Doug Wilson On "Love"

A lecture from Doug Wilson on Christian love is a little like hearing Mick Jagger wax poetic about the virtues of chastity. 

Mick’s reeking of wanton promiscuity surrounds him, regardless of his words.  In the same way, the stench of Wilson’s contempt for others around him — people he lumps into categoric descriptors like so many wads of used tissue in a bathroom ringed with little garbage cans — wafts through even the loftiest of his torrential, torrid words.

Longtime Wilson followers will remember the anonymous “Labor of Love” letter to Doug posted publicly on various venues.  I think it was 2004; the letter was from another man pleading with his Christian brother to turn to Christ in repentance of his hateful, sarcastic, and dismissive ways, both in his public ministry and his private behavior.  I know who wrote the letter, and no, I’m not going to tell you who it was; he had his reasons for staying anonymous.  But I was struck by the obvious grief manifested in the author’s plea — a plea Wilson dismissed as fit only for the trash, being, as it was, anonymous.  Wilson was pleased to taunt the writer, whose identity he didn’t know, either, rather than even consider for a moment that perhaps, just maybe, he might have something to learn from the letter.

In Wilson World, the King is above reproach.  Not because of his virtuous behavior, but because he can afford to dismiss his critics with obfuscatory words that impress his subjects — trust me, “Beholden Toadies” is not the name of a rock band — and befuddle his opponents.

So, while I was going to write, and will write later today or tomorrow, about Wilson’s pompous and self-aggrandizing take on white privilege, I’ll leave you for now with a little taste of “Wilson: On Love”:

“I love it when the guys get up a robust game of pick-up basketball. I hate it when some feminist sues the gym for the right to join in, because she is tired of all these lame traditionalist categories, and then, without any self-awareness at all, limps off the court five minutes into the game favoring her left leg because she got bumped on the right elbow, and spends the rest of the year writing letters to various authorities about how “hurt,” “offended,” and “deeply concerned” she is about how “dismissive” everybody was being about her perspective on this unfortunate affair . . .” (Blog and Mablog, July 27, 2012)

Feelin’ the love?  Nah, me neither.

“I love it when the guys get up a robust game of pick-up basketball. I hate it when some feminist sues the gym for the right to join in, because she is tired of all these lame traditionalist categories, and then, without any self-awareness at all, limps off the court five minutes into the game favoring her left leg because she got bumped on the right elbow, and spends the rest of the year writing letters to various authorities about how “hurt,” “offended,” and “deeply concerned” she is about how “dismissive” everybody was being about her perspective on this unfortunate affair . . . “

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