“…..extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice.”

—Barry Goldwater
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You could feel it pulsing through the air last Friday. A mighty wave of relief and high excitement after McCain chose his running mate, Sarah Palin. An almost audible sigh from all the conservatives out there from coast to coast. Now they could get on board and support the ticket. Now they could get energized. Now they could feel good about the election. Now they could march forward to victory again.

As someone who for years has brayed loudly about the importance of voting, and as someone who voted twice for Bush the Younger, I completely understand the relief and excitement. The very idea of an Obama administration for the next four years instills anxiety and panic into even the staunchest heart.

And Sarah Palin has impeccable conservative credentials. She’s beautiful, smart, and unafraid to stand up to corruption, wherever it hides. Well spoken too. A lifetime NRA member. She hunts. Skins and guts her own kill. She’s pro-life. Likable. And that speech she gave at the convention, wow. She’s real. I like her. Almost enough for even to crusty old cynic like me to stop and take a second look.

It was a bold and brilliant stroke by McCain. Floundering in the polls, and floundering from lack of support from the conservative base, he unveiled his choice the day after Obama’s historic acceptance speech, effectively stealing the limelight and the wave of accolades the Demoncrats had expected. Obama’s three point bump disappeared almost instantly.

McCain, I believe, will be the next president. When it comes right down to it, and in the privacy of the voting booth, a lot of people will not be able to bring themselves to vote for a vacuous empty suit with a Muslim-sounding name like Barak Obama. Might not be the way it should be, in a perfect world. But it’s the way it is.

Especially now that McCain has given the famished conservative base a positive thing, a real reason to turn out for him. My prediction: McCain/Palin in an electoral landslide.

If they win, it will be without my vote. I’m not participating. At least not in the two major parties. I may vote for Chuck Baldwin or Bob Barr. Or write in Ron Paul.

It’s been a long journey to this point. Now I’m here. Comfortable with my decision. Entering the door that only a few short years ago I would have considered the gateway to paranoia. My eyes are open. I have my wits about me. And I believe I’m right.

If McCain wins and becomes president, the conservatives who voted him in will be muttering and swearing at him from the day of his inauguration. McCain is McCain, and no conservative. Bristly, snarling, half senile. He loves the accolades of the main-stream media. The same people who reached impossible new lows this week in their reprehensible attempts to destroy Sarah Palin. He’ll reach across the aisle. Forward the Demoncratic agenda. Like global warming. He’ll expand federal powers. They all do. He’s predictable only in his unpredictability.

And Sarah Palin won’t be the energetic, dynamic governor of Alaska anymore. She’ll be his vice president, supporting all his policies. Leviathan will devour her, and she will become as corrupted as any mainstream politician you see today. A shame too, because she is today what she seems, a strong woman of character. But you can’t serve Leviathan and not become corrupted. It’s simply not possible.

In four years, the only changes will have been for the worse. More freedoms frittered away. More federal goons invading every aspect of our lives and privacy, turning this country into an occupied zone. More wars, entered into for no real national security reasons. More lying, stealing, killing, more destruction of innocent lives.

When that time comes, I’ll try to refrain from saying “I told you so.” Because I’m telling you now.

It’s all a farce. They need your votes. Will do and say anything to get them. Recruit someone like Sarah Palin to get you aboard. After it’s over, you’ll be forgotten faster than your wacky uncle at the family reunion. And as ignored.

The system is corrupt. The deck stacked. A shell game. I see no reason to legitimize a corrupt system by participating in the voting process. For me, voting would give tacit approval of the slime pit that is the oppressive state.

I first began to feel that something was seriously amiss back in the early 1990s. Waco and Ruby Ridge. But then I was very busy with life, pursuing education and so forth, and did not pursue in-depth studies or reach many concrete conclusions. Other than a vague unease about state powers that can and will destroy lives and property for no discernable reason, except to instill fear.

After law school, I supported forlorn little groups like the Constitution Party. But even then, I almost always voted Republican. Might as well vote for someone who has a chance to win, I figured. No sense throwing my vote away.

And so it went, until the Levi Stoltzfoos travesty unfolded this year in our local court system. (A Wrongful Prosecution) I watched with rising disbelief and increasing rage. As he was convicted and sent to a maximum security prison, among hard core violent criminals, for up to fifteen years. For committing no real crime.

He was prosecuted by a Republican Attorney General. Convicted and sentenced by a Republican judge. In conservative Lancaster County.

And that was the catalyst that triggered my mind to break free from the chains that bound it. The scales fell from my eyes. And now I see.

How could a thing like Levi’s conviction happen?

It could happen because the state (defined as all levels of state and federal power) exists for one thing, and one thing only: The increase of its own power by whatever means necessary, at the expense of individual liberty. That’s it, in a nutshell. It’s that simple.

The state will do anything in its primal pursuit of raw power. Anything. It will kill. Ruby Ridge, Waco and countless unconstitutional drug raids on homes in which innocent homeowners were killed defending themselves. It will steal. Levi Stoltzfoos’ money, a tidy sum of $500,000.00, was confiscated and never returned. It will intimidate and terrorize. Remember the INS goons who seized Elian Gonzales from his sobbing relatives and returned him to Castro’s loving arms. It will harass. Try flying from any major airport and dealing with the TSA thugs. It will destroy. Try disputing the IRS sometime.

The state does not have a “social contract” with its citizens. Instead, it imposes a one-sided contract of force and fear. By implementing a myriad of laws that are impossible not to break. The state, if left to its basic nature, which it always strives mightily to attain, will devour all liberty. And after its citizens are consumed, it will devour itself.

At every level, when state power increases, freedom and liberty decline. Free markets wilt. Production declines. Taxes increase.

I have not yet firmed up a solid coherent system of thought, other than this: Liberty is ALWAYS better than oppression. A weak government is ALWAYS better than a powerful centralized government. And the free market can accomplish any task far better than the state can. Any task. Far better.

It’s far better, to paraphrase a founding father (Jefferson, maybe), to deal with an excess of liberty than the effects of oppression.

I expect many, if not most, of my readers to be appalled at my conclusions. Maybe I’ll lose some of you. I would have been appalled too, a few years ago.

I’m not telling you what to do. Vote or don’t vote, as you will. But do some research for yourself. Read.

Read Lewrockwell.com. Check it daily. You won’t agree with everything they post. I don’t. But the site has had a tremendous impact on my thinking.

Read Lew’s columns. And others on the site. Read Doug Casey. Karen Kwiatkowski. Ron Paul. Gary North. William Norman Grigg. Dig into their archives. Read the books of Claire Wolfe and Jefferson Mack and Ragnar Benson (Paladin Press ). And others. These people are rational, coherent and write better than I could ever hope to. Check them out. Decide for yourself.

Recently, I read Albert Jay Nock’s scholarly book, Our Enemy, the State. An old time classical liberal, he is not widely known today because of his implacable opposition to socialism and all other forms of state oppression. But his works are quietly making a comeback, and every serious student of politics should read this book. As should any-one who cherishes liberty.

So check things out for yourself. Don’t just give me the tired old knee jerk responses about the “lesser of two evils.” The lesser of two evils is still evil. Embracing darkness to fight darkness is an exercise in futility, a long-term policy of defeat. And exactly what the state would prefer you do.

Give up. Embrace it. Participate. Support it as it grows and envelops you. Chokes the life from your freedoms. Until there are none left.

I won’t do it anymore. Not this time. I’m done.

I will be free. If not physically, at least in my awareness and in my mind. From this day on.

All that said, I’m not planning on heading for the hills. I’ll keep living in the world, in society, in the space allotted me. Working. Pursuing my dreams. Cooking out with my friends. Watching football. Writing. Speaking my mind. And yes, paying my taxes. All the stuff a normal forty-seven year old single guy would do. And enjoying to the fullest all but the taxes part.

I’ll still listen to Rush. And Glenn Beck. I enjoy their shows. Their hilarious parodies. Love to hear them bash the Demoncrats and liberalism in general. But I’ll be listening to their own perspectives and conclusions with a jaundiced ear. Won’t accept what they say on their credibility. Because that’s diminishing every day.

I still respect Rush in many ways. His cheerful, optimistic outlook in the face of great adversity has taught me much about living for today and allowing tomorrow to be what it may. Without stressing about it too much. His outlook on life has influenced me a lot in these last eighteen months, and I’m grateful to him for that.

But ultimately, even he is an apologist for the state. One of the best.

As a Christian, and a postmillennialist, I believe that Christ’s Kingdom here on earth will prevail. In history. Here on earth. I don’t expect complete victory in my lifetime. (I expect to die someday. For me, that will be the “end of the world.”) Or in the next few generations. Maybe not for fifty generations. Or more. My perspective on time is finite. God’s is not. And in the right time and place, His people will rise to lead. Lead, not rule and oppress.

But they won’t do it by participating in our current corrupt, thuggish two-party system.

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Now to close on a normal, happy note. Congrats to my nephew and namesake Ira Lee Wagler and his fiancé, Rosa Miller on their engagement. The wedding date has not yet been announced.

“At that instant he saw, in one blaze of light, an image of unutterable conviction, the reason why the artist works and lives and has his being…. It is to snare the spirits of mankind in nets of magic, to make his life prevail through his creation, to wreak the vision of his life.…”

—Thomas Wolfe
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The subdued whisper was launched almost as soon as last week’s blog was posted. Out there, drifting in the ether. A mere hint, but palpable nonetheless.

And that whisper was, “Why?”

Why dig into the past and unearth the events surrounding one man and his movement? Why discuss and lay bare the essence of the community and background from which he came? What good does it do? Especially if some of the unearthed details are less than flattering. How will his family feel? And the Aylmer community? It was so long ago. Why not just let it go? Let the past rest. Let be what was.

I understand the whispers. And respect them to a point. But ultimately, I reject them.

Elmo Stoll was a man among men in his time and setting. As Aylmer was a community among communities in its time as well. What he said and wrote and did caused mighty reverberations to rumble throughout the world he inhabited, the community he for- sook, and the one he created. As any visionary leader, he was deeply flawed, as well as great. And the path he forged was well worth the time and effort required to record in detail. Because it was interesting and because it was history.

But that alone is not enough.

The Amish have been around for a long, long time. Hundreds of years. By latest count, there are today a little over two hundred twenty-five thousand Amish people. Two hundred twenty-five thousand, out of six-plus billion people in the world.

For such a small group, they have a tremendous presence in “English” society, not only in this country and this continent, but the world. They are pretty much romanticized, but that’s not their fault. Most prefer to be left alone.

Until my father and Joseph Stoll launched Pathway Publishers in the 1960s, the Amish never really had much of a voice of their own. No place from which emanated basic apologetics, a defense and explanation of their lifestyle and beliefs. With Family Life and the other Pathway publications, that voice was presented for the first time.

It was an extraordinary achievement. I admire all those who were involved. Nothing like that had ever been attempted before. They had a vision and pursued it. With un- ceasing labor. At great risk, financial and otherwise. It succeeded beyond their wildest imaginations.

They published a lot of good solid stuff. Especially on historical subjects, and common- sense articles on farming and other issues unique to the Amish lifestyle.

And yet, and this is not a criticism, only an observation, I have always felt that the fictional writings and many op-eds published by my father and others at Pathway were less than honest. Too much gooey mush. Too didactic. Too pat. Too formulaic and predictable. All the same answers, all the time.

The rebellious youth always made elaborate plans to run away from home, but then decided at the last minute to stay. Not to explore the evil world after all. And never any regrets for that choice. The chaste and beautiful (or not so beautiful) daughter shyly won her man’s heart with demur manners and downcast eyes. And the father who questioned the preachers’ authority always ended up concluding they were right and he was wrong. His repentance was always deep and sincere.

Always.

In real life, it just don’t happen like that. Not every time. Never has. Never will. To portray it as if it does is disingenuous and a little silly.

And I wonder, too, if my father and his Pathway contemporaries ever questioned the path they chose. The God they served. Did they ever despair that He exists? Question their faith? Or was it always cut and dried, black and white? Their children who left and they cut off cold, did it not tear at their hearts? The hard ruthless laws of shunning, did they ever doubt them? And wish it were not so?

Did they ever struggle with such issues? Or did their harsh cold facades truly reflect their hearts?

I like to think they struggled sometimes. Weren’t so sure of themselves. It would have been human. But I don’t know that. Because they never told us.

Maybe they thought it would show weakness. It wouldn’t have. To the contrary, it would have shown strength. And honesty.

And I think too, of my own grandfather, my father’s father, who I never met. Because he died when my father was young. What kind of man he really was, other than the vacant shallow depictions of a stern godly father and a deacon in the church.

There is so much more I will never know. How he looked. The man he was. In the community. As he labored in the fields. Among his children. The sound of his voice when he prayed the morning prayer. As he performed his deaconly duties and read Scripture aloud in church. What gave him joy. And what his quirks were.

And my great-grandfather, Christian Wagler, who took his own life at the age of thirty-six. Who was he? How did he look? Tall or short? The demons he faced, in the dark recesses of his tortured soul, that finally overwhelmed him. Why did he do it? How were his last days? His last morning? What were his last words?

I’ll never know, other than conjecturing, because no one ever honestly wrote it at the time. And I accept that. It’s who they were. Some things were just not done. Some layers not peeled back, the dark secrets carefully guarded. The old way, of the old generations.

But they left us poorer for our lack of knowledge. Of who they were. And who we are.

It seems only fair and right that from the silent shadows of this sheltered culture, a few have emerged, a few chroniclers who have observed carefully over the years. Who filed away the vivid scenes in their minds, and kept that knowledge quietly hidden in their hearts.

A few who now remember.

A few who will say, “This is what I saw and heard. These are the people involved and this is what they did. This is what I felt and thought. What I experienced. These are the words that were spoken, in this time and place. These are the battles that were waged, and this the aftermath. And this is what happened.”

A few who tell it like it was. In all its human drama. Fragmented, perhaps. With some mistakes. But honestly.

Every age, and every generation has its giants and its common people. Its common stories. And its epics. But the characters involved cannot be seen and will not be heard, and will be forgotten, if no one speaks their names.

And tells of them. As they were. In their struggles. Their triumphs. With their flaws. Their impossible visions. Their failures. And their shining accomplishments. As they marched across the stage on which we now play our own roles.

That’s why I write.
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It came and went with little fanfare last Sunday. My forty-seventh birthday. Each year, I always think to myself that now I’m really getting old. But after the mental speed bump of dealing with the actual date, I move on and don’t think about it much. But forty-seven is getting awfully close to that “fifty” threshold.

My siblings and I have developed a tradition of calling the birthday person on his or her birthday. I heard from almost all my brothers and sisters, via text or phone. And thanks to my sister Maggie and her daughter Dorothy for the large box of healthy and delicious goodies. UPS’d to my door. You wouldn’t have needed to. But I really enjoyed it all, especially the tarts.

On Saturday night, I hosted my first cookout of the summer. Not for my birthday; I didn’t even mention it to my guests. Three families honored me with their presence. Keenan and Bora Rew. Steve and Ada Beiler. And Paul and Anne Marie Zook. And their kids.

I fired up the grill and cooked sausages, one of my favorite specialties. The ladies all brought salads and such, and generally kept everything running smoothly. When time came for dessert, Paul disappeared into the house and emerged with a mysterious box. I opened the lid and beheld what I’d consider to be the most unique and fascinat-ing birthday cake I’ve ever seen. Few things surprise me, but this, well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. These guys know how to push my buttons.

Somehow, the group had discovered it was my birthday. So Steve Beiler went back to my old blog, copied the picture and took it to a bakery. Sure, they said, no problem, they’d get it on. And they did. Not much of a cake eater, I helped myself to a liberal slice, covered with ice cream. It was delicious.

There is one good thing about having another birthday. Because each year, once my birthday passes, the football season is not far behind. And that’s a thing worth antici-pating, worth waiting for. The college season opens this weekend. Slurp, slurp.

And how about those Jets, snagging Bret Favre like that? Whooeee. I’m really not all that pumped about it, although he surely will be better than the guy he replaced. Favre is 38, positively ancient for an NFL quarterback. But he might still have a few good years left in him. We’ll see.

The dog and pony show of the Demoncrat National Convention unfolded before the world this week. The unveiling of the messiah. Not that I watched one second of it. Won’t watch the Republican Convention either. Both parties are corrupted to the core, like two thugs battling for control over the cowed populace of some hick town. Both parties seek dictatorship. Even with McCain’s choice of the exceptional Sarah Palin as his running mate, I have chosen not to participate this time. Maybe I never will again.