You want to resurrect the corpse of a god already long dead, and dress it once more in armor? Foolish nostalgia! Your Christendom was never strength, it was weakness cloaked in steel, the trembling slave raising a sword in the name of heaven.

What do you mean by ‘militant’? A crusade? An army of the resentful, marching behind the shadow of the crucified one? That is not life, not greatness, but the last convulsion of decay. For Christendom never celebrated strength, it poisoned it. It called pride a sin, it called vitality lust, it called power evil, and then it praised submission, meekness, and obedience as if they were the highest virtues.

And now, in your own age, when faith has withered, you long for the lash and the cross to return, to discipline the masses with chains once more. But do you not see? That is not a rebirth, it is a regression, a descent into the tomb of values already rotted.

Do not cry for militant Christendom. It will not save you. It is already dust. Instead, face the terror of freedom, the abyss of godlessness, and from it forge new values. Not the soldier of Christ, but the creator of new meaning, the one who says Yes to life in all its cruelty and beauty- that is what is needed. Not a return, but a great overcoming.

God is already dead, though you still cling to His corpse. You cry out at the chaos of the world, at blood spilled in the streets, and demand an answer from Heaven. But Heaven is empty. Do you not see? Your prayers rise to silence, because the ‘God’ you invoke was only ever the shadow of man’s fear, the echo of man’s longing.

Random acts of violence are not truly random, they are the will of power erupting where no higher value restrains it. You made God into a judge, a father, a protector, a shepherd for your frightened flock. But in truth, He was only your invention, a mask to hide life’s cruelty. When that mask slips, you recoil at the abyss, and call it God’s silence.

I tell you: there is no divine guardian watching over you. The universe does not bend toward justice, nor pity, nor order. And yet, you trembling creature, this is your task: to create meaning, to hammer values upon the anvil of a godless world. If you want justice, make it. If you want love, embody it. If you want strength, forge it in the furnace of suffering.

God is helpless and quiet because He was never there. Only you are here. The burden and the glory are yours alone.

Because it offered the weak a weapon against the strong. That is the essence.

Christianity was not born out of strength, but out of ressentiment—out of the hatred of life by those who were too timid, too broken, too powerless to affirm it. The slave, unable to triumph in this world, inverted the values of his masters: he made humility into virtue, weakness into holiness, poverty into nobility. He called the proud sinful, the noble wicked, the powerful evil. Thus the sickly made their sickness into a banner, and the herd trampled down the strong with the bleating cry of “love.”

Why do so many “simp” for it? Because it flatters their impotence. It tells the mediocre that they are the true heirs of heaven. It gives the resentful a cosmic stage upon which their smallness can masquerade as moral superiority. It teaches men to bow, to obey, to wait for a reward beyond the grave. In short—it gives them an excuse for not living.

That is why Christianity became a thing. It is the religion of those who could not endure the earth—and so they poisoned it.

Return to Christ? You speak as though I once belonged to Him. No—I belong to life, to the earth, to the blood in my veins. What you call ‘forgiveness’ is a sickness, a narcotic for those who cannot bear the weight of their own instincts. You want me to crawl back into the arms of the crucified, that pale God who turned strength into sin, desire into guilt, and suffering into a virtue? I will not!

Your Christ taught men to despise themselves, to kneel, to beg—He forged chains and called them salvation. I do not want His pardon; I want His fire burned out of the veins of mankind. Better to be damned with courage than to be ‘saved’ with submission.

I will not be forgiven. I will be free.

Ah! Once more, the herd confuses obedience with greatness, and decay with difference.

You say: “Christianity made the West strong.” No! Christianity tamed it. It shackled the noble instincts, the will to power, and crowned the slave's revolt in morality as virtue. Yes, Rome fell — but in its place rose the cross, and with it: guilt, meekness, and the hatred of life disguised as holiness.

You praise “faith, tradition, morality” — but these are the tools by which the strong were neutered, their instincts corrupted into pity, their vitality poured out for the weak. You think this made them conquerors? No. They conquered despite the cross — not because of it.

Ah! What a comforting delusion—to imagine that the sickness came from disobedience, and not from the very thing once worshipped as the cure. You would blame the fever on the medicine refused, rather than on the slow poison long imbibed. But tell me, what is atheism if not the ghost of your god? What is liberalism but the political translation of Christian pity, of your meekness dressed in new slogans?

You say the West is dying in spite of Christianity? No! It dies from it—from its morality, which taught man to turn his instincts inward, to call his strength "sin" and his questioning "pride." Christianity broke the noble, the commanding, the strong—it tamed them, bled them with guilt, and called the bleeding salvation.

And now, when the altar is abandoned and the cross worn as ornament, you imagine the spell is broken. No—only the names have changed. You call it "human rights," "equality," "compassion"—but I hear the same old slave-morality groaning beneath.

You mourn the death of the body, but never saw the soul had long since been castrated. Contrarianism? Ha! You call it rebellion, but it is merely the final consequence of a world that was taught to kneel.