New Jerusalem

Posted in For God with tags , , , , , , , , , , on January 12, 2020 by cavalier973

(Note: I posted these thoughts originally on Rapture Forums)

My favorite Bible passage is John 14:1-3.

“1 ¶Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me.
2 In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.
3 And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.”

Why are their hearts troubled? Because, in the immediately preceding passage, He had told them that one of them was a traitor, that He was going somewhere and that they wouldn’t be able to follow Him, and that Peter would deny him thrice before the rooster has its morning crow. Heavy stuff to drop on a group that was likely expecting to see Him call fire from heaven to destroy His enemies.

In any case, He says, “in My Father’s house are many mansions”. None of those mansions, I believe, are for the Church. He didn’t add, “and each of you is going to get one.” He said that He was building a new place for the Church. What we know from John’s sparse description is that the walls are of pure, transparent gold. That means that wherever one stands in the city, the view is spectacular. The twelve foundations of differing gemstones likely means the city is ablaze with color–a stained-glass city.

How big is this city? New Jerusalem is stated to be 1,400 miles long on each side, and 1,400 miles tall. The “floor” of the city is, then 1,960,000 square miles, a little over half the size of the continental U.S. If New Jerusalem were divided into levels, each a mile high, that would be 1,400 levels, each 1,960,000 square miles big. That is 2,744,000,000 square miles total. The surface area of the entire Earth is 196,900,000 square miles.

That means that living space in the home that our Lord Jesus is building for us has nearly 140 times the amount of living space of the Earth–which includes, I presume, Antartica, which is not truly someplace one could live.

Beanz’s analysis of the IG Report

Posted in Uncategorized on December 10, 2019 by cavalier973



“In that day…”

Posted in Uncategorized on December 9, 2019 by cavalier973

Speaking Truth not Tolerated at SWBTS

Many in that day will say to our Lord Jesus, “Lord, Lord; did we not promote tolerance in Your name? Did we not cast out the promoters of bigotry in Your name? And, in Your name do many works of social justice?”

And our Lord will say, “Depart from Me, you foul servants of perversity, lies, and ungodliness. You were never part of My family.”

~cavalier973 modernized paraphrase

Senate (and House) subpeonas

Posted in Uncategorized on November 13, 2019 by cavalier973


Rules can be downloaded here.

Joe diGenova was complaining on some radio show that the Republicans were stupid for not changing the rules about subpoenas. Currently, he said, Republicans cannot issue a subpoena without the approval of the ranking minority leader.

Well, that is true concerning some Senate committees. The Judiciary Committee has this rule, but the Intelligence Committee does not.

I think this will be a non-issue in the Impeachment Trial that is conducted in the Senate, since the trial is not handled by a Senate committee.

We could look back at Pres. Clinton’s impeachment trial, to get an idea what rules are established for the trial.

The Pres. Trump-Zelensky Call Transcript

Posted in Uncategorized on November 2, 2019 by cavalier973

It is here.

Released on September 25, 2019.

Don’t let the snotnoggins and Beelzebots pull your leg with their silly, “It isn’t a transcript!” nonsense. Yes, it says on the first page that it is a “memorandum, not a verbatim transcript”, but that statement is just letting you know it was not “word-for-word”; the “uh’s” and the “um’s” and the throat clearing and the stuttering and the nervous chuckles have been left out.

There is also the fact that Zelensky spoke through a translator. A “verbatim transcript” in that case would be so:

Pres. Trump: *says stuff*

1st Translator: *interprets what Trump said to Zelensky*

Zelensky: *replies*

2nd Translator: *interprets Zelensky’s reply*

And so forth.

Remember the definition of “transcript”

noun: transcript; plural noun: transcripts
  1. a written or printed version of material originally presented in another medium.

(Definition found here)


When you write down a conversation you overhear, what you are doing is transcribing the conversation, and when you are done, you have yourself a transcript.

What is going to be hilarious is when it is revealed that a recording of the call exists, and when it is released, it will be exactly the same as the transcript that we now have.

Pres. Trump isn’t stupid. His opponents are stupid.

President Trump Statement on Human Trafficking

Posted in Uncategorized on October 30, 2019 by cavalier973


Posted in Uncategorized on October 11, 2019 by cavalier973

By Tom Kratman

Our Gallant Allies, the Kurds (and other fairy tales)
Ah, the Kurds. How can mere words render a proper appreciation? They’re trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteousumno no, they’re not. Oh, sure, as individuals they can be fairly boon companions, but in the main and in the mass? Not so much.

My first experience of the Kurds rather, of how the rest of the area thinks of and feels about them was before I’d ever met my first one. This was at a majlis, in the town of Judah (or Goodah), Saudi Arabia, sometime in December or so, 1990. Citizenship is kind of an iffy and flexible concept in that part of the world, so there were folk from Saudi, from Oman, from the Emirates. There was even one Arab who insisted he was a citizen of the Gulf Cooperation Council, since he was a fully documented citizen of so many places in the GCC. I had my doubts right up until he pulled out a bilingual ID card which, indeed, did seem to list him as a citizen of the GCC. One of the attendees had brought with him a book detailing the results of the chemical attack on the Kurdish town of Halabja by the army and air force of Saddam Hussein.

It was really heartbreaking, all those picture of gassed, dead, discolored, and decomposing Kurdish kids, who are, in fact, every bit as cute as the papers and television made them out to be. At least when they’re not dead they are. My team sergeant, Sig, and I were duly appalled and sickened.

The Arabs, though, didn’t seem to understand. To paraphrase, “What’s the problem? Don’t you understand that these were _Kurds_ who got gassed?”

At the time, I found that attitude completely inexplicable.

Fast forward a few months we’ve incited the Kurds and Shia to rise up and overthrow Saddam. They didn’t, of course, while such an uprising would have looked difficult and might have done us some good. Oh, no instead the Shia whose rebellion was spontaneous, anyway waited until it looked like the Iraqi Army was crushed and such an uprising would be easy. The Kurds who were organized waited even longer.

Sorry, boys, but when we offer you a quid pro quo, that doesn’t translate into “free lunch.” Moreover, when we’ve already offered someone a ceasefire it’s a bit late to try to get us to start hostilities again. In short, we owed them nothing.

Fast forward, again, to late May, 1991. I’d come home from the Middle East, hung around a while, and been sent back, this time to Operation Provide Comfort, the Kurdish Rescue, there to quasi govern a few towns, run refugee camps, coordinate humanitarian relief, and such like. While we’re waiting in the camp on the Turkish side of the border, not too far from Silopi, overwatched by a Turkish police fort on a hill, some Kurds got in position to fire at the fort such that, should the fort return fire, the Turks will be shooting at us. So much for gratitude from people you’re trying to save, eh?

Fortunately, Turkish discipline held firm and enlightened Kurdish dreams of advancing the cause of having a homeland of their own by getting their rescuers killed came to naught. After a couple of days at the camp, the crew I’m with and I are ordered forward to link up with the British Marines and their Dutch counterparts, already inside Kurdestan. We’re riding in on the back of a British Bedford Lorry, one which, based on the comfort of the ride, probably crossed the Rhine with Monty in 1945after enduring the entire war in North Africa. If it had a suspension it was tolerably hard to see, and impossible to feel.

Sitting next to me is a Staff Sergeant Farnsworth. Farnsworth and I are both grunts, so we’re doing what grunts do when there’s nothing better to do and neither sleep nor playing cards nor reading are possible we’re analyzing the terrain. It is fiercely rugged, with winding roads going through narrow passes between hills and mountains difficult enough to climb on foot and impossible for vehicles. Reverse slopes were of such an angle as would make defenders largely invulnerable to artillery and would make even high angle mortar fire of much reduced effect. In any case, at a certain point, looking over a particularly defensible pass, Farnsworth and I looked at each other. I no longer remember who spoke first but the conversation went like this: “If the Kurds” “couldn’t defend themselves” “in this kind of terrain” “they don’t deserve” “their own country.” And that was before we even knew how much they used mines.


A little digression is in order here. As mentioned previously, Kurdish kids are adorable. (The women are also quite fetching, right up until they’re worn out, usually by age twenty-four or so, from being used like mules, which is to say, beasts of burden, but who, unlike mules, can still bear youngand must.) Most people shy away from or are at least ignorant of the reason so many of those adorable kids died. It’s simple the Kurds starved them to death themselves. It’s a cultural imperative among them, when times get hard, to let the little girls die of starvation (first, of course), and then the little boys. Good guess, dear reader why, no, I didn’t like that for beans. As a matter of fact, now that you ask, I’m not much for multiculturalism, in general, either.


Interestingly, before we even arrived in our area, there had been an incident a firefight resulting in several Iraqi dead between the British Marines and some Iraqi troops guarding one of Hussein’s palaces in that part of Iraq. I asked a British officer about it and his answer was to the effect that, “As near as we can figure, as one of our patrols was passing, two Kurds, from different positions but surely with coordination, took a shot each, close to simultaneously. One shot was at our patrol, the other at the Iraqi on the gate to the palace. Both shots missed, but the Iraqis and our men, thinking they were under attack, reacted as one would expect. We were just a lot better shots, better led, than they were. Poor bastards. One of the reasons we’re quite sure that the Iraqis didn’t shoot first was that, as our men passed, they waved at each other, as soldiers will who have no particular reasons for enmity.”


The main town I ran was Assyrian and Christian, Catholic, actually, having their own rite but being in full communion with Rome. It was an experience to attend mass held in Aramaic, the language of Jesus, a memory I rather cherish despite not understanding a word of it. They are nice people, the Assyrians, seriously nice people. I’ve dealt with a lot of different kinds of foreigners, over the years, even married one, for that matter, and liked almost all of them. But the Assyrians have a special place. They’re also amazingly hardworking. They can’t defend themselves or, at least, they don’t think they can, which amounts to the same thing.

Everyone knows about the Armenian genocide. The genocide of the Assyrians, around the same time period, was about as bad and may have been worse, as a percentage of the premassacre population. And among the chief agents of that genocide? Of both of them, really? You guessed it, the Kurds.

I asked my Assyrian translator there, once, what he and the other Assyrians really wanted. He answered, “We’d like the British to come back and run the place, permanently. Failing that, we’d be very happy to be subjects of the American Empire, if you would just declare one. If that’s not possible, then letting the Iraqis back would be minimally acceptable. Under no circumstance, however, do we want to be under the Kurds.”

That main town was the only one in which no Kurdish babies died, of the smallish number that the Kurds didn’t let starve anyway, and the only one in which there were no political or ethnic murders in that time period. Part of that was probably my own rather forthright approach to domestic harmony “One incident, just one, and I’ll cut off your food, medical care, and other goodies, causing all your followers to desert you for other groups and leaders I haven’t proscribed!” but part of it, too, at least for the long term maintenance of the thing, was probably the perception among themselves that the various Kurdish groups needed one safe area in which to engage in local diplomacy, and, since this one area was peaceful, well, why not? That meant a lot of luncheons, meaning, yes, I had the chance to meet most of the bright lights of Kurdish domestic politics and self-determination of the day. I’ve long since forgotten their names, but am pretty sure I could identify most of them in a police lineup and wouldn’t, of course, mind doing so. One in particular stands out in my mind, a rather distinguished looking middle aged barbarian who had once, over what amounts to a domestic dispute, murdered some thirty-seven Christian men, women, and children. And then there was the day the Kurds demanded to be paid. Paid? Why, yes, we were providing free food, free medical care, free shelter, and free security, but they saw no reason not to be paid for unloading the free food and other goodies. I sent the trucks back with the food until they knuckled under.


Thus, it might be better for the United States, before pinning too much hope and faith on the Kurds, to understand that they’re military imbeciles with an unearned and undeserved reputation, that their culture is barbaric, they their one talent seems to be propagandizing and manipulating liberal Western opinion, which is eager to be manipulated, anyway, that any kids who die usually do so because of their own neglect of those kids, that they have no sense of gratitude for any help you give them, that they treat women like donkeys, and that they place zero value on the lives of those who try to help them.

Why we, or anyone, would place our faith and trust in themwell, it eludes me. To help that lesson stick in your mind I offer a Kurdish National Anthem, written by my team sergeant, Sig, in a moment of complete disgust with them. Every line tells a story: (Tune: O Tannenbaum)

A voice without a hint of shame
Cries, “It’s all your fault you’re all to blame.
We must be clothed, we must be fed
And when that’s done build our homesteads”


A Kurd can have no greater love
Than his brand new Kalashnikov
O Kurdestan, my Kurdestan,
Do what you want grab what you can.

You gave us shelter overhead
Doctors and blankets for our beds.
You’ve saved us from Iraqi raids,
Now tell us when do we get paid?


We fought the Turks, we fought Iran
We fought Iraq for Kurdestan.
And now you’ve made us free and strong,
We’ll kill the Christians when you’re gone.


This column is dedicated to the memory of Father Hanna Marko, of Mangesh, Iraq