No More Sissy Stuff!

marxism, feminism, and the need to foster the masculine soul

Many know the old saying, “boys will be boys.” But, it’s actually not true. More accurately, boys will start off as young masculine souls, and, without the needed discipleship, encouragement, and guidance from older men, through a barrage of anti-masculine ideologies and unbiblical teachings, that young masculine soul is likely to be entangled in the web of antichrist propagandas ever present in society. Truly, boys will start off as fiercely masculine, but the world is determined to crush them into submission. And, the corrective course of action is not simply a matter of attempting to reduce or thwart the demonic barrage of flaming arrows; we must foster the masculine soul so that boys will grow to be men—fierce men of courage driven by the Word of God. Regarding the future glory of the redemption of all things, Paul wrote, “creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the sons of God” (Romans 8:19). We must intentionally disciple our children in a manner that prepares the road for such a revelation because the problems that we face are not trifles to be balked.

While the longer historical account of humanity’s demise is best summarized by a single word of catastrophic proportions (sin), the doom of the modern age has been driven by the plagues of Marxism and feminism. Both ideologies trace their modern origins to the rise of intellectual nihilism of the nineteenth century, but the shared victimhood mentalities may be more rightly rooted in The Beginning: the temptation and deception of Eve to desire not simply power but the power to be God, and the murderous resentment of Cain for God’s acceptance of his brother’s offering that came as a product of hardworking industriousness. Both concerns yield significant threats nothing short of the assault of demonic forces.

Beyond Eve, modern feminism arose from the argued pursuit of equal rights from a collection of women who were, in all transparency, marching for the opportunity to have political representation without national responsibilities; regardless, much of the feminist plight found its precipice in the late nineteenth century in the psychoanalytical philosophy of Lou Salome who argued that, in conjunction with her promotion of sexual liberality far beyond the tedious boundaries of marriage and heterosexuality, the great lesson of the Greek story of Narcissus was to look deeply into the mirror and discover the needed wholeness available within the feminine spirit of self love—Narcissus was the wise and brave hero to be imitated. With the personal blessing of Freud, Salome considered the psychological problem of the fractured ego to be resolved not only in the liberation of the libido but also in the enablement of feminine narcissism. Such was considered the appropriate and necessary fight against all that was determined to be the burdensome bonds of patriarchy. Most dangerously, it is an ideology that has poisoned the hearts and minds of many who have unknowingly subscribed to the tenets and implemented its strategies. The feminist is, therefore, incapable of being satisfied with freedom and equality because the heart of the worldview is fueled by a victim mentality that considers any position under God to be an imprisonment; the proof of such a claim may be found in the reactions of a feminist told “no.”

In a similar fashion, and beyond the murder of Abel, while the evils of envy have wreaked destruction through its mephistophelian lies since nearly the very dawn of time, it would not necessarily be written into a philosophy of organized hatred until the manifesto of Karl Marx in the middle of the nineteenth century. Often masqueraded as an economist or idealistic politician, Marx, in addition to his occultist obsession with Mephistopheles, was a philosopher who determined, first, that the reason for our existence and the fulfillment of our lives was found in unpaid work, and, second, that humanity was compartmentalized into only two factions (oppressor and oppressed). His description of the strains from the bourgeoise onto the proletariat victims have undergone many names: haves and have nots, the one percent and the ninety-nine, the Soviet kulaks and the even poorer peasants, white privilege and marginalized people, etc. Regardless of its evolution of language, the result is always the same—envy, hatred, violence, genocide, and famine. Most notably, it is a demonic ideology that, in its appeal to the darkness within human nature, has subtly seeped into the hearts and minds of many. It’s neither a fight for opportunity nor a battle against the inequality of crony capitalism; in the pursuit of equity, it is, instead, in favor not only of the ferocious corruption of justice and opportunity but also of the creation of further cronyism. As a result, the basic law of scarcity keeps the Marxist forever miserable because the heart of the worldview is built upon a jealous greed that considers one a victim if another has more. Proof of such a claim may be gleaned in the reactions of those advised to work hard and find contentment.

Both ideologies have saturated all levels of education and entertainment; today, the messaging is often blatant and unapologetic, but, and perhaps even more dangerously, the ideological positions are regularly present within various forms of media, and have been for decades, through subtle assumptions to the point of being unrecognizable to most unaware consumers. And, so, envious, hateful, vengeful, prideful bullies are shaped and formed. But, this is not to say that there is no hope. The needed societal solution may be found in the fostering of the masculine soul—not the pseudo-masculine machismo oriented toward power and vanity, but the self-sacrificial image of God that rises to rescue those in need (Psalm 82:4). The world needs our parental discipleship to encourage and equip boys to become great men.

Boys must become men, first and foremost, because this is good. But, secondly, and like it, because it is needed. Boys need it. And, we need it. There is something miraculous that happens when a boy rises to the occasion, and that’s just the sort of miracle we need more of today.

First, it must be said that there is an obvious truth every parent recognizes: all boys have an affinity for weapons and fighting. If you don’t give them a sword, they’ll find a stick. And, so, when my son was little (and well armed with an arsenal to make the Templars envious), an early priority became to setting the example by raising my own sword (on loan from my son’s arsenal) and boldly chanting the knights code, the code of King Arthur and the knights of the round table. Both my son and daughter knew it and knew it well. But, what I eventually found is that, before the direction and purpose of the code, first would have to come courage.

When my son was young, he would have recurring nightmares of a prowling lion in his bedroom. In so many spiritual ways, he wasn’t Biblically wrong. I comforted him, sat with him, slept in his room, and reminded him of my duty to protect all those under my care; but, on one particular night, I realized something extraordinary: in the dark, in his bed, when he was most fearful and vulnerable, he was defenseless. That night I tucked him in, kissed him goodnight, and made sure his great wooden longsword was nestled in by his side; he had my full permission to draw his sword and go to war if the enemy approached. To this day, no one in the house falls asleep faster or sleeps more soundly. His courage came once his young masculine heart was equipped and unleashed. Next came purpose.

When my in-laws gifted my son with an epic cardboard full-face medieval knight’s helmet, I knew what I had to do. Foam, cardboard, and a ridiculous amount of silver duct tape magnificently transformed into battle shields and armor; we trained and fought and fought and trained—our training became bloody war and our bloody wars became training. It was glorious! But, something was definitely missing. But that’s when it happened; I stumbled across a dragon pool noodle and devised a wicked plan. Central to this wickedness was my daughter’s beautifully feminine nature—she loves pretty dresses and would often adorn herself in the very likeness of the royal Genevieve. All I had to do was wait. I waited for a time in which she came out of her room dressed in such a fashion then sprang the trap. With malice the dragon sought to devour the princess and would not be detoured; in such a moment, my son ran to the battlefield with shield and helmet gleaming in the light of his drawn sword. There were many injuries (mostly on my own hands!) as the battle raged, but, in a moment that I wish I could forever freeze in time, the battle reached a glorious climax when my son jumped onto the ottoman, threw his helmet and shield aside, grasped his sword firmly with both hands, and let fly a cry that was long, loud, and bold: “you will not hurt my sister!” Juggling both overwhelming pride with fear for what my neighbors might wrongly assume, I had the dragon ferociously re-engage, but the dragon’s doom was at hand. With stroke after stroke, the knight’s assault was merciless and yet akin to the might and likeness of Sir Galahad. When it was finally over, the dragon was, regrettably, beyond the hope of repair. No dirges were sung, and Taps could not be heard near the trash heap of which the dragon was buried.

The boy had answered the call of his wild heart by refusing to stand idly by, by refusing to forsake the knight’s code to which he had sworn allegiance, by refusing to allow himself to cower as a potential victim. On that glorious day, he lived the code. He did not buck the responsibility of the moment by demanding that another provide for his safety, comfort, and wellbeing; he did not complain about the circumstances before him or at the ferocity of the fight. He, instead, stepped forward to meet the opportunity that did not guarantee a favorable outcome.

But something else happened simultaneously, something I did not expect. In the heat of battle, when foam claw and paper fang most violently clashed with the blade worthy of the lineage of Excalibur or Anduril, I suddenly felt the sharp sting of being shot square in the back by a wooden arrow that was thankfully rubber tipped. The responsible archer, who let arrow after arrow fly and fly true, was none other than the beautiful princess who would not be sidelined. Inspired by the heroic display of purposeful masculine rage, the princess, still femininely and angelically clothed, would not remain the victim but would instead take up a supportive and crucial role to the knight in the battle against evil.

For some, such displays of violence and aggression promote only further future violence and aggression and encourage the downward societal spiral spawned by toxic masculinity. This could not be further from the truth.

On a other occasion, in a moment truly more glorious than the great and unforgettable Living Room Battle of Renown, I was privileged to witness, yet again, the Code lived with honor worthy of the realm of Camelot. During a homeschooling sports co-op, when there was a lull in activities and the children were entertaining themselves, one kid, the oldest and biggest, the one who towered over the others in both height and weight, began to get out of line. This child starting bullying another both physically and verbally, and, although the entire interaction was relatively brief, the bullying was relentless. Before parental intervention, before knowing that help was already on the way, my son stepped in to defend the weak. Now, it must be understood that my son was half the size and age of every other kid present; he was looked down upon by the others during the games (despite outplaying them). My son was the underestimated runt who was allowed by the adult leaders to tag along. Underestimate him at your own peril. When an enemy advanced on the helpless, when a bully picked on the defenseless, when duty called, my son answered. And, this is what is most important, all he did was stand. He did not draw out his pocket knife (an unsharpened training knife designed to teach knife safety skills—but, good luck convincing him he wasn’t awesome for carrying a weapon). He did not throw a single punch or voice a single word. He neither made a name for himself nor tarnished the name of the assailant. He stood in the gap. Simply. Quietly. Fearlessly. The boy became a man.

When one has armed himself for night assaults from vicious lions, when one has waged war against dragons, everything else is the quibbling threats of Narnian Dufflepuds, the Spanish invasion of windmills upon the honor of Dulcinea del Toboso, or the foolish braying of Prince Rabadash.

The masculine spirit, confidently skilled and fierce with bridled power and devotion to God’s purposes, stands and challenges the demonic lies of victimhood, hatred, envy, theft, and sinful liberality; but, even more than that, a warrior of the highest code leads and inspired the feminine spirit to live into her God created design and so too be revealed in glory. The miserable affliction of Marxism and feminism crumble at the feet of those living into the image of God.

This is discipleship.