The Gospel of Silas

My first attempt at fiction. PDF copy: [LINK]


Silas was a young Christian man at the end of history.

He grew up in a good evangelical home. His family attended a local church where his overweight preacher condemned abortion, gay marriage, and racism. His parents voted Republican. His youth group ate pizza, went to Jesus concerts, and raised money for African pygmy orphans.

Silas’s high school was multi-cultural. White people were 68% of the student body, and the other 28% was a mixture of blacks, Latinos, and Somali Muslims.

The school was also post-Christian. One of the teachers flew an LGBT rainbow flag outside her classroom and hosted the Gay-Straight Alliance. School prayer was banned, and the classes were taught from a strictly secular left perspective.

Silas was in the honor classes. He didn’t know many of the minorities, but he had a Mexican friend on his soccer team and sat next to a Somali girl in chemistry class whose robes and head covering smelled like body odor.

Silas’ father spent a lot of time watching TV and thinking about sportsball, and his mother read trashy romance novels written by Christian authors. The family said prayer before their dinner meals together.


When Silas graduated high school, he decided to leave his suburban home for an Evangelical Christian college. A cute girl named Lydia from his youth group was going to Harding University, and her zeal for Christ and strawberry blonde hair inspired Silas to pursue his relationship with Jesus more seriously. He applied to Harding.

Silas decided to major in English because he didn’t know what career he wanted to pursue. He was overwhelmed by the amount of religious energy he found at Harding, and he plunged himself into the hipster Jesus movement. He grew his hair and beard, read Shane Claiborne’s 'Irresistible Revolution,' joined a student organization to end the trafficking of pygmy African women, embraced pacifism, and became a Christian socialist.

Silas decided to attend the same emerging church the lovely strawberry blonde Lydia attended. Their early 30s college minister held Bible study each Wednesday night in a dark candle lit room, and he never wore anything but sandals. The college ministry group ate pizza, talked about C.S. Lewis, drank coffee, and went on short term disaster relief missions.

After Hurricane Methuselah, Silas, Lydia, and the college ministry traveled to Louisiana to clean up and help the local residents. They moved huge tree branches, waded through swampy yards, and ate Cajun food.

One day, Silas saw Lydia nursing a fire ant bite while standing under a moss covered willow in Baton Rouge. She was wearing Chaco sandals. He prayed: “God, I know you’re going to give me everything that’s good for me, and I know I want Lydia to be my wife. She’s such a beautiful godly Christian woman.”

In the winter, Silas and his college ministry went to a Christian student conference on the coast. The event attracted thousands of students from all over the country. Silas was overwhelmed by the emotions of candle lit communions, strobe light praise teams, and passionate radical preaching about traveling the world reaching the poor for Jesus.

Silas was deeply moved by a young couple who worked in Africa helping pygmy children suffering from AIDS. They were a good looking white couple. The wife had dreadlocks and the husband had a huge beard, both were dressed like bohemian travelers. The couple spoke about radical revolutionary redistribubatory Christian love. The huge room was dark, except for a spotlight on the young couple, and some candles burning at the corners of the central stage.

The wife started crying and telling the crowd to pledge themselves to help the poor in Jesus’ name. Silas’ eyes watered. He prayed again: “God, loving father, I know you’re just so awesome to us spoiled white Americans, and we white people should feel so guilty for being greedy and unhelpful towards the poor underprivileged brown people of the world. I want to live free of materialism. I pledge myself to go to the needy. Use me God.”

Silas was so certain God would use him like he’d used the beautiful young couple. He could see himself living in a mud hut, poor and happy, surrounded by gleeful pygmies singing a traditional African hymn. He was excited about his future.


When Silas returned to Harding University, he volunteered to work with the inner city ministry. Lydia was in the ministry, and he was looking forward to spending more time with her so God could bring them together in beautiful matrimony, and they could travel the world serving the Lord.

The inner city ministry held a work day and Silas and Lydia were assigned to paint an old African American widow’s house. They were told a widow and her son lived in the decaying structure, but that she was too old to paint for herself. No explanation was given as to why her son couldn’t help.

It was a hot day, and the crew was peeling off the old white paint to replace it with a new coat. A group of about five ghetto guys passed along the street with their pants falling down from their abnormally narrow wastes. They went shirtless, revealing tattoos scrawled across their scrawny dark bodies.

“Who dat?!” One of them shouted while pointing at the ministry group. The ghetto guys talked among themselves in indiscernible accents. The ministry’s adult adviser called for them to come over. He hoped to share the gospel with them. The ghetto five approached the group laughing and joking while the middle aged adviser spoke to them about the ministry’s efforts in the community.

One of the ghetto guys saw Lydia’s new iPhone laying on the porch. He walked over and grabbed it. Lydia ran over to retrieve it, but the guy just laughed and started joking with her inappropriately.

Silas was confused about the whole scene. Nothing seemed to make sense. The African Americans weren’t being mean, but they were overly aggressive. They seemed nice and jovial, but there was something weird and uncomfortable about the way they talked.

Suddenly, someone screamed: “Polar bear!” One of the ghetto guys punched the friendly unprepared advisor in the face as hard as he could. The man fell flat on the ground unconscious. The thugs took off running and yelping like a pack of wild dogs.

Lydia didn’t want to give up her new iPhone, and a scrawny ghetto thug was trying to yank it from her hands. When he couldn’t shake her, he punched her in the face, and he and his friend kicked her while she was lying on the ground. She was soon covered in her own blood.

Being a pacifist, Silas was conflicted between helping the girl he loved and being a good Christian. He ran over and tried to stop them: “Stop! Please guys, in the name of Jesus please don’t hurt her!” He tried to run over and break it up, but one of the thugs pulled a knife and said: “You wanna stab, cracker!?” Then they ran off behind the house into some dense trees.

The old widow they were helping suddenly burst out of the door screaming insanely. “I’m gonna beat dat boy! I’m so sorry for wut he did! I’m calling the ambulance. I don’t know how I raise such a child!”

Silas visited Lydia in the hospital every day. She suffered internal bleeding, broken ribs, and a fractured cheekbone. She had to have surgery, and spent weeks in the hospital. The adviser suffered brain damage, and he never completely recovered.


Silas’ faith was rocked. He couldn’t understand how God allowed such things to happen, but he was also ashamed of his own behavior. He felt he could have done more to defend Lydia, but he was a pacifist and had restrained himself from using some of the materials in the area as counter weapons. He imagined scenarios in the future, after their possible marriage, when he might need to protect her.

Lydia wasn’t the same after her return from the hospital. Her trusting happy demeanor was replaced by a cloudier less optimistic perspective. She never verbalized anything, but she started skipping Bible studies more, and her passion for God was less pronounced. Neither of them ever returned to the inner city ministry.

Harding University soon announced its intention to start a football team. The student body and alumni were overjoyed by the news. When the football team arrived on campus the next semester, however, excitement became disenchantment. Silas felt the football players acted like Lydia’s ghetto thug attackers.

The once peaceful Harding University campus soon experienced many problems: drug raids, a shooting, drinking parties, and a group of athletes were discovered using their dorm room as a porn studio. The cafeteria was filled with ghetto football players screaming cuss words and using God’s name in vain. They had no respect for the academic or spiritual environment of the school. Harding’s once clean campus was now littered with used condoms and beer cans.

The campus ministers and school administration (who didn’t live or stay on campus) kept telling the Christian students about how the arrival of the new demographic was a great evangelism opportunity, and that God had given the students a chance to minister to the newcomers.

Silas knew it was impossible. He thought about how the athletes scowled at him when he passed them on the sidewalk, their total disrespect in morning chapel, and their hedonistic behavior. Every night he had to walk around campus while they blasted rap music, screamed unintelligibly, and expressed their hedonistic impulses. They couldn’t be approached, much less evangelized.

Silas only had a year of college left, and he tried to put these troubling things out of his mind and think about the future. His first order of business was to start a relationship with the girl he wanted to marry: Lydia. He’d been trying to get closer to her through college, but he’d never worked up enough courage to romantically approach her. Finally, he did.

Silas met Lydia outside her apartment on one of the campus swings. The swings were popularly called “lovers swings” because it was said if you sat on them three times with a member of the opposite sex you were destined to get married. Silas brought Lydia some flowers and asked her to be his girlfriend.

Lydia was shocked and confused. She said she’d always thought of him as her brother and didn’t want to ruin their friendship. She said she’d been talking to a guy online, and she was moving to Ohio to meet him after graduation.

Silas was devastated. He began doubting God. However, he still had faith, and he still dreamed of going to Africa to help AIDS infected pygmies. He contacted the inspiring young couple who’d spoken at the beach conference. They told him to raise support so he could join them for a year long internship.

Silas grew excited, and he felt God was about to make his future bright. He had to raise $10,000 for the year in Africa.

After several months of trying to raise the necessary funds, however, Silas couldn’t muster more than $3,000, and his sponsoring congregation inexplicably dropped their support without any explanation. Silas’ dream of serving the starving African pygmies collapsed, and he couldn’t find any dream to replace it. Everything he wanted was gone.


Silas graduated but couldn’t find a good job, and he had no money to pay back his $60,000 in student loans. He moved in with his married church friends and lived in their apartment’s spare bedroom. After searching vigorously for a job, he found a minimum wage position at a call center, and he supplemented his income by working as a Harding janitor.

Silas’ life was collapsing, and he grew depressed. He realized he was starting to lose his hair from male pattern baldness, and he was steadily gaining weight. He couldn’t see a future. Still, he retained some faith.

In his misery, Silas turned to the internet. He began spending long hours browsing the dark edges of the web. He came into contact with Antifa and “black block” material that blamed the world’s woes on the alt-right identitarians who’d broken down society with their racism.

One night, after losing his janitorial job from staff cuts, Silas suddenly abandoned his pacifism and contacted the local Antifa chapter. He reasoned that Jesus had used violent vandalism to purge the temple. As long as he wasn’t killing anyone he would be morally fine. He wanted to join Black Lives Matter and Antifa Marxists to bring social change to society. Didn’t God want his followers to pursue social justice?

Silas’ first Antifa meeting brought him into a social circle of purposeful community. His church hadn’t been giving him that lately, and most of the young people he’d known in college had either married or traded Sunday morning church for Friday night bar hopping and Tinder hookups. Late at night, Silas sometimes wondered why he hadn’t made the same trade.

The local Antifa chapter was led by a radical ex-New Yorker named Ezra Goldstein. Ezra was covered in tattoos, including a giant anarchy “A” across the side of his neck. His hair was thinning but still reached his shoulders. The meetings were held in the basement of a local night club. Ezra addressed the group:

“Comrades! We have a mission. Jared Taylor, that fake scientist bourgeoisie racist white man (spits on the ground), is giving a speech with some other racists, like Richard Spencer, down near Trump’s construction zone for The Wall. We will disrupt them! We must not allow a single fascist to claim any part of American territory, not even the smallest podium! F*** the fascists! G** d*** those fascists! They have lost their right to speak because they’re racists! They’ve already given us our current orange Hitler president!”

Everyone in the room started chanting “F*** the G** d*** fascists!” as loud as they could. Silas felt horrible because he didn’t want to use profanity and the Lord’s name in vain. However, in a moment of justification, he reasoned hastily that God really was going to send fascists to Hell, and he vaguely recalled a liberal college minister who said cursing wasn’t really a sin… he joined the chant.


When Silas’ Antifa group reached The Wall, they left their beat up cars and took their places along the battle lines of protest in the orange light of the setting sun. Silas could see the alt-righters with their red “Make America Great Again” hats standing in a crowd listening to Taylor and Spencer.

Ezra Goldstein gave instructions: “We’re here to shatter these racist animals and send them back to the tenth century where they belong! We all dressed in black so the pigs can’t identify us. I received orders from headquarters that violence is acceptable, if you get arrested our sponsors will cover bail. Try to get them to attack you first, but if it doesn’t work just go all in! It’s OK to punch a Nazi!”

It didn’t take long for chaos to erupt. Silas was enmeshed in a street battle within thirty minutes. It started when one of his Antifa comrades, an obese transgender woman with short purple hair and a pig tattoo on her bicep, spit on an alt-righter and stole his red MAGA hat. The alt-righter lunged for his hat and Antifa grabbed him and dragged him into their midst. They started mugging him with kicks and punches.

There was blood in the streets, and not even the cops could stop it. Antifa were the aggressors, but the alt-righters were prevailing. They beat Antifa back until their line broke. The Antifa fighters either fled in panic or fell unconscious in the fray.

Silas was overwhelmed by the chaos, but he felt the rage of battle and tried to fight as best he could. However, he felt conflicted within himself because of his former pacifism and the vulgarity of the side for which he was fighting.

Finally, Silas was cornered in the periphery by an identitarian who’d been fighting at the front line. He was knocked to the ground and started shielding himself as the guy punched down on him.

Suddenly, the punches stopped. “Are you a Christian?” a shocked voice suddenly said. Silas opened his eyes and realized the guy who’d been beating him was the one asking. “Ye… ye… yes.” Silas choked out. “Oh, you must be cucked then. I saw your WWJD bracelet. You don’t seem like the rest of them. I watched you during the brawl and you seemed more thoughtful, like you didn’t have a mental disease or homosexual tendencies. Still, you fought bravely and didn’t run away like that scrawny freak with the ‘A’ tattooed on his neck.”

“Ezra ran away?” Silas croaked as blood drained into his mouth from his busted nose. “Yes, that guy was the first to run. He took off before we even reached him. He never threw a punch, haha.”

“Oh my land.” Silas said, “He was our leader. I can’t believe he abandoned us like that.”

“I’m not surprised,” the identitarian responded, “leftists are cowards, and the leaders are all in it for the Soros money. How can you fight for gay marriage and other leftist causes if you're a Christian? Come to the bar with us after the battle, maybe you can accept the red pill.”

Silas rolled over on the ground and slowly got up. The battle was over, the alt-righters had totally routed the leftists. Richard Spencer was on the bull horn giving a victory speech: “We’ve won the Battle of The Wall! Victory Europa!


The alt-righters were celebrating their victory in the dark lit bar while Spencer sang drunken karaoke. The identitarian Christian led Silas to a booth somewhat removed from the other revelers.

“I don’t drink,” he said, and ordered them both coffee. “Sorry about smashing your nose earlier, but I’m sure you understand the necessities of battle.”

“Sure,” Silas whimpered as he gently touched a cotton ball to his smashed nose. He was trying to stop the bleeding.

“My name’s ‘CrusaderMonk7' online, but you can call me Monk,’” the identitarian said. Silas responded with his name. “Tell me Silas, why did you get involved with that loser Antifa crowd?”

Silas stared off at drunken Spencer performing Cindi Lauper’s ‘Time After Time’ for a moment while he collected his thoughts. Suddenly, without the slightest internal warning, he broke down in tears. He was weeping for no understandable reason.

He eventually started sputtering about his lost love, Lydia, her mugging by black guys, his failure to find a job, his failed mission trip, his thinning hair, and the football team ruining his wholesome Christian college. His whole autobiography spilled out in snippets of barely connected thought.

Meanwhile, Monk sat back with a look of stern concern. He never took his eyes off Silas as he slobbered out the sad story of his life. Finally, Silas stopped speaking and sat nursing his nose as Spencer ranted vaguely in the background about how the latest unknown scandal might finally bring down Trump.

“Dude, I’m sorry about all that stuff,” Monk said, “but you can’t let that turn you into a disgusting leftist. You can’t resort to associating yourself with people who hate everything you believe in.” He reached across the booth and put a hand on Silas’ shoulder, looked him in the eye, and said: “There’s a better way, and it involves discovering the truth you should have been told years ago.”

Silas stopped whimpering and met Monk’s gaze. He observed how confident Monk was with his leather jacket and black v-neck. He noticed a cross necklace under his shirt, and realized, deep in his soul, that this identitarian was a Christian like he was.

“The truth is sometimes a horrible thing to know, Silas. I promise you it will destroy your connection to the world, and it will drive a wedge between you and everyone you know. Do you crave the truth?”

“Here’s your coffee!” The waitress butted in. She interrupted the intimate moment by sliding two coffee cups on the table in front of them. Silas perceived she was rather pretty, but she had tattoos on her arms, and her blue eyes had a sunken look like she was using drugs.

Monk spoke solemnly: “I think you feel, deep inside yourself, that something is deeply wrong with our people. We’re wasted, immoral, and hiding from reality.” Silas’ eyes followed the waitress, and he watched her walk away in what seemed like a distant haze. He nodded to Monk.

“We’re spiritually sick, Silas. We need to come back to the truth. We need to embrace the identity God created for us. We need to discover who we are, and live that out. We need to restore our bodies and souls.”

Silas thought about the legalization of transgender surgeries and gay marriage. He remembered the homosexuals in his high school who were encouraged every day to live in unnatural sin. He thought about the drugs, sex, and empty worldview of his peers.

Monk continued: “Even the church hasn’t escaped the truth, Silas. Haven’t you ever felt like the attitudes they teach you are inadequate for the reality you face every day? The church ignores so much of the Bible. They barely teach from the prophets, and they never mention how politically incorrect Jesus was. The churches today are just begging our empty society to accept them. They don’t confront the world, they just assimilate into it.”

Silas was silent. He’d never heard anyone under the age of 60 speak this way. He was used to old woman ranting about it, but he wasn’t used to hearing it from a radical man of action.

Monk continued: “Silas, do you ever think about how our ancestors were better Christians than we are, and yet they weren’t pathetic? They had guts. They conquered America and built the British Empire with a gun in one hand and a Bible in the other.”

Silas was roused by years of liberal Christian indoctrination: “Yes, but they weren’t real Christians. They were violent and owned slaves. They didn’t treat people the way Jesus would have treated them. They stained the name of Christianity.”

“Really?” Monk responded. “If they stained Christianity so badly why did almost all the African slaves and New World Indians accept Christianity as their own religion? It’s hard to find a Mexican or Black person who doesn’t claim Christ these days. There’s more Catholics in South America than in Europe.”

Silas was shocked by this. He’d never even thought or heard of this perspective, nor had he entertained the idea that such a perspective existed. He’d studied world Christianity and demographics, and he knew Monk’s words were true.

“Silas, Europeans spread Christianity wherever they conquered, and billions of people around the world only came to Christ because white people brought them the gospel. You might disagree with their methods, but you can’t argue with their conversion rates.”

Silas felt outraged by this seemingly insane statement, but as he struggled to find another angle. He realized there was some truth to Monk’s argument.

Monk sipped his coffee and watched Silas writhing in his seat. Finally, Silas just stared back in shock with his mouth open.

“Silas, there’s something else you need to know” Monk said. He pensively turned toward the karaoke ruckus. “It’s something you might never accept, but it’s crucial to your understanding reality and the way God organized humanity.” He suddenly turned back.

“Racial equality is a lie.” Monk said bluntly.

A long pause fell between them.

Monk broke the silence: “You know how blacks always win the 100 meter dash, and whites win the Nobel prizes? It’s because of genetic differences. Whites are smarter than blacks, and blacks run 100 meters faster than whites.”

Silas said nothing. He was so exhausted from the day’s events and the outrageous conversation he was having. This latest outrage against his worldview was met with little consideration beyond shock.

Again, Monk broke the silence: “I’m sorry about the girl you liked… Lydia. I’m sorry she got mugged like that, and that you were a pacifist and couldn’t help her. That must be terrible. If you don’t want that kind of tragic thing to happen again you’d better listen to what I’m telling you.”

Silas reanimated at the remembrance of the shame he’d felt at not protecting Lydia from the thug’s abuse.

“You should never have allowed a beautiful young woman like her to go near those beasts. There’s a verse in the Second Epistle of Peter where the apostle talks about men making themselves into brute animals. It’s just a fact that blacks are more prone to this sort of thing. They’re more prone to crime and violence than other races. It’s also been proven they have lower IQs than the Eurasian races.”

“That’s so racist!” Silas suddenly blurted out. “We’re all created in the image of God. Everyone is the same, it says so in Galatians 3:28. You’re talking like a Nazi!” Silas stormed.

Monk was unperturbed. He sipped his coffee and stirred some creamer while Silas continued his outburst. When Silas finished, Monk calmly asked him: “Silas, do you believe men and woman are exactly the same?

“Of course not,” Silas responded with confusion. “God created men and women to compliment each other and have different roles.”

“Right,” Monk said. “You must not know that in Galatians 3:28, the same verse you cited to say race and ethnicity don’t matter, it says ‘there is no male nor female.’ You can’t claim the verse disproves the importance of race without claiming it disproves the importance of gender and sexual identity.”

Silas was dumbfounded. He’d heard his entire life that Galatians 3:28 proved racism was evil, but now he found that if he accepted that interpretation he would be forced to support homosexuality. He was utterly confused.

Monk sipped his coffee again and felt bad for Silas. He knew from personal experience that taking the red pill was among the most spiritually difficult things to do. He knew everything Silas believed would have to change if he was going to accept the truth. His entire worldview would have to be destroyed and reconstructed.

“I want to help you Silas.” Monk picked up an abandoned business card lying on the table; he turned it backward and pulled out his fountain pen. “I’m going to give you four goals to complete if you want to become an identitarian Christian and accept reality.”

Monk started writing: “First, educate yourself. There are great Christian websites like,, and others that will help you reconcile your faith with the reality of what you will learn. Other sites like Jared Taylor’s can teach the truth about racial issues.”

“Second, reject Antifa. You have to get yourself away from those wretched anti-Christian losers.”

“Third, you need to physically improve yourself. You said you felt miserable about your weight gain and hair loss. Well, you can’t do anything about your hair, but you need to get to the gym and make yourself the kind of man who can put up a fight defending the woman you love. No more shameful cowardice, it’s time to take your God given role as a protector seriously. Have some self respect and make yourself attractive to the opposite sex.”

“Fourth, and this might be the hardest, you need to confront the Christians you know about their own nonsense. You need to be the guy who gives them a chance to turn from their lies and distortions and learn the truth. You can expect rejection and accusations of ‘racism’ from many of them, but remember what Jesus said: ‘If the world hates you, remember that it hated me first.’”

Silas walked out of the bar that night miserable, and more confused than ever. He felt torn between everything he’d ever known about life and religion, and a possible path he’d discovered out of the misery and self loathing into which he’d sunk.

He met Antifa at the rendezvous point, as the dumpster fires blazed, and began the long bus ride home.


Silas returned the next morning. He threw himself on the lower bed of his bunk and fell asleep. He dreamed about God giving him a mission to a lost people, but he refused and ran away. He was swallowed by a whale, just like Jonah, before accepting God’s mission for his life.

He woke up and turned on his old Apple computer (which was falling apart), and started looking up the websites Monk had told him about. He watched ‘Race Differences in Intelligence’ on Youtube and many of Jared Taylor’s other videos. As he watched, he oscillated between fascination, horror, shame, and memories about his university’s thug football team.

He looked up Taylor’s ‘The Color of Crime’ report and found unbelievable statistics about interracial rape. He imagined what horrible things might have happened to Lydia if she’d continued putting herself in danger at the inner city ministry.

Taylor said things that were so racist, but his mild manner and Yale education made it sound inviting and acceptable. As much as Silas wanted to deny it, the evidence presented in the videos confirmed much of his own experience with black people.

He found the American Renaissance website and the essays Monk told him about. After skimming through them, however, he scrolled to the comment section and found numerous Nazi Pepe the Frog memes that disgusted him.

Silas was overwhelmed. He walked out of the apartment and strolled along the side of the road in the last light of the dying sun. Cricket song began emerging in the background.

He passed an old black man fishing in his apartment pond. He thought about how pleasant the man looked, and how he could never believe him to be part of a semi-barbaric race. The old black man was reeling in a fish he’d caught. He pulled it out of the water and, seeing how small it was, loudly muttered: “F*** dis fis,” and hurled it into the water inhumanely.

Silas remembered how nice and jovial the inner city black thugs had been before mugging his group and sending Lydia to the hospital.

Could it be true? Were they really so different from white people?

He remembered how the blacks beat Lydia right in front of him, and how pathetic he’d acted as he begged them to stop. He was suddenly filled with rage, and he imagined beating the thugs unconscious in order to extract some mental revenge.

Pulsing with energy, Silas started running down the side of the road for no particular reason. He ran across the grass and into a nearby woods. He ran through the sticks and briars as they smacked his face. He eventually tripped on a root and fell face first into the dirt. He started crying into the leafy ground.

Silas prayed in despair: “God, my life is a disaster! You’ve abandoned me, and now I’m becoming a racist. I don’t want to be a racist, I wanted to help African pygmies! Why did you take everything away from me?”

He stopped crying and lay despondent. “God, speak to me now. Give me something to believe in.”

Silas laid there for a few more minutes, he drifted between violent desperate thoughts and passive miserable hopelessness. He waited for God to speak: “Speak to me in your still small voice. Speak to me like you spoke to Elijah.”

He was about to give up and accept God’s rejection when he heard a croak a few feet in front of him.

In another situation he would have been frightened by the odd sound, but in his desperation he slowly lifted his head and saw by the light of the moon a large bullfrog emerge from the bank of the creek. The amphibian emitted a second robust croak.

The frog looked directly at him, and the two stared at each other for several moments before another croak emanated from elsewhere. Within a minute, the whole forest was filled with bullfrog croaks. More and more of the amphibians emerged from the muddy creek.

Silas watched and heard this emergence unfold in amazement. His thoughts turned to the Pepe memes he’d seen earlier. “Could it be...” he thought, “the alt-right is part of God’s plan?”

Silas laid there meditating… amidst the sound of frogs in the dark woods.


Silas’ energy levels rose, and he spent the following days devouring alt-right and identitarian literature, especially the material related to Christianity. He read David Carleton’s ‘A Biblical Defense of Ethno-Nationalism.’ He visited the Race & Christianity website, and read ‘Identitarian Christianity.’ He followed blogrolls and reading lists and delved into the heart of neoreactionary thought.

Silas began seeing things differently at his call center job. He recognized how the black employees did half as much work as their white peers, how they smelled weird, and how they behaved in accordance with the norms of their race.

The whole social, political, and religious landscape shifted under Silas’ feet. The reasons for racial segregation in the church became obvious to him. It wasn’t racism that kept black Christians away from white churches, it was cultural and biological reality. For the first time, the world started making sense.

Silas began looking at himself in the mirror. He realized he was out of shape and unattractive. His consciousness was rising, and he felt he was shaming his race. He wanted to become a better specimen.

The apartment complex had a gym, and he started going every day. He was approaching fatness at his first workout. He was bloated, and his gut was beginning to protrude from his shirt.

He went all out. He ran 3.1 miles every day for two weeks and lifted weights after cardio. At first, Silas could barely run a half mile, but he was eventually shedding pounds and lifting some of the biggest weights in the gym.

He’d jump into the refreshing apartment pool after his workouts to reward himself.

In only two weeks he dropped a lot of weight, and he was starting to feel more self-respect. While running on the treadmill he’d think about conquering great obstacles and becoming a hero. He blasted ‘Two Steps from Hell’ and envisioned himself a crusader reconquering Christian lands from Islam.

He discovered Jack Donovan's Instagram and watched him lift outrageous weights. He was inspired, and started increasing his strength as much as possible.

After a few weeks, Antifa contacted him for an upcoming “job:” a violent protest against a cross-dressing conservative at Berkeley. This time, the job promised to pay. Silas was tempted by the money (which he desperately needed), and the excitement, but he knew his days with those losers was over… he was a new man.


Silas was still attending church. The young adult Bible teacher was his old college professor at Harding, and he taught a lot of deep scriptural analysis that inspired Silas.

Many of the group’s girls, however, were feminist and liberal, and they organized a trip to a speech by popular Christian blogger Rachel Held Evans. They drove together to the event, and Silas shared a car with one of the girls.

While they drove, the girl told Silas about how Evans was part of the emerging church movement, how she was a voice for the future of Christianity, and how God was using Evans to bless so many people’s lives.

Considering his recent reading material, Silas was hesitant about some of the things his friend was talking about, but he was simultaneously excited about encountering a fresh new perspective on his faith.

Silas saw so many interesting young people when they arrived at the event, and he took special notice of the unique young Christian hipster girls. He was excited at the prospect of meeting them. So many of them looked intellectual and interesting with their improvised fashion and horn rimmed glasses. Maybe this was a community of people Silas could believe in.

Rachel Held Evans started speaking, and at first Silas agreed with much of what she said: “Today, Christianity is stale and has lost its ability to communicate with the culture,” “We need fresh ideas, and we need to embrace the intellectual world around us,” and “We all face doubt in our Christian walks, and that’s OK.”

The more Evans spoke, however, the more uncomfortable Silas grew. The final straw was an impassioned tirade near the end:

“I’m talking especially to the sisters now. We know what it’s like to be oppressed by male authority and not being allowed to have a voice in the church. We should show solidarity with other minorities victimized by Christian violence and white imperialism. Furthermore, we need to stand up for our LGBTQ brothers and sisters who are being driven away from the faith by our oppressive heteronormative theology.”

Silas was silently outraged. He was tired of being grouped as an oppressive white male, and he knew Evans was supporting homosexuality and women's authority in the church despite the Bible speaking plainly against those things.

Silas got in line to directly talk to Evans during the question and answer session. He thought twice about it, and felt he might be getting too controversial, but he felt moved to courage by the thought of standing up for the truth; especially because he knew he was right, and Evans was contradicting thousands of years of church doctrine. Silas felt emboldened by the things he’d read online, and he wanted to be among the brave truth tellers who opposed the dominant culture and spoke with boldness like the prophets, apostles, and identitarians he watched and read.

The questions before Silas’ were nice and light. They were asked by girls, and their content was mostly praise and gratitude.

Finally, Silas reached the microphone and spoke: “In your speech, you talked about how we shouldn’t oppress homosexuals with our ‘heteronormative theology’ and said women shouldn’t be oppressed by men. How do you reconcile this with verses like Romans 1:24-27 that condemn homosexuality, and 1 Timothy where Paul says woman should be silent in the church and not hold authority over men?”

Even before he’d finished speaking the room was filled with expressions of exasperation. One person let out an audible “boo” from the corner.

Rachel Held Evans stared at Silas with a look of disgust and disbelief. She didn’t try to answer his question: “Look, you’re a white heterosexual man speaking from a position of oppressive privilege. You aren’t permitted to ask that kind of question in this space, and the fact that you asked it shows you're part of the problem. You, sir, are the reason Christianity is dying in the modern world.”

The crowd erupted with cheers and applause at Evans response. The girl behind Silas grabbed the microphone and tried to shove him away. He attempted to respond but was interrupted and forcefully pushed aside.

Silas walked back to his seat in humiliation. People looked at him with disgust as he passed. He heard a pretty hipster girl nearby mutter with revulsion in her voice: “Why did he even come?!”

There was no talking on the trip home. The girl who gave him a ride was horrified by his behavior, and she wouldn’t even speak to him except to ask why he’d even come to the speech. She turned up the music volume louder than normal.

Silas’ reception from the other group members was no less rejecting. He tried to explain himself but they didn’t even want to hear him. They just accused him: “Listen, you’re the reason Christianity is dying today!”

The following weeks for Silas constituted a long divorce from his church and young adult group. The more his ideas aligned with reality the more conflicts he aroused among his fellow Christians. He imagined that over time they would accept the truths he now understood, but he slowly realized most people don’t care about the truth as much as they care about maintaining their comfortable worldview.

After a few months of this decaying situation and more gossip and conflict surrounding Silas, his professor/minster said they needed to “have a talk.” The two went into a private room after Bible class. His minister said: “Look, I like you and we’re friends, but something has to change if you want to stay in this group. You have to stop talking about these issues, or you have to stop coming.”

Silas was shocked. He’d been part of the group for years, and he’d been among its most devoted members. He’d volunteered to lead discussions and sacrificed precious time and money towards every activity. Now, the group’s leader was giving HIM a mandate rather than the less committed people who’d gathered against him.

The two continued to talk about the issue, but they ultimately reached no conclusion. Silas left the room knowing he’d never return to his church. The doors of their hearts were sealed against him. His only comfort was thinking they’d rejected the truth rather than him. They weren’t even willing to entertain the ideas he’d painfully come to accept as reality. He wondered if Jesus had felt the same way.

Silas walked outside to his moped scooter and put his helmet on. He kicked the dirt off his feet, revved up the motor, and drove back to the apartment. He didn’t attend church for another month.


Silas’ spiritual and social life diminished without the support of his church group. His life grew more boring, lonely, and isolated. He increasingly relied on Youtube and podcasts to compensate for his lack of real connections.

It was a lonely era, but also a period of consolidation. The mental processes that began to change in the preceding months were calcified by his reliance on an online community consisting of alt-righters and identitarians who shared and strengthened his convictions.

After about a month, Silas decided to return to church. However, he was determined not to allow his new church to have an affect on him; he would re-approach with his own agenda. He hoped to infiltrate a church and affect it from the inside. He was finished being on the defensive; he wanted to take his message and influence Christianity as much as possible.

The church he chose was another semi-liberal church in the newer part of town. He knew a lot of young hipster types attended there. Although the environment was hostile, he still sought the company of other young Christians. He entertained hopes that he might convert at least one girl to his side and possibly acquire a girlfriend, or some other form of more intimate company.

He’d visited the church while in college, and he knew the basics about it. He attended the young adult group on his first day and was immediately struck by a beautiful girl sitting in the corner. He sat two chairs down from her to avoid looking desperate and found an excuse to talk when she needed a Bible. She was obviously not a normal attendee, and he soon realized she was the guest of another young woman.

He handed her a Bible from the stack and asked her name. She said it was Marina. He noticed she had an accent, and she said she was Polish.

Silas couldn’t take his eyes off her. He realized she looked like a Greek statue and was mesmerized by her long blonde braids reaching more than halfway down her back. Her eyes were deep set and blue, her nose was high, and her skin was golden.

He thought she was the perfect girl. He wasn’t necessarily sexually attracted to her, although she was profoundly beautiful, but he saw her as a perfect specimen, an archetype of what his people represented in their purest and most amazing form.

The Bible study wore on, the teacher talked about social justice and racial reconciliation, but all Silas could think about was the girl sitting two seats from him. He could tell she was uncomfortable during the study, and she kept rolling her eyes at the teacher’s words like she wanted to interject.

After the concluding prayer everyone started talking, as Christians normally do after a meeting. Because they were new, Marina and Silas had no one to talk to but each other. They decided to get coffee, and they eventually walked outside to get away from the crowd. The golden rays of the setting sun illuminated Marina’s eyes as they exited.

“I noticed you seemed uncomfortable during the study,” Silas said. Marina rolled her eyes. “Yes, you know in my country we don’t believe those things. In Poland we respect our religion, nation, and culture. It seems white Americans have no self respect. They always talk about their wronging black people and being morally obligated to let migrants into their country. In Poland, we know God gave our nation a special land, and we should fight for it and protect our nation from invasion. I don’t understand why a Christian would think bringing heathen Muslims into their country is God’s will.”

Silas looked at her with astonishment. This perfect girl was speaking perfect words. Silas had never heard a Christian girl verbalize these thoughts. Before Marina, only Monk had spoken this way. Now, one of the most beautiful girls he’d ever seen was talking like an identitarian. Marina was a Christian, and yet she was unable to understand the social justice movement and pro-immigrant message Silas was indoctrinated with at every church he’d attended.

“Do you want to hang out tomorrow?” Silas asked with resolve. “Sorry,” Marina replied. I’m returning to Poland in the morning. I was just here temporarily to visit my brother. He’s married to my friend’s sister.”

They talked for another half hour as they strolled around the church building. The sun sank lower. Finally, Marina’s friend called her. Silas and Marina exchanged a hug and parted ways.

Silas was filled with zeal after meeting Marina, and he started becoming more involved online in defending the truth of the alt-right/identitarian movement. He created a Twitter account and started spreading the truth to everyone he could.

Silas continued his attempt to infiltrate the new church he was attending and sway people towards God’s created reality. This attempt was slow and arduous, and he was facing difficulty for numerous reasons. It seemed his new church only talked about liberal and personal issues, and the atmosphere didn’t allow for much serious discussion of politically incorrect biblical truths. The group never read the Old Testament or prophets, and the teaching was geared towards wholesome living topics.

Without much of a door to discuss his ideas, Silas became increasingly comfortable in the presence of his new church group, and he started forming deeper friendships with the people. The reasons for conflict dwindled.

The group often organized lake trips, picnics, coffee house Bible studies, and canoeing adventures. There were potlucks, holiday get-togethers, and small group confessions.

Silas felt accepted. Soon, he’d almost forgotten his mission to infiltrate the group and found himself shrugging off the liberal things his new Christian friends said. He would sometimes even entertain the possibility that if everyone “just loved each other we could live in harmony with Jesus.” Silas grew complacent inside the Christian bubble.

One Sunday morning, a black girl about Silas’ age appeared at the weekly Bible study. Silas’ first thought was: “Oh… more diversity.” But she met his gaze and smiled in a rather cute way that gave him a feeling of affection towards her. For the remainder of the class she kept looking over at him with obvious interest.

After the study, his minister introduced him to her (probably thinking they might be a good match). He said: “Silas, I want you to meet Ebony. We met at a local food drive and I invited her to join us this morning.”

Ebony was one of the African American “talented tenth.” She had long nappy brown hair extending past her shoulders, and her skin was a pretty coffee color. Silas estimated she was a quarter white.

They started with small talk but soon discovered they had a good deal in common. Ebony liked reading C.S. Lewis just like Silas did, and she said she enjoyed Star Wars. She’d graduated from another Christian college and moved to Harding as a resident hall “mother.”

Ebony added Silas on Facebook that afternoon and started messaging him. He figured some small talk wouldn’t mess anything up. He was still being true to his beliefs.

However, as time went on the two became closer. Ebony kept talking to him after Bible study, and she stayed close to Silas whenever the group had activities. A rumor began circulating that the two were destined to be together (church gossip).

The more Silas thought about it the more he found Ebony attractive. He couldn’t help but like her intelligence and form. Furthermore, Silas was entering his late twenties and felt he wasn’t meeting many girls anymore. He started thinking about Ebony when he was alone at night scrolling through social media. He’d stopped feeling the inspiration and joy he once found in online trolling.

Silas’ memory of Marina was fading, and Lydia was so far from him he couldn’t imagine having a relationship with her. He hadn’t spoken to her in a year and a half.

Silas was feeling especially bad one night. He returned to the apartment from his dead end call center job and laid on the couch. The married couple he shared the apartment with were gone on an anniversary date. He scrolled through Facebook and discovered his brother, whom he rarely talked to, had gotten engaged to his pretty girlfriend. Engagement and marriage pictures were becoming more common, and he knew Lydia had been dating a guy in Ohio for over a year… they seemed pretty serious.

Silas was in despair. No one had messaged him in the last two days, and he didn't know a single girl he could see as a potential girlfriend or wife… except one.

As he was thinking, a message popped up on his phone from Ebony asking what he was doing. He finally gave in. He felt justified: “God, hasn’t provided me with anyone, so I’ll do what I must for my own well being.” He called Ebony and invited her to the apartment to go swimming in the pool. She hastily agreed.

It was 11pm and they were splashing around having fun. The stars were out, and the underwater lights gave everything a beautiful illuminated quality. In one corner of the pool was a stone waterfall. Silas and Ebony decided to sit under it and let the water fall across their backs.

They talked, and the topics increasingly became more personal and spiritual. Silas watched the water pouring down her skin and admired the twinkling pool’s reflection in her eyes.

He looked too long, and they passionately kissed.

Silas and Ebony dated for months, and their relationship was good. Silas was so caught up in the passionate fun that he was able to push aside the nagging feelings about his identitarian convictions.

Occasionally, Silas would stalk his old Twitter friends, visit an alt-right website, or read an article about whites becoming a minority in their own countries, In these moments a flash of racial respect would cut across his mind before he remembered he was part of the problem, and that he was now contributing to white erasure.

Most of the time, however, Silas just ignored it. He missed Twitter trolling and watching Murdoch Murdoch on Youtube, but he couldn’t stand his own hypocrisy enough to enjoy that stuff anymore.

He tried to justify his actions by suggesting Ebony was more Christian, traditional, and intelligent than many of the promiscuous “white trash” girls he saw wandering the roadsides. He hoped his kids would be “white enough” to be accepted in a new ethno-state.

Ultimately, however, Silas was becoming more and more indistinguishable from the liberal Christians he attended church with. The church he’d hoped to infiltrate had infiltrated him.

Compromise followed compromise. When Ebony suggested they spend their honeymoon in Africa Silas just smiled and said “OK,” but he was shocked at the thought of marriage. He realized he would soon be a permanent race mixer.

Silas had to escape for a while to think. He had to get away from Ebony’s intoxicating influence. He took a week off work and traveled back to his family.


Silas returned home two days before Halloween. The trees around his town were colored by fall foliage. The temperature was cool and perfect, and the sky was deep blue.

His sister’s jack-o-lantern greeted him by the front door of the brick house. His mother offered him cookies, and he noticed her green eyes in a way he never had before.

His little sister hugged him, and for the first time he was shocked by her golden locks and sharp European facial features.

He rested for the day and his father greeted him at dinner. “Silas, your grandfather’s taking us hunting the day after tomorrow. He wants to hunt in the evening like he usually does.”

“You're skipping trick-or-treat!?” his sister asked in fake disgust. “Yes, unfortunately we are,” his dad responded while scooping more mashed potatoes from the bowl.

The drive to his grandfather’s house was about forty five minutes, and Silas and his father talked sparingly. They’d never had much to say to one another, and they made small talk or commented on the country scenery passing outside the window.

The landscape became more hilly and remote as they continued. They eventually pulled into the village. It was an old town, and most of the architecture hadn’t changed much in the last century.

At the edge of the village, on a slightly elevated and wooded plateau, sat the old stone house. Silas knew its history from his past visits. It was built in 1821 by the first of his family to move to that region of the country. It had several additions added by different generations. The trees surrounding the house were hundreds of years old, and the land constituted eighty acres of the original three hundred his ancestors had owned.

Silas was never very comfortable in his grandfather’s presence. His grandfather struck him as a somewhat cold and patriarchal man, but he cared about his family and had always supported Silas.

Silas’ grandmother met them at the door of the house. She gave hugs and invited them to sit down for apple pie. “These apples came from our own tree,” she informed them. She asked Silas how his life had been. In a sudden burst of honesty he confessed he had a girlfriend.

His grandmother nodded and gave his father a sideways look out of her green eyes. “Well, your grandfather will want to know about that,” she said, “He’ll be glad to know you’re here. He’s out in the big shed.”

They passed an old room as they exited the house. On the wall, over the fireplace, was a severe portrait of one of Silas’ great grandfathers. Silas always felt uncomfortable near that portrait because it’s eyes seemed to follow him and judgmentally peer into his soul.

They crossed the backyard, reached the big shed, and walked through the open door. Silas’ grandfather had his back to them, and when they said “hello” he turned and greeted them seriously but nicely and motioned with his hand. In his glove was an antler hunting knife, but it wasn’t until Silas drew closer that he realized his grandfather was skinning a deer that lay across the table in front of him.

His grandfather kept cutting while they made small talk about their evening hunting plans.

Silas noticed how stately his grandfather was. He was a rather tall and dignified man whose voice was stern and confident. His hair on top was almost gone, but the hair on the sides was wavy and showed strands of his original red color among the white. His skin was always ivory white despite his tendency for outdoor work. He was wearing a rich colored blue shirt and brown leather boots.

His grandfather turned around and pointedly addressed Silas: “I heard you have a girlfriend.” Silas didn’t know how he knew this, but he admitted that he did. His grandfather stared at him with piercing green eyes, and as he turned to cut the deer he responded: “Well, it doesn’t seem you’re too proud of her. Could it be that you're about to break up?”

Silas was somewhat shocked: “No, no, I really like her. I think there’s potential for a future with her.” When he said this, he heard his grandfather huff audibly and throw a piece of venison down on the table.

“Silas, listen to me. I’ve seen the girl you’re with on Facebook. We used to have slaves at this house, and I hope you don’t think I’m looking for one of them to inherit our homestead and name.”

Silas was taken aback. He had no idea his grandfather used Facebook, or that he would say something so shockingly racist. He didn’t know if he should be offended at the insult to his girlfriend or pleased his grandfather was echoing alt-rightish opinions.

His grandfather continued: “Do you think we voted for Trump to stop letting these aliens into our country so we could let one of them into our family?”

Silas stared at him in shock, awe, respect, and shame. He looked at his father, but he was just leaning against the table staring at the ground.

There was a long pause. Silas finally stammered out a response: “Yes, but she’s a good Christian… I mean… that has to count for something?”

His grandfather sighed, turned toward him, leaned against the table, and said: “Silas, look up there.” He motioned with his bloody knife toward the wall. Silas followed his grandfather’s gaze.

In the wall was a word written with stones: “MACNAMARA.” “When our grandfather, my fourth great grandfather and your sixth, came to this homestead he built this shed out of valley stones. He later constructed parts of this home. The same man whose portrait hangs in the room you passed coming out here. For all these generations, and many before them, our family has been Christian; devoutly so. This negress might be a good Christian, but that’s not what this is about, it’s about passing our family identity to the next generation. If you marry that negress part of my descendents, the bearers of my name, will be unrecognizable mongrels. I want to look into the eyes of my great grandchildren, if I live that long, and see my blood running through their veins.”

Silas noticed the knife in his grandfather’s hand. Deer blood was dripping off the blade and pooling near his boot.

His grandfather turned back and continued cutting. “We’re both MacNamara’s, and that means your actions affect me and this whole family. You’re not just an individual, you’re part of a collective that stretches back centuries and millennia, and you don’t have the right to defile the past and future.”

“Now… onto more pleasant topics.” His grandfather continued, “Let’s talk about this hunt tonight. Silas, I’ve chosen an excellent gun for you. We’re going after black bears.”


They sprinted after the bear. The dogs ran ahead howling and yelping. The forest foliage smelled like fall. It was Halloween night. The forest trees of the MacNamara land were large and handsome, and they stood during his ancestor’s hunts.

Silas had shot the bear from a distance before it fled. It hadn’t been a clean shot, and they were in danger of losing it. They only had three dogs because Silas’ grandfather said having too many made the hunt “unfair.”

It was getting darker as the sun set. Violent looking clouds moved across the slowly appearing moon and stars.

A twig smacked Silas in the face, a spider web broke across his arm, and the blood was pumping fast as he drew near the spot where the injured black bear was cornered by the dogs.

“Silas, this is your kill!” His grandfather shouted. Silas drew as near as he dared and took aim. Suddenly, the bear lunged at one of the dogs. With one paw swoop a dog went flying toward Silas and knocked him off balance and onto his knee.

He saw the look of rage in the bear's eyes at it rushed to attack him. He lifted his gun just in time to fire into the bear’s shoulder, but it still wasn’t enough to stop the beast’s charge.

Two yards before the creature struck him he saw his grandfather fire into the beast’s gut and lunge at the creature with a knife. He managed to knock if off balance and stab it in the neck. Finally, the creature started rocking back and forth before collapsing dead in the dirt.

Silas was winded with exhaustion and horror. He collapsed on a log to rest. He looked over the bloody scene. His grandfather was calmly checking his gun after making sure the creature was dead. “The beasts are strong, but if we work together they’re no match for us. God gave us strength to rule over them.”

They heard thunder. The rain began.


Silas returned to his apartment and talked with Ebony. They broke up. Silas knew he couldn’t reconcile her with his family or convictions. No matter how much he liked her, he had to find meaning in something beyond a romantic relationship, and he couldn’t do that with her.

He soon felt lonely again, but this time he connected better with people online who shared his convictions and struggles. He joined online meet ups and cultivated personal relationships. He attended identitarian conferences and protests, and he started having face to face meetings.

At first, these meetings consisted of meals and discussions, but they soon led to much more.

“We need to organize in real life and start securing territory. This struggle is about land, and our race’s ability to possess our own country. In Acts, St. Paul said God created all the ethnic groups, and that he’d set borders for them. We need to start creating institutions and clans. We need a home for our racial family, just like God gave the Israelites.”

The speaker was saying things that appealed to Silas’ own feelings. In his isolation and loneliness he’d longed for the company of a tribe, or a group of people he could trust and rely upon. Something should be done to bring identitarians together, especially identitarian Christians, in a way that allowed them to live out their convictions and faith in community.

While Silas struggled to innovate a solution to this problem, his mind kept drifting back to the Youtube channel Murdoch Murdoch and the way the three characters were able to form a kind of community family that worked despite their disagreements and individual dysfunction. It was just a cartoon, but there was something inspiring about it… something that promised a solution to modern atomization.

Over the next year Silas looked for a way to finally escape the apartment and move into something more permanent. With his low income, however, it was difficult to imagine buying a house.

He respected his ancestor for coming to America and creating a homestead and family legacy. He considered moving to Alaska or some other remote place, but nothing fell into place.

Silas started browsing a website called Zillow for residential properties that might be suitable for him. Everything seemed so expensive, and he didn’t want to go further into debt and add to his student loans.

The cheap inner city houses caught his eye more than anything else. He found sprawling once handsome houses being sold at low prices. Yes, the houses were often shells of their former beauty, and internally wrecked, but he couldn’t help feeling inspired by the heritage they represented.

There was also the neighbor problem. These houses were almost always located in predominantly “minority” neighborhoods of African American and Latino residents. Silas worried about his children attending black schools and the danger he might be putting his family in… if he ever had one. He wanted children. He wanted to produce the next generation of white children. He remembered what God told Adam and Eve, and later Noah: “Be fruitful and multiply.”

Silas researched inner city farming techniques and became more acquainted with homeschooling. Slowly, he could imagine a tribe of white Christians living in the inner city wastes restoring habitability; carving out a small empire in the midst of what blacks had destroyed.

“Why should white people always flee? Why can’t we fight for the urban landscapes we created?” Silas figured he could begin a reconquista with enough guns and manpower.

The next identitarian meetup took place at McDonald’s. Silas and four of his comrades sat outside sipping coffee in the evening. Silas couldn’t contain himself anymore and started ranting about his plan. He suggested everything he’d been thinking. He said he wanted to colonize the ghetto; identitarian gentrification.

The four friends listened intently. Some of them presented problems with the plan. One suggested it was impossible. The general attitude was against it, and most of them imagined it was just a fantasy despite the look of passion on Silas’ face.

The weeks passed and Silas’ idea began germinating in his friend’s minds. One by one, they revisited the plan with him. They slowly became convicted it should be attempted.

The group searched the market and found a large brick house that had been converted into a duplex. The asking price was $30,000, and there was a house adjacent to it for $20,000. For $50,000 they could form a single large property to use and expand from. They settled on a monthly loan payment that wasn’t much more than a single large apartment.

The first thing the crew did was erect a large fence/wall around the two properties using salvaged materials. They installed iron shutters to guard the lower story windows. They brought their guns and cars.

They converted a room into a chapel, and they worked hard to make the houses livable. No one in the tribe cared too much about luxury, and they were content to have a place to themselves.

One of Silas’ new commune friends had a wife, and it wasn’t long before she was pregnant. There was always room for expansion, and the tribe soon had ambitions to acquire more adjacent houses. A twenty year plan was conceived.

It didn’t take much publicity for word of the commune to spread in alt-right circles online. Soon, Silas’ tribe was being asked to speak at identitarian conventions and interview on podcasts and Youtube channels. Other identitarians started thinking along the same lines as Silas and his friends.

Other communes started popping up around the West inspired by Silas’s model, and new churches with them.


A new identitarian compound was starting in Ohio. Silas was asked to help them organize, and he decided to travel up for a few days. While in Ohio, the group invited him to join a pro-life march organized in their city.

The crowd of mostly Christians, or what was left of them in the liberal city, marched the streets protesting abortion. As they crossed a bridge on their way to the capitol building, Silas noticed a girl with strawberry blonde hair a couple yards in front of him. Judging by her gait and size he felt certain it was Lydia.

Silas had lost contact with Lydia for several years, and his life was so fundamentally different since their last communication that he’d nearly forgotten about her in the rush and success of his new life.

He walked up next to the blonde girl trying not to look creepy. She turned, and he saw clearly it was Lydia. She gave him a double take and said: “Silas?!” She was very excited to see him, more excited than he thought she’d be. They hugged.

She said, “You look so different. You have less hair now than you used to… you look like Jason Statham.” Lydia also looked different. Silas couldn’t help but notice the black marks under her eyes, and the signs of exhaustion creeping over her face. He was glad to see it. Those little facial changes suggested a complexity he hadn’t expected from her before.

He asked about her life since college and discovered it was going about as badly as his (until recently). She said the boyfriend she’d moved to Ohio for had cheated on her, and that she’d dated a series of shallow guys but none of them were quality. She hadn’t been able to find a good job, and she’d been rotating through temporary positions and living arrangements since graduation. Her parents had divorced, and she was deeply discouraged by the lack of young Christian adults at her church.

This all spilled out of her like she’d been holding it inside for so long she couldn’t contain herself. She said she’d recently lost her job at an animal shelter and couldn’t pay her rent for the month.

After the march, Lydia invited Silas to stroll with her in a beautiful part of the city built by German Americans. They stopped at a Starbucks in an old brick building and talked over coffee. They visited a bookstore across the street. Silas bought C.S. Lewis’ ‘Till We Have Faces.’ “It’s like his only book I haven’t read,” he explained. Lydia and Silas hung out several more times.

On the last night Silas was in Ohio, he invited Lydia to walk with him next to the river. It was a cool night. The sunset spread streaks of fire across the sky. They reached a spot overlooking a reproduction of one of Christopher Columbus’ original ships.

Silas realized he had an opportunity to fulfill his college desire, and he asked Lydia if she wanted to move back with him. “There’s nothing here for me now,” She said, “Silas, I’d love that.” They kissed.


Silas and Lydia soon married. Silas was surprised by how easily Lydia accepted the identitarian worldview. She never liked the more extreme views, but she told Silas his ideas made him more attractive: “I think it’s so attractive that you care about creating a society with God in the center of our worldview. You seem stronger now, more masculine.”

Silas and Lydia soon had children. The compound expanded. They added two more houses and expanded the walls to protect their growing population.

The tribe was sitting around the backyard fire pit one autumn evening. Silas watched his children running and playing. He saw firelight flickering off their red blonde hair as they chased fireflies. His son showed him a bug he’d found in the grass. The boy looked up, and Silas could see his grandfather’s green eyes staring back at him in an adorable young child.

This is life.


America was dying, and Silas’ tribe couldn’t remain unscathed by the empire’s death throes.

Race riots became increasingly common. Diversity gave birth to its final manifestation: violence and chaos.

The government lost control. Minorities became the majority, and they asserted themselves everywhere. They were looting the remainder of wealth accumulated when America was a rising white Christian nation. Those days were long gone.

One winter night, the riots came hard to Silas’ city. The barbarian hordes laid siege to every bastion of whiteness.

The government lost control of Silas’ area of the city, and they’d retreated from it, just as the police had done decades earlier from parts of Islamic Paris. Silas and his tribe were left alone to defend themselves.

The tribe gathered in the compound chapel with their weapons. Silas spoke to his solemn people: “This night is dangerous, but it’s ultimately filled with opportunity. This declaration of war against us is an invitation to purge this area of enemies and claim for our people. God be with us, as he was with the Israelites before us!”

A mob of dusky “minorities” marched down the street preparing to siege the compound’s walls. The horde screamed and chanted unknowable nonsense. They were filled with passion like animals in heat and made obscene illogical gestures and body motions. They were contorted by inhuman zeal.

Silas’ folk readied Molotov cocktails. “We won’t be the aggressors. Remember, let them strike first!” Silas cried as the men took their positions.

It didn’t take long. The hordes soon threw stones. Some thugs started shooting wildly into the air toward the compound. Snipers quickly gunned them down, and Silas’ men hurled firebombs into the mob.

The flames spread across the ground outside the compound. The “minorities” scattered into different directions.

A group of particularly insane male mob members rushed against the compound walls with all their strength. They threw their bodies against the gate trying to smash it down. A Molotov cocktail was thrown into their midst in an effort to break them up, but they weren’t perturbed. Two of the creatures ignited and were engulfed in fire as they fled into the night.

One of these fleeing fireballs ran into a nearby convenience store and set off a gas explosion that rocked the entire neighborhood.

Having been scattered from their intended target, the mob took to looting and vandalizing everything in their vicinity. Neighborhood cars went up in flames, houses were torched, mailboxes torn up, convenience stores looted. In hours, the neighborhood was evacuated of all the old black woman and “good minorities” who’d lived there. In a single night the community became a wasted shell.

Having robbed or destroyed everything of value in the surrounding area, a group of ambitious young black men decided to resume their attack on Silas’ enclave.

“We don’t need guns,” Silas said, “Let’s drive them permanently from this land.” They rushed out the gate and met the young black men in open street combat using police sticks and raw muscle.

The thugs fled horrified into the night while Silas and others pursued them. They chased the savages out of the neighborhood into the distance.

Another unit of men from the compound reached an old church. It was the oldest building in the area, a beautiful gothic structure, and they protected it from being torched and vandalized by the savages. On the top of the bell tower they raised a new flag.

Silas stood in the wreckage. Flames reflected in his green eyes as he admired the flag: a yellow cross on a black field.