As we approach the twenty-first century, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that our entire culture is in trouble. We are staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, and we can no longer afford to act like it’s loaded with blanks… Our society has replaced heroes with celebrities, the quest for a well-informed character with the search for a flat stomach, substance and depth with image and personality. In the political process, the makeup man is more important than the speech writer, and we approach the voting booth, not on the basis of a well-developed philosophy of what the state should be, but with a heart full of images, emotions, and slogans all packed into thirty-second sound bites. The mind-numbing, irrational tripe that fills TV talk shows is digested by millions of bored, lonely Americans hungry for that sort of stuff (J.P Moreland).
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JAM MOESTA QUIESCE QUERELA

(Prudentius, Fifth Century.)

No more, ah, no more sad complaining,
Resign these fond pledges to earth;
Stay, mothers, the thick-falling tear-drops:
This death is a heavenly birth.

What mean these still caverns of marble,
Fair shrines that the dear ashes keep?
How sweetly they tell of the loved ones,
Not dead, but soft resting in sleep!

What though on the pale, icy forehead
No gleam of the intellect break?
A moment it slumbers, till nobler
Its powers in their beauty awake.

Soon, soon through the motionless body
The warm, loving life-tide shall pour,
And, blushing with joy, shall revisit
The home it has dwelt in before.

These clods, ‘neath the hillock reposing,
Long wasting in silent decay.
Shall follow the souls that have loved them,
On winged winds soaring away.

So green from the seed springs the blossom,
Long perished, long hid in the mould;
And fresh from the turf, it remembers
The wide-waving harvests of old.

Take, Earth, to thy bosom so tender,
Take, nourish this body. How fair,
How noble in death! we surrender
These relics of man to thy care.

This, this was the home of the spirit,
Once built by the breath of our God;
And here, in the light of His wisdom,
Christ, Head of the risen, abode.

Guard well the dear treasure we lend thee:
The Maker, the Saviour of men
Shall never forget His belovéd,
But claim His own likeness again.

Speed on, perfect year, to the morning;
God’s fulness shall dawn on the just,
And thou, open grave, shalt restore us
This holy, unchangeable dust.

-WASHBURN.