restoration to all of creation. Far from divine cruelty, creation’s groaning reminds us of humanity’s estrangement from God and the hope of restoration. This suffering reveals not the absence of God’s goodness but the consequences of humanity’s rejection of His love, disrupting both the moral and natural orders and creating dissonance across creation.Conclusion The Christian worldview calls humanity to confront these realities with honesty, recognizing the profound need for salvation and repentance of sins. Through Christ’s death and resurrection, the path to reconciliation with God and the gift of eternal life are made available to all who respond in faith and seek to live according to His teachings. This message of hope transcends the illusions propagated by cultural forces, offering true transformation through the redemptive power of divine grace. Moreover, the Christian vision extends beyond humanity to encompass all of creation. The groaning of the natural world, visible in predation, decay, and natural disasters, is not meaningless but part of a larger story of renewal. Through Christ, creation itself is invited to share in the hope of redemption. This promise is not abstract but concrete, culminating in the ultimate restoration of all things, as foretold in Isaiah’s vision: “The wolf shall dwell with the lamb” (Isaiah 11:6) and the revelation that one day, all things will be made new (Revelation 21:5). Embracing the Christian worldview calls humanity to transcend modern distortions — denial, desensitization, or despair — through a transformative recognition of our brokenness and dependence on divine grace. In Christ, we discover the ultimate source of meaning, healing, and restoration — not only for humanity but for all of creation. Through Him, what was once broken will be made whole, and the groaning of the world will give way to the glory of a renewed cosmos united with its Creator.

To the women of the modern age — I wish you self esteem so high you can still be humble. I wish you boundaries so firm you can still be kind. I wish you confidence so strong that you feel no need to weaponize your independence. I wish you competence so great you can share your wealth with others, assured in your ability to generate more. I wish for you to know the strength and grace of men once again. Most of all I wish you the humility to know when such things are being offered to you, and the wisdom not to mistake them for oppression. There is something faintly tragic about the modern young woman who, standing in her own kitchen with love in her heart and joy in her labour, must wrestle with the suspicion that she is somehow her own jailor. She is not abused. She is not neglected. Her marriage, by every honest measure, is a happy one. She married for love, not arrangement. Her husband is the primary provider. He pays the bills, yes, but he also folds the laundry and remembers to ask about her headaches and rubs her feet without being asked. And he does so without complaint or posturing. He does it because it’s their life. Shared, intertwined. It is, by any measure that predates the invention of the hashtag, a happy marriage.  And yet—there it is. That voice. The one that whispers not in her husband’s tone nor in her own, but in the insidious language of the zeitgeist. The voice that tells her that, if she is to be found sweating in the kitchen while her husband reclines with a book, some injustice must be afoot. The arrangement is temporary—the woman will join him soon enough—but in that instant, the voice hisses: See? You are the one working. He is the one resting. You are the cook. He is the thinker. You are oppressed.  It is the genius of modern ideological movements that they have succeeded in making guilt the companion of joy. A woman may choose to build a warm, fragrant, beautiful home, and yet the prevailing discourse will assign her not agency but false consciousness. The very word “choice” has been corrupted: it is permitted only when it conforms to certain pre-approved scripts. A woman may choose to climb a corporate ladder, to reject family, to deconstruct everything handed down to her—and this will be called liberation. But should she choose to embrace her domestic life, to devote herself as a free woman to the nourishment of a man she chose and children she birthed, then she is told, with patronizing certainty, that she has been duped. One is reminded of the totalitarian practice of insisting that people deny the evidence of their own eyes or articulate their thoughts for themselves. What she sees—the small happiness of a well-cooked meal, the glow in her husband’s face, the peacefulness of a home where someone has taken the trouble to care—must be dismissed in favour of abstract notions about power structures and invisible shackles. The very concept of a woman happily engaged in her domestic world is treated like an elaborate lie she tells herself. What makes this voice so insidious is not its volume but its familiarity. It doesn’t come from an obvious enemy. It comes from peers. From women she went to college with, from Instagram reels and “relatable” content, from the chirpily self-assured tones of podcasts hosted by women who seem constantly dissatisfied but relentlessly certain of their righteousness. These are not Mad Men-style patriarchs; they are the girls she grew up with, telling her now that unless she is engaged in struggle—preferably against something within the walls of her own home—she has forfeited her autonomy. The ideology is rarely explicit. It is never, “Don’t cook.” It is, “Why are you the one cooking?” It is not, “Don’t love your husband.” It is, “Why does your identity revolve around your marriage?” It is not, “Don’t take pride in your home.” It is, “Are you sure your pride isn’t just a mask for submission?” If she were to post a photograph of a home-cooked meal—let’s say, her grandmother’s recipe, lovingly prepared on a Sunday afternoon—she will receive two types of responses. From older women, perhaps a nostalgic comment. From her peers, thinly disguised concern. “Hope he’s helping too!” “Don’t forget self-care!” “Just make sure it’s not becoming a habit you’re stuck with.” As if devotion is dangerous. As if love, when expressed through food or home, becomes an act of betrayal—not of one’s self, but of feminism, of ambition, of some larger narrative of womanhood we’re all apparently supposed to be upholding. What results from this is not liberation, but paranoia. A woman who has the full measure of modern education, who is perfectly capable of independent thought, must conduct an internal tribunal against herself every time she places rice on the stove. And if she finds herself momentarily irritated—if her husband, having finished his chapter, stretches luxuriously in the air-conditioned bedroom while she stirs lentils—then the voice has its “Aha!” moment. And God forbid she admits to being happy. There is no narrative for that anymore. To be content in married domestic life is to be dismissed. It is to be told, in effect, that you do not understand yourself. That you are, at best, simple. At worst, brainwashed. If the reader has not yet guessed, I am that woman. Where once women were told by men what their place was, now we are told by other women where it must not be. The kitchen? A prison. The bedroom? A battlefield. The living room? A stage for performative egalitarianism. The only legitimate sites of identity, we are now told, lie outside: in the office, in the startup pitch, in the activism seminar. Marriage, especially a happy one, is now treated as a cave from which the real woman must emerge, blinking in the light, to discover her true self. What a strange contortion! What has happened to us, that we have so thoroughly lost faith in the wisdom of ordinary love, in the unglamorous pleasures of tending to another, of building a home? We have turned skepticism into a virtue and warmth into weakness. To feel fulfilled in marriage is not progressive; to feel perpetually aggrieved, however, is fashionable. What no one tells us women is how isolating this can be. I often feel I am speaking a language that has gone extinct. The word “grihastha” meant something once—a stage of life, not a trap. It acknowledged the sanctity of the everyday: of making a home, raising a family, working not merely for money but for a life worth inhabiting. But now, to share the stories of one’s grihastha life—be it about a lovingly ironed shirt or a warm cup of tea set beside your husband’s book—is to risk being seen as unserious.  And yet, I do not feel lost. In fact, it is precisely when I am engaged in these tasks that I feel most anchored. The work of the home, when done with love, becomes not drudgery but devotion. And yet, even I, with my articulate thoughts and reflective habits, must fight the voice in my head that isn’t my own.  But when I finish the housework and return to the same cool room, when my husband smiles at me and sets the table without needing to be asked and asks me how my day was, I win over the voice once more. I remember who I am and what I believe. I remember that my husband has his own sweaty moments too—after long hours at work, after the slog of an hour-long commute, or when he stands under the harsh sun fixing the broken water tank so I won’t have to bathe with a bucket again. I remember that the kitchen, far from being a cage, is a room of my own. A room where the women of my family once stood, preparing meals full of warmth and sustenance, showing me how it is indeed possible to establish a happy association with the hearth. And if, in the end, I do succeed in vanquishing that voice entirely—and I like my chances—it will be because my husband’s unselfconscious masculinity helped me to embrace my own femininity without shame or suspicion. Because he led with steadiness when I faltered, spoke plainly when the noise in my head drowned out my better judgment, and endured, with admirable patience, my inevitable lapses into doubt and borrowed grievance. If I have known peace, it is thanks not to the disembodied chorus of well-meaning sisterhoods urging me to reclaim what was never stolen, but to a man who did not see love as a contest and who bore the cost of my internal war without ever charging me for it. In the final accounting, I owe my happiness not to the prevailing orthodoxy of my generation, but to the one person it would have me regard with suspicion. The irony, I suppose, is almost too perfect. Image Source: Julie and Julia (2009)

I have a sneaking suspicion that the spirit of Mephistopheles is at large in the world today. Even as I write this, it sounds like an overblown and slightly deranged diagnosis of a lot that is currently wrong with public psyche. But I have my reasons for this somewhat strange idea.  To give more context, Mephistopheles is Goethe's devil in Faust, a figure born from the darker edges of the world. He strikes a deal with God, wagering that he can corrupt Faust, a doctor and scholar whose faith lies in reason and science, unswayed by the divine. Faust, in his relentless search for meaning, becomes the perfect prey for Mephistopheles' whispered promises of worldly pleasure and knowledge beyond limits. Mephistopheles, however, is not just evil for its own sake. He stands as the embodiment of negation, of doubt, of the ceaseless struggle against creation itself. His essence is captured in his own words: "I am the spirit that denies!"  Nietzsche would recognize in Mephistopheles what he calls the "spirit of the naysayer"—the force that negates, denies, and seeks to tear down rather than build. For Nietzsche, this spirit opposes life itself, standing in contrast to the will to power, the drive to affirm existence and create meaning. Mephistopheles, in his essence, is the ultimate "naysayer," undermining Faust’s thirst for knowledge and experience by sowing seeds of doubt and disillusionment. Like Nietzsche's naysayer, Mephistopheles embodies the cynical, life-denying force that mocks creation, scorning any striving for greatness, whispering in the ear of every creative soul: "Why bother?" The reason I assert, with such grim certainty, that the spirit of negation is at large today is because I observe the same “nay-saying” impulse underpinning the corrosive ideologies that have taken hold of the modern psyche. The pro-abortion movement, the assault on the nuclear family, the climate change alarmism, overpopulation myths and anti-natalism and the radical trans agenda all point to the same underlying belief: that creation, whether it be life itself or the cultural achievements of civilization, is inherently flawed, corrupt, and deserving of annihilation.  Protect the sexual liberty of impulsive women, but not the lives of unborn children. Defend pronouns and identities, but mutilate healthy bodies, rendering people unable to have children. Make divorce as easy as possible, because "it just isn’t working anymore," even if it leaves birthrates to plummet. Save the planet, but not humanity. In short, the message is clear: human life itself is offensive. We are being asked to embrace the belief that mankind is a scourge upon the earth, and its eradication, or at least its diminishment, is a moral imperative. And, as history has shown time and again, when people are convinced that their acts of cruelty are justified by a higher moral purpose, the results are always catastrophic.  Art, literature, and beauty, once considered essential expressions of the human spirit, are now treated with contempt, vandalised by protestors, and dismissed as relics of an oppressive past or the indulgences of a privileged elite. The agents of Mephistopheles—those who seek to deny rather than affirm—have no use for creation in any form. They champion only deconstruction, replacing beauty with ugliness, complexity with slogans, and depth with shallow, ideological messages. Art becomes propaganda, its purpose no longer to elevate or inspire, but to indoctrinate and degrade. And it does not stop there. Once the value of life and creation is denied, the justification for violence, crime, and even genocide becomes easier to articulate. Thus, we see how the nihilistic undercurrent of these movements, masked as compassion or justice, paves the way for acts of destruction previously unthinkable. The agents of Mephistopheles believe that their moral vision justifies any act, no matter how destructive. They have adopted, as their creed, the same dark philosophy that Mephistopheles whispers in Faust’s ear: "Everything that comes to be, deserves to perish."  As I reflect on this darkness, I am reminded of my grandmother, who stands as a custodian of the values under assault today. She has faced more loss than most could endure, but she taught my family the importance of not dwelling forever in mourning, of living despite it all. Hindus typically refrain from celebrating festivals or joyous occasions within a year of a family member’s death, but she—having been widowed with teenage children to raise—understood the value of celebrating life. She taught her family, especially the children, to wear colour, to eat well, to celebrate even during mourning. Her wisdom is not wrapped in lofty ideas or grand philosophical statements; she has never heard of Mephistopheles, nor would she be interested in the ideological battles of today’s world. I wonder what she would say to the life-denial that now prevails. Illustration by Harry Clarke for a 1925 edition of Goethe's Faust

Last Sunday after church I was – or rather, I thought I was – having a rational discussion with a very nice gentleman about the history of that period of time in America intentionally mislabeled “the Civil War.” I have a vested interest in that period as I had done considerable research into that era, both ante and post bellum. As a result, I am more than well-schooled in the factual nuances in play during this very important era including the quintessential issue of slavery! Indeed, I venture to say that I am far more knowledgeable than many Americans on this subject as it was of great interest to me having been utilized to excuse a great many illegal and unconstitutional actions by the government of the United States against the States of the South!   The problem is, as with many people including the gentleman here mentioned, that, to such people, nothing is worse than slavery! It is, in their minds, the greatest of all evils justifying any action against it however illegal and/or immoral. But given his responses – what there were of them – it was also obvious that he knew little or nothing other than the orthodoxy of the moment, most of which is at best simplistic and at worst, mendacious. And, interestingly enough, given the conditions involved, this includes the Bible’s references to that subject clearly indicating that while God’s Word mentions slavery, it does not condemn it outright or make of it an unforgivable sin! Consider Joseph in Egypt!  And so, as the conversation went along and as I tried to impart certain little-known facts, I found that doing so apparently made him “uncomfortable!” And, as a result, he did something that astonished me! With a gentle smile on his face (as if to point out how foolish I was being but also that he still liked me anyway!) he put his hands over his ears indicating that he was no longer listening; that indeed, he refused to listen! Obviously, whatever I was saying, he did not want to hear! Now, at that moment I was not saying anything outrageous or indicating in any way that I supported the institution of slavery, neither was I demanding his agreement! I was merely requesting his attention to matters of which he apparently knew little or nothing! Indeed, I was only attempting to make a rather small point when it was obvious that whatever I was saying, was clearly something he did not want to hear! Indeed, this gesture of covering his ears indicated that he was no longer willing to listen to anything that differed from his own “knowledge” about an important issue that continues to cause great damage in today’s culture! And that, my friends, is a dangerous thing! Voluntary ignorance is no way to run a society!  Obviously, this refusal to at least listen to someone whom he himself had admitted is knowledgeable, exhibits a refusal to seek to determine whether what he believes is true or not! This is not an adult response to such a situation! Children shut their eyes and cover their ears singing loudly to prevent being exposed to something they refuse to hear! This collapse of discourse was more than distressing to me! That an intelligent man should put his hands over his ears like a five-year-old demanding his understanding of the subject – such as it was! – “no matter what,” forced me to realize that even a supposed adult was capable of deliberately choosing “what I want” over “what might be true!” And that was deeply disturbing. No wonder there are people today who believe that they can change reality because they want to! Of course, in truth they can’t!  But the question then arises, how many have suffered and even died – and will continue to suffer and die – in the attempts by such people to make “real” what is not? In fact, many have been damaged or destroyed already in this crusade against truth, facts and reason – and from what I see in situations such as I encountered here, the problem is bound to continue.  The great German philosopher Goethe was right when he wrote, “There is nothing more frightful than ignorance in action.”

We are told that man is freer than ever before. Free from the constraints of tradition, from the exacting expectations of church and community, even from the obligations of family responsibilities. To a large extent, that is. He is now the master of his own destiny. He stands, or so he believes, a triumphant individual, unshackled and self-made. Yet, is this purported individualism is largely illusory? We are drowning in individualism, and still, true individuality has never been rarer. This is not merely a contradiction; it is a triumph of superficiality. The great promise of individualism—the cultivation of a rich, distinctive self—has been reduced to an empty performance, a parade of interchangeable personas cobbled together from mass-produced cultural fragments. Take the contemporary obsession with self-expression. Never before have we had so many tools to broadcast our identities to the world, and never before have these identities been so depressingly alike. The modern individual asserts his uniqueness through slogans printed on t-shirts, hashtags appended to selfies, and consumer goods carefully selected to signal membership in a particular tribe. Beneath this clamorous insistence on "being oneself," there is a certain sameness. This is individualism without individuality: a society in which people mistake choice for character and novelty for depth. It is a world in which the self is not something to be discovered or cultivated but something to be assembled from a menu of pre-approved options. The result is a kind of paradoxical collectivism, in which the pursuit of uniqueness leads not to the creation of truly distinctive individuals but to the proliferation of shallow "types". Even those who pride themselves on being “different” often do so in ways that are predictable and derivative, their rebellion little more than a mirror image of the conformity they claim to reject. This is precisely why social media algorithms are so adept at "hacking" our attention—offering us what we think we desire, when in fact, they only serve to amplify our own conformity, masked as individualism.  This is embarrassing, given that we live in an age of endless self-definition. Identity has come to mean little more than a series of banal declarations. Is it to be found in what kind of music you like, whether you are an early bird or a night owl, a cat person or a dog person, whether you like to wear pink or black, what you do in the bedroom and whom you do it with, what your pronouns are, whether you like the Harry Potter books more or the movies? Is identity truly the sum of our preferences only? Whatever else the modern individual may be, he is a consumer, endlessly manipulated by advertising, algorithms, and the tyranny of trends. His sense of self is not the product of deep reflection or hard-won experience but the sum of his possessions, his online personas, and his slavish adherence to the dictates of fashion and ideology. He is, in the words of Kierkegaard, “levelled,” stripped of true individuality and reduced to a mere cipher in the great leveling machine of modernity. This hollowing out of the self has consequences, not only for the individual but for society as a whole. To fixate on the superficial markers of who we are is to neglect the deeper question of what we ought to become. It is not about what we like or what we do but about what we find worth striving for, how we respond to the trials of life and how others see us. While the modern individual seldom acknowledges any authority beyond his own ego, it must be remembered that it is the family and the community who hold the ultimate authority in determining who one is. They decide if we are a skilled craftsman or a poor one, a devoted father or a neglectful one, a dutiful son or an ungrateful one. Identity, therefore, must be found beyond trivia, in the active pursuit of character. If we are to reclaim the promise of individualism, we must begin by rejecting the counterfeit version that masquerades as the real thing. We must resist the temptation to define ourselves by what we consume or how we are perceived and instead turn our attention inward, to the arduous but rewarding work of self-cultivation. For individualism without individuality is not freedom but enslavement—a shallow mimicry of the self, destined to collapse under the weight of its own emptiness.

It is one of the more perverse ironies of our times that, as society has become more tolerant, it has also become more hysterical. The acceptance of homosexuality has progressed at a remarkable pace, from criminalisation to celebration in the space of a single generation. Yet the manner in which this acceptance has been expressed in art, particularly in cinema and television, leaves one with the impression not of mature integration but of frantic compensation. There was a time—within living memory, though it already seems distant—when homosexual characters in films were either delicately implied or robustly ignored. It was not that their existence was denied, nor that audiences were composed entirely of reactionary yokels incapable of recognising coded gestures or subtle inflections. Rather, there was an unspoken understanding: that a character’s sexuality, like their digestion or their dentist’s surname, need not be paraded as the defining feature of their moral and narrative universe. A raised eyebrow, an artfully placed silk scarf, a curiously intense male friendship—these were the signs, more coded than spoken, of a character’s orientation. No one was fooled, of course. But crucially, neither were we beaten over the head with the idea that such an identity must be the sole—and indeed sacred—defining trait of a person’s existence. Now, however, the pendulum has swung with the force and subtlety of a wrecking ball, and in the opposite direction. We live in an era that demands confession not merely as a spiritual exercise, but as a performative duty. In modern film, characters are no longer permitted to simply be gay; they must proclaim it, revolve around it, and allow no scene to pass without reference to it. Their orientation is not one detail among many but a kind of metaphysical centre of gravity, around which the entire narrative and moral architecture is built. This approach, far from normalising, risks rendering such characters alien, even cartoonish. For no one—gay, straight, or otherwise—goes about their daily life with a flashing neon sign affixed to their foreheads announcing their erotic proclivities. At least, no one with any sense of proportion or self-awareness. This modern tendency betrays a strangely philistine view of what it means to be human. Take, for example, the character of Michel in Gilmore Girls—a man who is incidentally black, incidentally gay, and primarily irritable. His sexuality is neither concealed nor weaponised. It simply exists, like his French accent and his distaste for incompetence. He is not paraded as an emblem of progress but is allowed the dignity of being a character first and a category later. In this way, he resembles the people one actually meets in life, rather than the ones one is hectored into applauding. What we are witnessing now, I fear, is not so much liberation as reduction. The person is flattened into the identity; the identity is weaponised into a politics; and the politics is recycled into a product. Characters are not written but assembled, like flat-pack furniture, from checklists: gay, check; person of colour, check; trauma, check. That none of this makes them more compelling or more human seems beside the point. The aim is not to understand, but to affirm. It is tempting to ascribe this shift to mere ideological fervour, but I suspect something more banal and yet more troubling is at play: cowardice. Writers and producers, anxious not to offend, produce only what they know will be approved by those who might otherwise take to social media with all the fervour of the Spanish Inquisition, albeit with less subtlety. And so we are left with a cinema of slogans, where the human soul is subsumed beneath the banner of representation. The danger now is not that gay characters are too few, but that they are too simple, too sanctified, too strenuously correct. They are not allowed flaws unless those flaws are pedagogical in function and overcome by act three. But what is this if not a new form of dehumanisation? It is not the bigot who says, "You may not exist," but the ideologue who says, "You may exist only like this." Long story short, we have traded invisibility for caricature, which may feel like progress but bears all the hallmarks of neurosis. The best characters, gay or straight, are those who behave as people do—unexpectedly, irrationally, with humour and sorrow and vanity and grace. Until the film industry rediscovers this rather obvious fact, it may as well use mannequins draped in rainbow flags in place of human actors. For like mannequins, these poorly conceived characters are easy to position, but impossible to believe. Image Source: Gilmore Girls (2000-2007)

As the debates raging in this country go on, I have noticed something that I’m sure others on “my side” of these debates have also noticed; that is, that most of those on the Right or conservative sides are believers in Voltaire’s sentiment, “I may disagree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it!” Of course, there are those on the right who, tired of lies, threats and insults no longer hold that viewpoint. Why? Because it gets tiring when all attempts at dialogue and/or debate end with name calling on the part of your opponents! And we all know the standard Leftist “comebacks,” that is, those who disagree with their viewpoint however inane or insane those viewpoints, are either a member of the “far right” — a term indicating anyone to the right of Stalin — or, more usual these days, one is a “racist.” This term, interestingly enough, is also used on conservative blacks, a fact that only goes to show the term is a standard – and mindless – weapon in the hands of the Left, without any real meaning other than as an attempt to silence their opponents. In the end, this mindset removes any attempt at not only discourse, but compromise. You cannot compromise with people who see you not as having an opinion with which they disagree, but someone who is intrinsically EVIL. And, of course, that also ends any attempt at discourse for how can one have discourse with evil? Parenthetically, that is something that we on the right have been trying to do for a long, long time only to learn that this leopard at least never changes its spots. I remember learning from former Fox News commentator Tucker Carlson that at the time to criticize Black Lives Matter — a hate group if there ever was one! — the person involved could and did lose his or her job. One man was fired because his WIFE wrote a letter to a newspaper critical of the group! People were being advised to openly support and even financially contribute to BLM — OR ELSE! In the past, such horrific denial of fundamental constitutional rights would have resulted in a lawsuit and big bucks proceeding to the injured party. Today, however, the courts are as liable to uphold the actions of the employer as sustain the rights of the employee given the topic. We no longer have a viable legal system. It now seems to depend upon the ideology of the judge trying the case. And, of course, the unhappy consequence of the political success of our WOKE culture with its “liberal” leaders are ever more leftist judges and prosecutors. Alas, while many Americans are concerned about losing the Second Amendment, we may have already lost the First and with it our rights of freedom of speech and expression, freedom of assembly and freedom of religion. Once those are gone beyond restoration, the Second Amendment is easily nullified. As well, we also seem to have, in many instances, lost the protection of the civilian police who, we are told, made UNNECESSARY the Second Amendment. If this becomes the rationale, there will no longer be anywhere to seek justice in a world gone mad.