So much ink has already been spilled about Duck Dynasty and A&E that spilling a drop more could very well result in some kind of cosmic implosion. Besides, by most internet standards, I’m inexcusably late to the party – the guest everyone sniffs at, as they wonder why he bothered showing up at all.
But what the heck. I’m going to show up and spill ink anyway.
Chesterton observed that “when somebody wishes to wage a social war against what all normal people have regarded as a social decency, the very first thing he does is to find some artificial term that shall sound relatively decent.” Hence in the war on marriage, we find ourselves confronted with an ever evolving Lexicon of Politically Correct Newspeak, jam-packed with nice-sounding words and phrases for that which is utterly disgusting.
As a culture, we wolf this sort of thing down. Why? Because the aberrancy of sin is always easier to countenance under a thick layer of psuedonymous goop. Sodomy is no exception. We’d rather not think about what the homosexual act actually involves, so we avoid anything that might remind us of it, even accidentally. We go out of our way to tippytoe. And when everybody tippytoes, the man who puts his foot down is promptly knifed in the back (most often by the purveyors of tolerance).
Phil Robertson put his foot down, and everyone heard the crunch. To hell with the eggshells. To hell with the Keepers Thereof. All our carefully-manicured genteelism – all the euphemisms we put in place to protect ourselves from what is – all of that just took a load of birdshot in the hindquarters, and the shooter was a redneck from Louisiana.
I tip my hat to you, sir.