A modern tract

   💀I know! This is a treaty! I'm sorry I gave it to you!" I'm such a whiney baby, and I force my faith in others to ease my own inner torment of having to have them!  I should take care of my own pain and realize that the world shouldn't be the way I want it to be! You have your thoughts! I have mine! I should just leave you alone! Can it ever be moral to say what you believe in? Isn't that imperialism? You have your own pains to deal with! Life hurts!!   It won't get any better! I know there are a lot of bad people who use their beliefs to hurt you, and I'm sorry these people are there! Sorry to read this treatise!!   Look! I look like a baby crying again! You're mad at me! Just know! I'm so sorry to give you this flyer! We don't want to hurt you! We are not imperialists. We do not seek to enslave you what we want! We believe that women are human. And we're sorry we used that word women there! You saw him as hateful! !   You have every right on earth to grieve! I'm sorry to tell you my beliefs! This is very imperialistic! Please throw 🙏 this system in the Trash!

Adolphin Hitler

 

 

The Kingdom and the Powerlifting and the Glory

Kevin Vost

When you’re figuring out how to live a holy life, lifting extremely heavy weights—powerlifting—might not be the first place you’d think to go for inspiration. You might even think powerlifting is vain, an obsession with good looks or superior physical strength as a detriment to personal holiness. But I’m here to tell you that’s all wrong . . . and one of the Church’s greatest saints and minds would agree with me.

I write this piece from experience as an Olympic weightlifter (performer of the overhead lifts called the snatch and clean and jerk), powerlifter (performer of squats, bench presses, and deadlifts), and now, as a would-be strongman senior citizen. Back when I was in second grade, I was mesmerized by a weightlifter I saw on TV (perhaps during the 1968 Olympics). I asked my dad for a set of barbells, and he happily complied. I was “bitten by the iron bug,” as older lifters used to call it, and even today, fifty-four years later, I lift almost every day. (I just heard the voice of my 35-year-old son, who has arrived to hoist barbells and dumbbells in our garage gym. I’ll have to go out in a bit and monitor his form on his heavy sets.)

Philology